Chapter Eleven

She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy, miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry.

—JANE AUSTEN, MANSFIELD PARK

He tasted salt tears, anger, and the sweet, hot, honey taste that was Daisy. Wild honey, with a tang of spice.

With a little moan she opened for him. The sound fired his blood. Heat rushed through him, hot rum and cinnamon on a tropical night.

She kissed him open-mouthed, enticing, teasing, lavishing him with the kind of generosity that characterized her spirit—she was all or nothing, his Daisy. Loving or fighting, she threw herself into it whole-heartedly.

He gathered her in, deepening the kisses, his hands roaming over her, learning her, caressing her curves through the layers of clothing. Her body softened against his, pliant and welcoming.

She sagged against him and grabbed his arms and Flynn felt a jolt of masculine satisfaction, knowing it was his kisses that had caused her knees to weaken.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he murmured. He gripped her by the waist and lifted her, intending to seat her on the nearby table.

Instead her legs came up and wound around his hips, gripping him tightly, pulling him into the curve of her body—and all the time kissing him, her mouth, her tongue, her hands eager. Hungry. Making muffled little sounds that purely drove him wild.

His head was spinning, his whole body tight, throbbing, aching with the force of his desire. Summoning all his powers of control, he staggered to the table, her legs locked around him, her tongue tangling fiercely, hungrily with his.

One-handed he swept to one side the delicate fabrics spread over the table and sat her on the edge of the table. He made to move back, to ease the urgent throbbing of his groin, but she gripped him by the hair and pulled him back towards her. Her legs tightened around his hips, pulling him even harder against the enticing cradle of her thighs.

He groaned. Hard was the word. Had she not noticed his cock-stand, hard and aching, straining against the fall of his breeches?

His every instinct screamed at him to lay her back across the table, flip up her skirts and plunge into her sweetness, deep and hard. Riding her long. Possessing. Claiming.

But this was Daisy. An unmarried girl. He had to take it slow. Even if it killed him. She obviously had no idea she was driving him wild with her kisses.

He caressed her breasts through the layers of her clothing, feeling the small hard points thrusting against the fabric, just as his cock thrust against his breeches. He rubbed the tips of the nipples with his thumbs and she moaned and wiggled against him, planting moist kisses along his jawline.

And the occasional nip, which sent him almost to the point of explosion.

He reached one hand around behind her and found the laces at her back. He tugged, hoping luck was with him. It was. Her neckline loosened, just enough for him to ease it down and slide a hand in. His fingers brushed over small, warm, silken-skinned breasts, and he marveled at the softness of her as he teased the hard little nubbins of desire and heard her moan as she pushed herself against him, rubbing up against his hand like a little cat.

He loosened the laces further and pulled the neckline down. His mouth dried as he released her small pert breasts, the berry-dark nipples pouting for his attention. “God, you’re beautiful,” he muttered thickly and bent to take one rosy nipple into his mouth.

She arched and squirmed and grabbed at his shirt.

He slid his palm down to her ankle, then stroked steadily upward. He half expected her to stop him at that point—it would kill him, but he was almost at the point of no return, and he’d had no intention of going this far in the first place.

Not yet.

The inside skin of her thighs was as soft and silky as the rest of her, and he smoothed and stroked and caressed, moving ever higher toward his goal, expecting her any moment to pull back and clamp her knees together.

Instead she gave a little wriggle and almost a purr of approval.

His palm encountered a nest of soft curls. “I do like an old-fashioned girl,” he murmured, his fingers stroking through the curls. The sweet musky smell of her filled his nostrils. He inhaled deeply.

She pulled back and frowned at him. “What d’ya mean, old-fashioned?” It came out in a rasp, breathy and indignant.

His fingers caressed her knowingly. “No drawers.”

“Oh.” She shivered at his touch. “Never got in the habit. Only toffs wear ’em. Too pricey for o-o-ordinary folks—ohhh.” Her breath hitched and she clutched his shoulders. “Do that again.”

