Chapter Thirteen

I have not the pleasure of understanding you.

—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

Flowers continued to be delivered, each posy with a daisy in the center of the arrangement. And for the following three afternoons, Flynn made a very correct morning call. Daisy was summoned to the drawing room each time.

By the second visit, she was bristling with suspicion. It couldn’t possibly be what it looked like. He wouldn’t do that to her.

By the end of the third visit she was simmering with impotent fury.

He was pretending to court her. And everyone except Daisy was fooled by his act.

It had reached the stage where Featherby and William had had to bring in more chairs, as more of Lady Beatrice’s cronies kept coming, all twittering with excitement because Something Was Going On.

They watched Flynn and Daisy’s interactions with the avidity of spectators at the court, or a play—why, Daisy had no idea, because with that audience, she and Flynn could only speak of the most commonplace things.

Her frustration grew. She had no opportunity to speak to Flynn alone, to ask him what the hell he was playing at. He, however, seemed perfectly comfortable with the attention, and entertained the room with charming anecdotes and tales of his adventures. The old ladies adored him.

Daisy wanted to smack him.

It was probably some scheme to get himself out of Featherby’s black books, and it had worked too. Featherby had unbent to such an extent that he was regarding Flynn with a benevolent expression, and Lady Beatrice was positively beaming at Flynn when he rose to take his leave. But why did he have to involve Daisy?

There was a hushed intake of breath from the gathered ladies as he took Daisy’s hand to bow over it, and a long sigh when he released it.

Daisy could have boxed his ears.

The moment he left she stomped upstairs in a temper. She didn’t for one moment believe he was courting her. And the next time she saw him alone, she’d tell him.

She knew what he wanted—a nice, tame, sweet-spoken little wife, a perfect lady who’d be an ornament to his home, popping out babies and playing Lady Bountiful to the poor, attending balls and dancing ’til dawn in his arms.

Well, that wasn’t her, and Flynn blooming well knew it. He was playing some deep game and she didn’t like it one little bit, so he could just stop sending her flowers and looking at her like she was a . . . a cream-filled cake that he was waiting to have for his tea.

Whatever it was, she wouldn’t go along with it.

She had other plans for her life.

It was some kind of game. He couldn’t possibly be serious.

*   *   *

Finally, finally after days of the dreariest good behavior, gallons of weak tea and hours of insipid conversation with a gaggle of old ladies hanging off his every word and glance, Featherby allowed Flynn upstairs to talk to Daisy on her own.

“Leave the door open,” he called after Flynn as he took the stairs two at a time.

He was anxious to see her. Desperate, in fact.

She didn’t even greet him. “What are you playin’ at, Flynn?”

No polite society hypocrisy here—straight out with the question. Ah, but she was a breath of fresh air, his Daisy. “Playin’ at? What do you mean? I’ve come to vis—”

“Stop jokin’ around. You know what I mean. Sendin’ me flowers—I know it’s you so don’t bother to deny it. And all those bloomin’ morning visits—what are they about?”

He hid a smile. She was spoiling for a fight. Not that he minded. “Something botherin’ you, sweetheart? I thought you liked flowers.”

“Don’t call me that! I’m not your sweetheart!”

“Something botherin’ you, my little hedgehog?”

She tried to glare at him some more, but her lips gave her away and a laugh escaped her. She put her work down and gave a sigh. “Gawd, Flynn, you’re enough to drive a girl to drink. What am I goin’ to do with you?”

He grinned. “I can think of a few things.”

She shook her head. “No.” She held up her palms as if to hold him off, though he wasn’t anywhere close enough to touch her. Yet. “None of that nonsense. I told you before, it’s got to stop.”

“What’s got to stop?”

“This . . .” She groped for a word. “This charade.”

He frowned. “It’s not a charade.”

“I’m talking about the impression you’ve been givin’ Lady Bea and her friends. And Featherby. They think you’re courting me, Flynn.”

“I am.”

She blinked, then shook her head. “Stop jokin’ around. I’m serious.”

“So am I. I want you, Daisy.”

She paled. Her eyes were liquid, luminous as she searched his face to read the truth in it. Her mouth opened, then shut. Flynn just waited.

