Chapter Seven

“I am afraid,” replied Elinor, “that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety.”

—JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

Flynn, normally a good sleeper, passed a restless night but he woke with one clear resolve: He wasn’t going to marry Lady Elizabeth.

That debacle of a kiss last night—and her extraordinary reaction—had convinced him. And with that decision firm in his mind, it was as if a weight had been lifted from him.

As he shaved and dressed, he pondered his blindness. He’d chosen the girl without knowing anything about her. Fool! Like shopping for a wife in one of those fancy London shops, giving it about as much thought as any simple purchase. What the hell had he been thinking?

He ate his breakfast in a pensive mood. If he hadn’t been so blinded by his ambition he would’ve seen it much earlier. The girl didn’t fancy him at all. She wasn’t simply nervous of him—she saw him as some kind of brute with the physique of a laborer and great ugly hands. Some kind of pirate.

She couldn’t even bear him touching her with those hands. Gloves, Mr. Flynn.

It was all about his money. And her future security.

Mind you, he was no better. Take away her family name and connections, her title and her fancy manners and he wouldn’t have given her a second look. She was pretty enough, but there wasn’t a spark of attraction between them. Or even friendship. Twenty minutes in her company and he was ready to leave. Luckily that was the polite thing to do. But a lifetime of it . . .

He cleaned his teeth, brushed his hair and gave a cursory glance at his reflection in the looking glass. What the devil had he been thinking?

As Daisy had reminded him, marriage was for life. And now he thought about it with a clear mind, he realized he wanted a marriage like his own parents had—close and loving. His memories of them were hazy—just a child’s recollections—but he remembered them talking and laughing and sometimes even fighting together, but always together, in good times and bad. Looking back, he realized they’d been friends as well as lovers.

He didn’t want the kind of ton marriage where husband and wife came together as strangers, bred a couple of heirs and then turned elsewhere for love. Illicit love, and sometimes not even that. As long as it was discreet, it didn’t seem to matter.

They weren’t all like that, he knew. Max and Abby were deeply in love, and so were Damaris and Freddy.

But Jane was—if Daisy was correct—planning on marrying a dull and dreary little lord for exactly the same reason as Lady Elizabeth would marry Flynn—if he asked her. Wealth and security.

Which brought him to the topic of Lord Flensbury. Who the devil was he?

He picked up his hat and left his apartment. He was off to make a few morning calls. In the actual morning. Lady Elizabeth and her father first. Best to get it over and done with.

It was a fine spring morning, and Flynn decided to walk. He chose a route that wasn’t the most direct, but the most interesting—to him. He liked walking past the shops, looking into the windows, seeing what people were buying. It paid to keep abreast of the market.

Nothing to do with putting off the dreaded interview with Lady Elizabeth.

One shop window contained a pretty little display, a table set for tea, with a large blue teapot, a pair of willow-patterned cups and a willow-patterned plate on which a variety of small cakes rested.

Seeing it, he stopped dead. And was suddenly a thousand miles and more than twenty years away. Mam serving up tea, pouring it hot and strong from her big blue teapot, her good tablecloth covering the battered old table—she’d embroidered it herself when she was a young girl, and woe betide the person—man or child—who spilled anything on that cloth.

Cakes were a rarity in the house he’d grown up in—they were too poor for that—but brown bread and butter and sometimes honey, or potato bread, or biscuits would be served on Mam’s willow-patterned plate—the one with a chip out of the corner. It had been a wedding present, and Mam loved it.

A loudly cleared throat made it clear he was blocking the way. Flynn moved on, his mind still in the past. Flynn had been responsible for that chip in Mam’s plate—an accident when he was just a wee lad—and he’d always intended to get Mam a new one.

He never had. By the time Flynn had earned enough to buy a plate, she was dead—they all were, his entire family, taken by the cholera. And Flynn was all alone.

He’d left Ireland shortly afterwards, gone away to sea and tried never to think of what he’d left behind, what he lost. He’d made it his habit to look forward, not back. The past was too painful.