She was slick and slippery and he stroked deep between the hot sleek folds of her flesh, reveling in the way she quivered beneath his touch, her eyes closed, rocking and gasping and pushing herself against him.

He bent to her breasts, sucking on the hard little berries, first one, then the other, and she clutched his hair with both hands holding him against her. Between her thighs his fingers moved, stroking and caressing. His thumb grazed the small sensitive nubbin and he felt the spasms start deep within her. She flung herself back, giving in to the waves of pleasure with a high, thin cry.

He was ready to explode himself. He hadn’t planned to take it this far. He hadn’t planned it at all. Flynn battled with his conscience. Not to mention his desperately straining body. But she was open and eager and ready for him. One-handed he reached for the fall of his breeches and began to unbutton.

At that moment, someone started knocking urgently on the door. “Daisy! Daisy, is everything all right?”

“Oh, gawd, it’s Jane!” Daisy blinked, the muzzy, unfocussed look fading from her eyes. She sat up and hastily started pulling down her skirts, which were still around her waist. She hopped off the table. Her knees buckled and she grabbed him for support.

“I’m fine, Jane,” she called. “Just . . . knocked something over.”

“But I heard you cry out. Are you hurt?” Jane rattled the handle of the door. “Is this door locked?”

“Nah, you know I never lock it. It’s probably just stuck.” She patted her hair and clothing into place and checked Flynn’s appearance. He finished buttoning his waistcoat and tried to straighten his neckcloth. And did his best to will away his cock-stand.

She reached up and finger-combed his hair into place, which didn’t help. “Ready?”

He nodded. “Don’t worry, if there’s any danger of scandal, I’ll ma—” He bit off the rest of the sentence, shocked at what had been about to come out of his mouth.

She paused, gave him an odd look, then marched to the door. “Don’t be daft, Flynn. There’s not going to be any scandal.”

Flynn watched her, stunned at what he’d almost committed himself to. Marry Daisy? The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind before this. He’d only said it because of what Lady Bea had said earlier, and because Jane was banging frantically on the door and it still could be a scandal.

And when you were caught seducing—or as good as seducing—a respectable girl, that’s what followed. Marriage.

“Here we go . . .” Daisy rattled the door to cover the sound of the turning key and swung it open.

Jane practically fell into the room. Daisy caught and steadied her. Featherby stood in the doorway peering cautiously in. His gaze took in Flynn’s slight dishevelment, his position behind the table—the cock-stand was almost under control now—and Daisy’s mussed hair, flushed face and kiss-reddened mouth. He gave Flynn a hard look, his expression rather like a stuffed owl’s.

Flynn gave a slight shake of his head. He was a good egg, Featherby. He wouldn’t give them away. But Lord, what had he been thinking of to let things go so far? In the old lady’s house.

Not thinking at all.

“Oh! Mr. Flynn!” Jane exclaimed. “I didn’t realize you were—”

“He was having’ a fittin’ of his latest waistcoat,” Daisy said. She grabbed a piece of fabric, folded it and started busily tidying up the table.

“But I heard you make such a loud—”

“Tripped over Snowflake. Knocked something over and stubbed me toe. Hurt like you wouldn’t believe.”

“What did you knock over?” Jane asked, looking around.

“Dunno—Flynn must’ve picked it up. I didn’t notice. I’m fine, Jane, don’t worry.” She turned to Featherby. “Show Mr. Flynn out will you, Featherby? We’re finished here.” She hadn’t so much as glanced at Flynn since she’d told him not to be daft.

“Of course, come with me, Mr. Flynn,” Featherby said smoothly.

“I’m not finished with you yet, Daisy,” he growled.

Finally she met his gaze. “Oh, yes, you are. Good-bye, Mr. Flynn.”

*   *   *

Featherby preceded him down the stairs, stiff-legged as an offended cat. Flynn took no notice. He was still thinking about what he’d almost blurted out. An offer of marriage.