There was a long silence. She bit her lip, and slowly the color flushed back into her cheeks as she mastered herself. Again, she shook her head. “Flattered as I am—”

“Flattered?” He could hear the but coming already. Dammit!

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, flattered—now are you going to let me finish?”

That was his girl—knock her down and she came up swinging. “Go ahead.”

“Right, as I was sayin’, I’m flattered you want me—and I’ll admit that I’m attracted to you too—”

“Then if—”

“Oy! Will you bloody listen?”

“Go on.” Not flirting, then. She was serious.

“I admit, I do fancy you, and in different circumstances, I might . . .” He leaned forward, but she continued, “But I ain’t. I ain’t going to let it go any further.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t afford it.”

“Afford?” He frowned.

“With me business only just gettin’ started I can’t afford even the slightest hint of scandal or improper behavior. I’m not like those ton ladies, where everyone is prepared to turn a blind eye to their goin’s-on, as long as they’re discreet. If it got out that I had a fancy man, it would be the ruination of—”

“‘Fancy man’?” Flynn said indignantly. “I’m no fancy man! Do you think I’m tryin’ to give you a slip on the shoulder or somethin’? Dammit, Daisy—you ought to know me better than that! I’m not the kind of man to trifle with the affections of an innocent girl!”

She gave him a sharp look. Her mouth opened, as if she was about to say something, but she shut it again.

He continued, “I’m talking marriage, girl.”

“Marriage?” Her jaw dropped.

He nodded. “You, me and a preacher. Marriage.” He waited.

She stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. “I thought that’s what you were goin’ to say the other day—when Jane and Featherby caught us at it. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hold you to it.”

“Hold me to i—”

“It was my fault—all my fault—so you don’t need to go being all honorable and—”

“I’m not being honorable! Dammit, Daisy, I mean it! I want to marry you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Don’t tell me what I want or don’t want,” he snapped, annoyed at her calm contradiction. “You don’t like it when I argue with you like that—”

“Yeah, but with me it’s true. You’re just feeling . . .”

“Feeling what?” He prompted after a moment. “Go on, tell me what you think I’m feeling.”

“Guilty about gettin’ under me skirts that way.”

He shook his head. “I don’t feel the slightest bit guilty about it. All I feel is regret that Jane came home when she did and that we didn’t get to finish.”

“And we never will.”

He smiled. “I don’t give up so easy, Daisy love. And when I want something enough, I usually get it. And I want you, be assured of that.” He took a few steps towards her, planning to kiss her into compliance, to reassure her.

She skittered back out of reach, tripped on a cat and almost fell. Flynn dived forward and caught her arm, steadying her.

“Are you all r—”

She shook off his hold and scooped up the cat. “The one room in the house where she’s not allowed so she tries to sneak in all the time.” She held it against her breast, stroking it. But it was a defense.

“I don’t blame her.”

She put the cat out, closed the door and leaned against it, eyeing him with a troubled expression.

“I don’t know why you’ve suddenly got this daft notion to marry me, Flynn, but it’s crazy. You came to London tellin’ the world you wanted to marry a fine fancy highborn lady—and now you’re offering for me? It doesn’t make sense. Is it because Lady Liz jilted you?”

“She didn’t jilt me.”

“But everyone says—”

“That’s the story everyone believes. But—and this is for your ears only, Daisy—she didn’t elope with anyone. I think you’re right about her bein’ a lady of Langwhatsit—she’s gone to live with an aunt in Italy.”

He watched her face, pausing to let it sink in. “The elopement story was to keep her father off her trail so she could make a clean getaway. If I didn’t marry her—and I’d told her that I wasn’t going to—he was plannin’ to marry her off to a ghastly old ruin for the sake of his debts.” He snorted. “Some father, eh?”

Her wide hazel eyes scanned his face earnestly. “So you’re not upset?”

He shook his head. “I helped arrange it.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “But that still doesn’t explain why you’re asking someone like me. There are plenty of fine unmarried highborn girls out there.”

“I know. But I’ve changed me mind. I don’t want to marry a toff’s daughter—I want you. And before you say anything, I’m not askin’ ‘someone like you’—I’m asking you. And there’s no one like you. You’re one of a kind, Daisy Chance.”

Which was the message he’d been trying to send her with those flowers. But it seemed his girl didn’t understand the language of flowers. Or maybe she did and just didn’t like it. She still had that troubled, mulish look on her face.