Still, the cheerful little window display had reminded him of the good times; he hadn’t thought of teatime at home for years. No matter how poor they’d been, Mam always got out the good tablecloth and had something tasty to eat sitting on that willow-patterned plate. And she sure as hell made sure that every kid was clean and neatly dressed and ready with their best manners, even if there was only family at the table. Because nobody was more important than family . . . .

He walked on, smiling to himself. It was a good memory. When he got a proper home, he’d buy his wife a blue teapot and a willow-patterned plate. It wouldn’t mean anything to her, of course, but he’d see it and remember . . . .

A wife . . . Why the devil had he imagined it would be so easy and straightforward?

He’d been walking for some time, lost in thought, when an urchin running by swerved, nearly bumping into him. Startled, Flynn looked around and realized that somehow, he’d brought himself to Berkeley Square.

Might as well drop in on Daisy and see if she’d reconsidered his silent partner proposition.

Nothing to do with putting off an awkward and uncomfortable visit to Lady Elizabeth.

Lady Beatrice was not yet receiving, Featherby informed him, but Miss Daisy was up. Flynn hurried up the stairs. Daisy was exactly who he wanted to talk to—not just about his proposition, but about Lady Elizabeth.

He found he had a need for a sympathetic ear—a sympathetic female ear. Daisy was very easy to talk to.

*   *   *

“Did you give any thought to what I was talking about last night? Takin’ me on as a silent partner, I mean.”

“Yeah, I did and the answer’s still no.” Daisy had thought about it all night. It was a good idea—in theory. But she couldn’t bring herself to put everything she’d worked for in someone else’s hands. Particularly not a man’s. Not again.

And particularly not Flynn’s. Flynn, for all his good intentions, couldn’t help but interfere and boss her around. Daisy had had people telling her what to do all her life, and she had no intention of letting anyone be the boss of her, ever again.

Freedom—being her own boss—was bloody lovely. Even if it was tough at times. She wouldn’t give it up for quids.

“That’s a bit shortsighted, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’re struggling.”

She lifted her shoulders indifferently and continued with her sewing. “Don’t you worry yourself none about me, Flynn. I’m doin’ all right. “

“No you’re not—you’re exhausting yourself, trying to do it all yourself.”

The fact that he was right was annoying but she said in a calm enough voice, “Listen—a year ago I was nothing but a skivvy, a maidservant in a bro—a business establishment. I was waitin’ on everybody—scrubbin’ and mendin’ and at everyone’s beck and call at all hours of the day and night! Now look at me—I’m livin’ in the poshest part of town, with the daughter of an earl who claims me as her niece and this”—she brandished a piece of fabric in his face—“this’ll warm the shoulders of a duchess. I know I’m havin’ trouble keeping up with orders—but that’s better than havin’ no customers at all, ain’t it?”

“It’d be even better if you had some help,” he said bluntly. “And if you took me on as a partner, you could afford it.”

“I appreciate the offer, Flynn, truly I do, but . . . I just can’t bring meself to hand over half of me business—any of it really—to somebody else.” She wasn’t going to explain her reasoning to Flynn. He’d want to know more, and she wasn’t going down that path, thank you very much!

“You wouldn’t be handing it over—you’d be taking on a silent partner.”

“Yeah, and if I took you on as me so-called silent partner you’d stay out of me business, would you? You’d let me make all the decisions?”

He hesitated and she laughed. “’Course you wouldn’t. You’d be interferin’ all the time, tellin’ me a better way to do things, tellin’ me I’m doin’ it wrong, that I’m thinkin’ too small—any of this ring a bell, does it?”

He frowned, but didn’t answer.

“See?” she said softly. “And you’re not even me partner.”

He acknowledged the truth of what she said with a wry gesture. “I know, I can’t help stickin’ me nose in. But I still reckon you’re making a mistake.”

“Maybe, but it’s my mistake, ain’t it?”