He swallowed, thinking about it. She was right—it hadn’t turned into a scandal—luckily only Jane and Featherby had been at the door. But if it had been someone else, Lady Beatrice, or one of Daisy’s customers . . .

He would have done the honorable thing and married the girl. Of course he would. A scandal could ruin Daisy’s reputation—and her business. He was a man of honor, and Daisy was his friend. He wouldn’t do that to her.

Luckily he wouldn’t have to.

At the bottom of the stairs Featherby turned. “I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Flynn. You’ve been an honored guest in this house. Lady Beatrice trusted you.”

“Nothing happened.” It came out as a growl.

The butler fixed him with a gimlet look. “Miss Jane in her innocence might not have understood the significance of those sounds, but I certainly did. I blame myself for trusting you in the first place. I should never have given you the opportunity.”

“It won’t happen again,” Flynn told him curtly. It wouldn’t either. He’d let things get out of control. He’d only meant to kiss her. To apologize, make up for hurting her feelings.

Some apology. He’d almost ruined the girl. In her own home.

“It most certainly won’t.” Featherby passed Flynn his coat. “There will be no more private fittings or conversations with Miss Daisy in her workroom. I’ll send a maid to sit with her at all times you are in the house. Better still, you can talk to her in Lady Beatrice’s presence, in the drawing room.”

Flynn gritted his teeth as he shrugged himself into his coat. The implication that he couldn’t be trusted with Daisy, that he had to be watched, was infuriating. And for a butler of all people to be raking him over the coals was, dammit, it was . . .

Entirely justified, dammit.

“Good day, Mr. Flynn.” Featherby handed Flynn his hat.

Flynn crammed it on his head and without a word strode off.

*   *   *

Daisy hustled Jane out of the room as well, pleading the pressure of work, which was true, but the minute the door was shut—and she resisted the temptation to lock it again—she collapsed on her window seat.

Her body was still reverberating on the inside from Flynn’s . . . attentions. The little death, the Frenchies called it. She’d never really believed in it, ’til now; the girls at the brothel used to fake it—said it made the men feel good.

But she’d never experienced it, even though Flynn was the third lover she’d had—if you could call him a lover when they hadn’t actually done it.

He hadn’t even come himself. She ought to feel a bit guilty about that, but it was hard to feel guilty when really, she felt . . . she felt . . . wonderful.

She curled up in her window-seat, her own private eyrie, but though she tried to retrieve those delicious loose floating feelings, Flynn’s cut-off words niggled at her. Don’t worry, if there’s any danger of scandal, I’ll ma—

Ma—what? All she could think of was marry you. She was sure that’s what had hovered on the tip of his tongue, before he’d thought better of it.

Flynn, the man who wanted to marry the finest lady in London? Marry her?

No, that couldn’t be right. He hadn’t even gotten under her skirts—not properly. But what if he imagined she was some kind of sheltered innocent, like Lady Liz, or Jane? The kind of lady who expected a marriage proposal to follow after a kiss? A respectable virgin with a pure reputation? He might think he had to marry her then.

It was how the nobs saw things—especially if you got caught. She grinned, thinking of their close shave.

If Jane hadn’t come busting in, they would have gone all the way. And if they had, Flynn would have realized she wasn’t a virgin, and marriage wouldn’t even have crossed his mind.

The red shoes lay tipped on their side on the floor. She picked them up. She wasn’t ever going to wear them. She should toss them away. If it hadn’t been for these shoes she never would have . . .

Never would have heard him say: It’s you I want—you . . . any way I can get you.

And she would never have known what bliss was to be had in Flynn’s arms.

I don’t care if you never wear those blasted shoes. I couldn’t care less that you limp! She felt her face crumple.

She looked down at the shoes and found she was hugging them to her breast. She tried to swallow the surge of . . . of feelings that welled up in her throat. It was a quarrel that got out of hand, that’s all.

She shoved the shoes in the back of the wardrobe and closed the door. She wouldn’t wear them, but she couldn’t bring herself to throw them away. They’d always remind her of Flynn.