“So I’m asking you to marry me. What do you say?”

He could see before she even opened her mouth that he wasn’t going to like her answer.

She twisted a bit of material between nervous fingers. “Well, those were real nice words, Flynn, and I’m truly flattered. And I’m sorry, but it still ain’t going to happen. I’m the last girl you should marry.”

“Why would you say such a thing? Explain it to me, Daisy, so I can understand.”

For a long moment he thought she wasn’t going to respond. But she gave a sigh and said, “All right, but you’re not going to like it.”

He shrugged. “I haven’t liked anything you’ve said so far, so what have I got to lose?”

Daisy seated herself in her window seat, tucking her feet under her, and gestured him to a chair halfway across the room. He took the chair and moved it closer, close enough for him to reach out and touch her. Typical Flynn—never did what she asked.

Why couldn’t he simply accept her no and leave her alone? It was hard enough for her to push him away without him fighting it.

She took a deep breath—she wasn’t looking forward to this. “A few moments ago you called me an innocent girl. I’m not. I’m a bastard, a—”

“I know. You told me the first day we met you were born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“Let me finish, Flynn,” she said quietly. He waited. “I’m a bastard, a foundling—even my own mum didn’t want me. And before I come to live with Lady Bea and the girls, I didn’t live a respectable life.”

“Me neither. Some of the things I did when I was a lad tryin’ to survive on me own.” He shrugged. “You do what you can to stay alive. I won’t judge you, Daisy.”

All right, so she was going to have to lay it on the line here. “I haven’t finished yet. I’m not a virgin.”

There was a short silence, then he shrugged. “Neither am I.”

She gritted her teeth. He wasn’t taking her seriously. “Yeah, well, I doubt you lived in a brothel most of your life.”

That rocked him. “A brothel?”

She nodded. She was tempted to leave it there, let him draw his own conclusions, but pride, and something in the way he was looking at her—with compassion rather than judgement or disgust—made her continue. “It’s not what you think—I never did sell me body. I was a maidservant, scrubbin’ and cleanin’ and doin’ whatever needed doin’. At the beck and call of the girls and their customers.” She let that sink in and added, “But I ain’t no innocent. And I ain’t no virgin.”

“But—” He frowned, trying to piece it all together.

“Abby and Damaris and Jane ain’t really me sisters. I met Abby in the street.” She was quite prepared to tell Flynn the worst about her own life, but the other girls’ stories were theirs to tell, and private from everybody except their husbands and Lady Bea.

“And through Abby you met Jane and Damaris, I see. What an incredible coincidence, running into your half sister like that. How did you know? You don’t look alike.”

She looked up and gave him a piercing look. “You’ll keep this private, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“We’re not half sisters at all. I am a bastard—at least I assume my mum and dad never married, whoever they were—but I’m a foundling. The girls are no relation to me at all.”

“No relation at all?”

“Nope.”

“Then how did a chance meeting in the street turn into . . . all this.” He spread his hands, indicating the grand house she was now living in.

“I was homeless. I’d just run away from the brothel. Mrs. B., the owner, had decided to retire and she gave it over to her son Mort. He was a nasty piece of work, Mort, and the place . . . changed. It weren’t safe for me no more.” She shivered recalling how she’d been told by one of the girls that Mort had promised Daisy to a man who liked beating up girls, and who fancied himself a crippled little maidy.

“And Abby?”

“Abby took me in.”

“Took you in? A stranger she’d just met on the street? Didn’t she know about the brothel?”

“She knew. She’s got a heart as big as Hyde Park, has Abby.” She swallowed. There was more to the story, but she wasn’t going to tell him about Jane and Damaris being kidnapped and sold to Mort. She’d helped them escape and because of that Abby had taken her in.

And called her sister, through thick and thin.

“And then when we came here to live with Lady Bea, Abby brought me with her.”

“And Lady Beatrice?”

“Knows all about me. I told you, I don’t tell lies, and I wasn’t goin’ to lie to a helpless old lady.”

Flynn snorted. “Nothing helpless about her that I can see.”

“She was helpless then, believe me,” Daisy said softly, remembering the state they’d found the old lady in. “She’d been sick.” And neglected and abused by her pigs of servants, but she wasn’t going to talk about that either—the old lady had her pride and those dark and desperate days were long past.