He regarded her with a troubled expression and she felt a prick of compunction. “Listen, I know you’re tryin’ to help, Flynn—and I’m not saying you’re the same—but . . . I’ve trusted other people before—people I thought cared about me—and . . . well, let’s just say it was a mistake, both times.” A big mistake.

He gave her a shrewd look. “A man, both times?”

“What makes you think that?” Only once was a man, but she could feel herself blushing anyway, the way those blue eyes of his were looking at her. She broke eye contact and said briskly, “Doesn’t matter who it was. Doesn’t change the way I feel.” And because he was still looking at her and making her feel guilty, she added, “Look, don’t take it personal, Flynn. I learned the hard way that it’s a bad idea to mix business with friendship.”

He considered her words, then shrugged. “Fair enough. I won’t bother you again, though if ever you change your mind—”

“I won’t.” She finished sewing a strip of lace onto Lady Gelbart’s bed jacket, and glanced up at him.

He stood up, as if to leave, but instead started pacing restlessly around, touching this and that, absently picking things up—strips of braid, a piece of fur, garments in various states of assembly—and putting them down. She was sure he wasn’t really noticing what he was doing.

He stopped, staring out of the window holding a newly finished nightgown that had been draped over the back of a chair—one of the fancy ones so popular with old ladies. He stood there frowning, his legs in their tight breeches and gleaming boots braced as if on the deck of a ship. Commanding the oceans . . .

She swallowed. He made quite a sight, staring out at nothing in particular, running the silky fabric through his fingers, seemingly lost in thought. For a full minute Daisy quite forgot to sew.

She ought to make some cheeky comment, break the silence, but the picture he made . . . the tall, strong figure, the delicate silk and netting nightgown sliding through those very masculine hands, hands marked by life, not softened by lotions and a life of ease and privilege . . . Her mouth dried.

“Oy—” Her voice croaked, and she cleared her throat. “I ’ope you got clean hands.”

“What?” He glanced down and saw what he was holding. He held it up to the light—the fine silk was practically transparent, the netting and lace artfully placed to reveal . . . and conceal. A look of amusement spread across his face. He swung around to face her, holding it up against his chest.

The delicate feminine nightgown floated then settled with a sigh against his tough male body. “You wear this sort of thing, do you Daisy?” He quirked a dark eyebrow. Superbly confident in his own masculinity, a lurking challenge in those blue eyes of his, his gaze raked her.

To Daisy’s annoyance, she felt herself blushing. The contrast between his big, hard body and the whisper-soft lacy garment was quite . . . erotic. She said in as brusque a tone as she could manage, “’Course not—it’s for one of me customers.”

He glanced at the frivolous, scandalous nightgown again and his brows rose. “You mean proper ladies wear this kind of thing?”

She nodded. “Yep. The properer they are, the more the ladies love ’em. Even old ladies love ’em.” Truth be told, the old ladies loved them most of all.

“Old ladies?” He looked at the flimsy handful of silk and lace. “Old ladies wear something like this?”

She grinned, enjoying his surprise. “That’s right. The old ducks can’t get enough of them. That one’s for the Honorable Mrs. Hartley-Peacock. She’ll be wearin’ it to bed tonight, I reckon.”

He hastily put the nightgown down.

She chuckled. “And this ’un”—she held up the one she was finishing off—“is for Lady Gelbart. Both of them are as old as Lady Beatrice—in fact it was them seein’ one I made for her that started it all. I’ve made dozens—all for the most respectable old ladies in the ton. And you wouldn’t believe what they’re prepared to pay.” Flynn was the one person she knew who would understand that little gloat. It being vulgar to talk money.

“Good God. Respectable old ladies, eh? I never would have guessed.”

She shrugged. “You never can tell what ladies are thinking.”

“And isn’t that God’s own truth?” he said in such a different tone that Daisy looked up from her stitching. He wasn’t looking in the least bit amused now.

“Something on your mind, Flynn?” There was a short silence. “Something happen last night after you left here?”