Who’d have thought that just by kissing and touching you could experience . . . that?

What the man could do with his mouth and tongue . . . Her nipples were tender and tight and the rest of her was jelly-soft and feeling just as sweet. She knew now why it was called making love.

Those big hands of his, deft and knowing, playing her like a blooming violin. Just thinking about his touch sent a flurry of little echoes, warm ripples that pooled in her belly, a clenching deep inside her.

What would it be like to go all the way with him? It had to be even better.

But it wasn’t going to happen ever again. She couldn’t let it happen.

It was all just a mistake anyway. A stupid quarrel that got out of hand.

*   *   *

Flynn was still in a filthy mood that evening. He wrestled with his neckcloth while Tibbins hovered, watching Flynn’s efforts with a pained expression. But Flynn was a grown man and could dress himself, dammit, so he’d waved the valet off.

He’d been invited to a ball tonight, and dancing and doing the pretty to a bunch of toffs was the last thing he wanted to do.

But what he wanted to do—which was take Daisy to bed—wasn’t blasted well possible.

Lady Elizabeth was neatly off the scene, even her father had left town—no doubt fleeing his creditors—and Flynn needed to refocus his attention on the process of finding himself a wife.

But he couldn’t get Daisy out of his mind.

It was lust, that was the problem—unfulfilled desire, clouding his judgement. What he needed was a woman—any woman—in his bed. And that alone was a good enough reason for attending this blasted ball.

Since he’d come to London, he’d been remarkably restrained as far as women were concerned. It didn’t seem right to him to be courting one woman and tupping another at the same time, so he’d remained more or less celibate—and therein lay his problem.

Frustration interfered with a man’s ability to think clearly, which was why he was going to the blasted ball.

From the start of the Season—and before—he’d had more invitations than he could count; some subtle, some blatant. Married women, widows, all ages, all shapes. He preferred widows; he was no saint, but he had no desire to come between a man and his wife. And he was not the kind of man who seduced innocents.

Apart from Daisy.

He flung his fourth mangled neckcloth aside. “Dammit, Tibbins, you tie the blasted thing!”

With an expression of unbearable smugness Tibbins stepped smoothly into the breach with a new starched neckcloth.

Flynn felt like strangling him with it. He wouldn’t have to put up with this kind of behavior on a ship! Valets and butlers telling him what to do!

But he knew the real source of his fury. And the solution.

He’d go to the ball, find some willing woman and ride her until they were both senseless. And then he’d get his life back on track.

*   *   *

Three hours later, he found himself leaning against a fluted plaster column, glowering at the colorful throng of ladies and gentlemen, dancing, laughing, flirting, conversing—all so damned jolly, blast them.

He’d danced with a dozen different ladies so far—all pretty, some quite beautiful. Some were lively conversationalists, several were perfectly charming. Discreet—and not-so-discreet—invitations had flowed like wine.

Not one of them had interested him.

There was only one woman he wanted to bed, and she wasn’t here. She was probably home alone, working her fingers to the bone, sewing a naughty silk nightdress for some old lady. Getting worn down and exhausted, but refusing all help, stubborn little fool.

He looked over to where Freddy and Damaris were dancing—so unfashionable for a husband and wife to live in each other’s pockets, but did they care? Abby and Max too. They were sitting this one out together, quietly and companionably, Max’s arm resting protectively along the back of Abby’s chair. Abby was looking a bit tired, but when she turned her head and looked up at her husband, she glowed.

For some reason it made him think of Mam, when she was tired or dispirited. Da would put his arm around her, and she’d look up at him and smile, and it was as if a candle had lit up inside her.

Watching Abby smile up at Max, seeing how proud and protective his friend was of his wife, it was like an ache in his chest.

Would he ever find a woman who’d look at him like that, a woman who was everything to him, like Mam had been to Da, like Abby was to Max, and Damaris to Freddy?

He eyed the younger ladies, the unmarried ones.