“So that’s it, me scandalous past. I’ve had two lovers before y—” She broke off. Calling Flynn her lover wouldn’t be smart.

He swooped in on it. “Before me, which makes it third time lucky.”

“You ain’t my lover, Flynn,” she said quietly.

He gave a slow, sleepy-eyed smile. “I beg to differ.” His gaze dropped to her chest where her blasted nipples were probably sitting up beggin’ him to take notice.

She folded her arms. “Look, apart from all that, I can’t be your wife. I’m not any kind of lady, I don’t know how to run a house or be a hostess to grand people—”

“I’ve seen you—”

“You’ve seen me pour ’em cups of tea and talk to them—yeah. Not hold a ball or plan a dinner party or organize a soirée or a Venetian breakfast—whatever that is. I don’t know the first thing about how to run a household. And I could never bring meself to play Lady Bountiful to your poor folk.”

He frowned. “What poor folk?”

“The ones on your estate.”

“Oh, those ones.” He nodded.

“See, Abby and Jane and Damaris could. They’ve never been one of the poor.”

“But—”

“Oh I know they had nothin’ and no one and were in danger of starvation—we all were.” His brows shot up in surprise, and she realized she hadn’t told him that bit.

“And that’s for your ears only, so don’t blab about it. Their poverty was just accidental, anyway. They fell into it. It’s not the same as being born poor, like me—the real proper poor, I mean.”

“Why? Poverty is poverty no matter who you are.”

“No, it’s not.” She thought about how to explain. “For some folks, poverty is a . . . is an attitude. If you think you’re poor, you’ll always be poor, and even if you get rich, some little part of you always remembers bein’ poor, and still feels poor inside. Abby and Damaris and Jane—they had posh parents and fell into poverty by accident—so they’d be good at playin’ Lady Bountiful. Though Jane, I reckon, still feels poor inside at times . . .”

She shook her head. She’d gotten off the track. “But I could never play Lady Bountiful, taking baskets of food and clothes . . . and stuff like that to the poor—the real poor—people like me, I mean. It’d feel all wrong. As if I was lording it over them or summat. You got to be born to do that kind of thing, I reckon.”

There was a long silence. “I see,” he said at last.

“So you understand me point of view?”

He nodded. “I do.”

“So you see now why I’m the wrong sort of girl for you?”

“No.”

“What? But I just explained—”

“You’ve explained why you don’t want to play Lady Bountiful. And that you were born into poverty. In that, I reckon we’re well matched. I was poor—real proper poor—too, and I have that little corner in me. It’s a kind of hunger, that’s always there, reminding you. Haunting you.”

She nodded. That was it, all right.

“But as for Lady Bountiful, I don’t have any poor who need visiting or baskets of food. I don’t have any poor at all. At the moment my ‘estate’ is a set of rented rooms in St James that was once occupied by Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen, and the only other inhabitant is my valet, Tibbins.”

“But—”

“It’s true I want a big house—you must have heard me talk about it a dozen times—but I have no plans for a large country estate with tenants—poor or otherwise. I might buy a house in the country—maybe somewhere near Max’s place, looking out over the sea—but my main home will be in London.”

He added, “Of course, you could always take baskets of food to Tibbins, though I don’t know how he’d—”

“You’re laughing at me!”

He smiled. “Just a little. You’re inventing reasons, sweetheart. Nothing you’ve told me has changed my mind in the least. All of those things you’ve mentioned you could learn if you put half a mind to it. Running a household must be a damn sight easier than running a business, but the prospect of that doesn’t bother you at all.”

And that was the nub of it.

“Yeah, I probably could—if I wanted to.” She took a deep breath. “But the thing is, Flynn, I don’t want to. I don’t want to be anyone’s wife. It’s not you. I like you, Flynn, like you a lot, in fact—”

“In fact?” he prompted.

She shook her head. “The point is, if I was goin’ to marry anyone, it’d probably be you.”

“Only probably?” He leaned forward but she held up her hands to ward him off. His eyes were so very blue, it took every bit of strength she had to say what she knew she had to say.

“I told you before, I don’t want a husband. I don’t want to have kids. I got plans for me life—plans that don’t include marriage. So . . .”—she swallowed and forced the rest out. “I thank you for the offer. I’m very honored you asked me, but I’m sorry, the answer’s no.”