“You might say so. Or maybe it was what didn’t happen.” He sat down heavily.

Daisy threaded her needle, picked up another strip of lace and prepared to listen.

*   *   *

“I tell you, Daisy—I’ve never experienced anything like it in my life.” Flynn was up again, pacing back and forth in front of her window seat like a big dark cat. “There was no spark at all. Nothing. It was like . . . like kissin’ a fish.”

“Mm-hmm.” Daisy kept sewing. Did he think she wanted to hear all about his bloomin’ love-life—in detail? Gawd, men were blind. And vain.

“Are you listenin’? Like kissing a fish!”

She shrugged. “Yeah, well, it happens.”

“Not to me, it doesn’t.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t want to hear about Flynn kissing another girl, she really didn’t. And his insistence on sharing every blooming detail with her was starting to irritate her.

He stopped in front of her, looming over her like a great grumpy bear. “What? What aren’t you implyin’?”

She rolled her eyes. “Most men think they’re God’s gift to kissin’.”

His eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She smoothed the seam, checking it was all even, then tied off the thread and carefully snipped off the end. “She might not be the problem.”

“What?”

He stood there, blue gaze burning into her, waiting for further explanation. Her temper flared, so she told him. “Coulda been the way you kissed her. I mean, Jane’s bloomin’ mutt licks me fingers and toes all the time, and I hate it.”

He stared at her, outraged. “It’s hardly the same.”

“No, but still . . .” She shook out the finished bed jacket. Perfect. Old Lady Gelbart would be delighted. She hopped off her seat and crossed the room. Two more orders completed.

“Are you sayin’ I don’t know how to kiss a girl?” he demanded in a silky tone that didn’t deceive Daisy for a minute. His eyes were blue chips of anger.

She held up her hands in a peaceable gesture. “I’m not sayin’ nuffin’. It’s Lady Liz who gets to judge, not me.” But she couldn’t help adding, “And it sounds like she did.”

He followed her across the room. “I damn well do know how to kiss.”

“Sure you do.” She folded the finished garments and placed them in the basket on the dresser, ready to be ironed, then packaged up for William to deliver.

“I’m good—bloody good if you want to know. I’ve never had any complaints before.”

“I’m sure you haven’t.”

Flynn glared at her in frustration. Her tone made it clear that she thought the women in his past were simply too polite to complain. Which was so damn far from the truth it was a joke!

As he watched, she picked up another half-finished garment and headed back to take her seat in the window. It was a red rag to a bull. Her complacency, the attitude that her damned sewing was so much more important to her than anything he might have to say, drove him wild.

She was so blasted certain the fault lay with him. He clenched his fists, itching to shake the smugness out of her. She stepped around him, giving him a little half smile, obviously meant to soothe his injured masculine feelings. It was the last straw.

He grabbed her, swung her around and planted one on her.

“Oy! What the—mmmph!” She stiffened, resisting him for a few seconds, then . . . with a small sigh, her mouth softened beneath his.

She parted her lips for him and heat, like embers from a fire, glowing and alive, rushed through him.

He pulled back, shocked, but didn’t let go. Couldn’t let go.

The instant explosion of . . . hunger . . . need . . . arousal stunned him, sent his head spinning. What had started in anger and frustration—a simple need to prove himself as a man—had spiraled instantly into something else.

He stared down at the woman in his arms. Daisy?

She blinked back up at him, her big hazel eyes wide and a little dazed, apparently as surprised as he was. Her mouth was damp, rosy, enticing.

He released her shoulders, sliding his hands up the slender column of her throat, his blunt fingers spearing through the softness of her hair as he cupped her head in his hands. She stood motionless, staring up at him, and he was drowning, drowning in her eyes.

His thumbs framed her delicate pixie face, and he heard the trembling intake of her breath as he stroked the silken skin of her jawline, and felt her pulse leap under his touch. A shudder ran through her and her eyes darkened.