A waiter sailed past him bearing a tray full of wine- glasses. Flynn snagged one, drained it—and nearly choked. Ratafia. Sickly sweet stuff.

Several ladies drifted by, trying to catch his eye, sending inviting smiles. He pretended not to see.

He asked another waiter for something stronger. Champagne was all that was on offer. He tossed it down. All bubbles. No body.

He wasn’t in the mood for this, wasn’t prepared to be some bored lady’s entertainment for the night, had no desire to be a pawn in some married couple’s fencing match.

The ton did a grand job of marrying off their children for money, position and land. And while some married for love, and some arranged marriages prospered, most left behind them a wake of bored, unhappy, shallow, sometimes desperate women.

The men were all right—most men were tomcats at heart. But the women . . . Most women, as he understood it, wanted love. And trapped in a loveless marriage, they turned to distraction, and affairs. Titillation. Danger. The thrill of the forbidden.

And that was what was on offer to Flynn tonight.

He sighed and straightened. A fine gloomy mood he was in tonight, to be sure. He wasn’t fit for man nor beast, and certainly not for a woman.

He needed a drink, a proper drink, not a bit of froth and bubble.

Or Daisy.

He took himself home, tossed back a brandy and flung himself on his bed. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But despite the brandy, he was wide awake. All he could think about was Daisy.

Just the thought of her made him aroused and aching.

He forced himself to ignore the demands of his body and tried to distract himself by listing the qualities he would look for in a wife, a more personal list this time. He’d learned from his mistakes. He needed to know the girl he married, needed to like her—hopefully he would even come to love her. And she, him. Because children needed to be brought up in a home with love.

Now, as he lay on his bed, drifts of childhood came back to him, little things he hadn’t thought of in years. For so many years he’d tried to block out the memories. He’d always felt he should have done more, that somehow, he should have been able to save them.

But he’d been a boy, just a boy.

He remembered the day he’d knocked Mam’s willow-patterned plate over, and how she’d scolded him for his carelessness in chipping it, playing ball inside the house. And how after the scolding she’d hugged him, saying,” You’re just like your father—boys will be boys.” And she’d laughed as Da had grabbed her around the waist for a quick kiss and cuddle before taking the boys and the ball outside.

They were always kissing and cuddling, his parents.

After the accident, it was never quite the same. His father, always such a strong and vigorous man, hated the helpless creature he’d become, dependent on his wife and children for everything. But Mam’s love had never wavered and looking back, Flynn could see now, that had kept Da sane.

One of his last memories of them was a few days before he left home to try to find work. He hadn’t told them yet of his plans to save them all—that he was going to Dublin to find a job and make his fortune. Twelve years old, God help him.

His little sister Mary-Kate had brought her wee doll to Da to be mended. And Da, who couldn’t do much else but lie there, mended it, and then made them all laugh as he made the doll talk and give cheek to Mam and to Mary-Kate.

It fair broke Mam’s heart, seeing Da so helpless, but she never let him see it, just laughed along with little Mary-Kate. Afterwards Flynn had seen her turn away to wipe a tear. It broke his heart too seeing Da like that.

His parents’ love had been the bedrock of his childhood. So often he’d woken in the night, a bad dream perhaps, or some more real worry—they were desperate times. He’d lie in the bed he shared with his little brothers, listening to the soft murmur of voices as his parents talked over the day, made plans for the morrow. He couldn’t make out the words, but the soft exchange in the darkness soothed him and lulled him back to sleep. They might talk of everyday things, but he could feel the love between them.

That was the kind of marriage he wanted; companionship and love and mutual support. Partners in life, no matter what life brought them.

A friend who was also a lover . . .

A lover . . . His body ached for fulfillment.

He opened his eyes and sat up, staring into the darkness. A friend who was also a lover?

He was a blind great eedjit!

He’d been going about this whole business arse about.

Why the hell was he looking for a highborn lady, when the woman of his heart was right there under his nose, giving him cheek and keeping him awake with lust half the night?