There was a long silence. Then he took a deep breath and stood up. “I suppose I’d better take myself off, then.”

“Sorry, Flynn,” she said again. She felt terrible. It was the worst thing in the world, being told someone didn’t want you. Especially since she did.

She wanted Flynn something fierce.

She just didn’t want to be a wife.

He turned. “I might have lost the first round, but I’m not yet ready to throw in the towel.” He gave her a swift smile. “I’ll be back. I don’t give up that easy, Daisy-girl.”

He let himself quietly out of her room, closing the door after him with a soft click.

Flynn walked slowly downstairs. He didn’t understand.

He was a good catch, if he said so himself. Hell, he was a great catch: fit, strong, rich, lusty, with all his own teeth and hair.

Women liked him—ladies of Langwhatsit aside—and he’d had plenty of invitations to prove it. But he didn’t go messing around in anyone’s marriage bed—he didn’t hold with infidelity. He’d be a good and faithful husband, he knew.

He knew in his bones, in his blood that Daisy fancied him as much as he fancied her.

So why was it so apparently unthinkable? So bloody daft?

She’d given him a string of reasons, none of which prevented them from marrying, as far as he was concerned. He didn’t care about her past, it was her future he cared about—her future with him.

So what was wrong with the girl?

Featherby stood waiting in the hall. He’d known Flynn’s intention—it was why he’d let him see Daisy alone. He didn’t say anything—it was not a butler’s place to ask—but a faint lifting of his brow was enough.

“She turned me down,” Flynn told him.

Featherby’s brows shot up. “You did ask her to marry you, didn’t you, sir? I mean, she knew what you were offering?”

Flynn nodded. “She knew. I was more than clear. She called it a ‘daft notion.’”

Featherby stared at him. “What maggot’s got into her head now?” he murmured half to himself.

“I don’t know,” Flynn said. “But I aim to find out.”

*   *   *

Daisy waited until she was sure Flynn was gone.

Then she burst into tears.

He hadn’t been bothered by her lack of virginity, her job in the brothel—anything.

But he needed a different sort of woman to run his home and have his kids. He might think he wanted Daisy now, while he was hot for her body—and who was the fool who’d kissed him and started that? Who’d led him on? Who’d wrapped her legs shamelessly around his waist and let him do whatever he wanted? She’d wanted it too.

But once the heat wore off he’d be wondering why he’d married her, and comparing her to the kind of proper lady he could have had.

She knew she’d be found wanting.

She wasn’t the marrying kind. She wanted to be a famous dressmaker patronized by rich folks, not a wife and a mother—that was for other women, not her. She’d never wanted kids, never dreamed of having them, the way Abby and the other two did.

Even Lady Bea felt her life had been blighted by not being able to have a child of her own. Not Daisy.

Flynn wanted a quiverful of kids.

Refusing him was the right thing for both of them, she knew.

But oh, how it hurt to have to tell him no.

There was a sweetness in the man that she’d never encountered in any man before, especially not a man who was also tough and strong and masculine. And gorgeous.

And rich.

And gorgeous.

If she’d been born different . . . No there was no use going down that pathway. Some things in life you could have and others it was best not to even think about.

*   *   *

A short time later Featherby brought up a tea tray. Daisy, who at his knock had snatched up some sewing to give the impression she was working, set it aside, hoping he wouldn’t notice her red-rimmed eyes. Or if he did, that he wouldn’t ask about them.

He glanced at her once, then fussed about quietly, setting out little cakes and a pot and teacup. Strong India tea, just the way she liked it. Her favorite cakes. Not saying a thing.

He knew. Featherby always knew.

He bowed himself out and closed the door carefully behind him. The same way Flynn had.

I’ll be back. I don’t give up that easy, Daisy-girl.

More tears came then. She blinked them away. She poured her tea and as she stirred in the sugar she found herself staring at the sugar lumps piled up in their little silver dish.

She was like one of these lumps of sugar—all hard and like a rock . . . until you dropped it in a cup of hot tea. Then watch it soften and melt and fall apart.

But sometimes, there was a little core of hardness that refused to dissolve, no matter how hard you stirred it.

She had to be that hard little lump from now on.

Else she’d lose herself.