His blood surged with possessive need, and he lowered his mouth to kiss her again, deeply, passionately, tasting her, exploring.

Her hands came up to grip his shoulders, and she pulled him closer, angling her head to deepen the kiss, to accept him, her small slender body pressed against his, twining against his as she returned kiss for kiss, making muffled little sounds that drove him wild with wanting.

When he pulled back a second time, his heart was hammering in his chest. He released her and stepped away, shakily, his body braced for action, fighting the arousal pounding through him.

They stared at each other, speechless. Shocked.

Daisy could make him feel like this? He’d always liked the girl, always enjoyed a light bit of flirtation with her . . . but . . . this?

Daisy seemed to be breathing just as hard. “Gawd, Flynn,” she said at last. She staggered to the window seat and collapsed into it as if her knees were about to give way.

“I know.” It had taken him just as much by surprise. Never in his life . . . He struggled to take in the enormity of what had just happened. Daisy?

Her sewing lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, forgotten. He should have felt triumphant—his point proved—but he was still too stunned.

“Well, that settles one thing,” she said eventually.

“What?” He was still trying to come to terms with it.

“If you kissed Lady Liz like that—”

“I didn’t.” He’d never kissed anyone like that. In his life.

“Well, if you kissed her half as—”

“Not even half.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, then she gave a shiver and made a visible effort to pull herself together. She collected her sewing and folded it neatly. She set it down on the window seat, smoothing it with hands he noted were trembling slightly, and said, not looking at him, “It’s definitely not you, then. It’s her.”

Flynn didn’t say a thing. He just stood there, looking down at her. Daisy! He could hardly come to terms with it.

“She’s probably one of them Ladies of Llangollen.” She pronounced the last word as if she was clearing her throat.

“Ladies of what?” What the hell were they talking about?

“Llangollen.” More clearing of the throat. She looked at his face and laughed. “That’s how the Welshies say it, anyway. I knew a Welsh girl once. The English say it as Lan-gollen.”

“If you say so. And who or what are Ladies of Lan-whatsit?” He could hardly believe they were having some conversation about some blasted place in Wales. He just wanted to haul Daisy back into his arms and kiss her senseless.

“Llangollen. They’re a couple of posh ladies who didn’t want to get married—not to men, anyway—and so they run off and set up house together in Wales—in Llangollen. They’re famous—haven’t you heard of them? They’re Irish.”

“No.” What did he care about—oh. Finally Flynn saw what she was getting at.

She shrugged. “Some women are that way inclined.”

There was a short silence. “You mean, Lady Elizabeth is . . .”

She nodded. “Like them Ladies of Llangollen, maybe. Has to be, if you kissed her like that and she didn’t like it.”

“I told you, I didn’t kiss her like that.” He didn’t want to talk about Lady Elizabeth, dammit. His mind was reeling. His body was thrumming with newfound awareness.

Daisy was his friend. He was supposed to feel comfortable with her—the only woman in London he could talk business with, the only lady he knew who didn’t object to his occasional bad language. He liked her.

That kiss was supposed to demonstrate his expertise, not knock him sideways.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever kissed anyone quite like that, Daisy.” His voice sounded oddly hoarse. “Certainly I’ve never felt—”

She jumped up briskly. “Look, sorry to interrupt, Flynn, but one of me ladies is comin’ in a few minutes and I got to get ready.” She bustled around the room, tidying up like a small, efficient whirlwind, avoiding his gaze. “It’s been nice chattin’ with you, Flynn. Dunno what you can do about Lady Liz, but you’ll sort it out. I got to get these things pressed and tidy the room. See yourself out, will ya?”

Flynn, watching her flit around the room, frowned. She was babbling. Trying to ignore what had just happened. Daisy—who confronted everything and everyone head-on.

So he wasn’t the only one who’d been affected. Hah!

He’d leave now—he had his own doubts about this so-called appointment of hers, but he needed to sort out his feelings. And sort things out with Lady Elizabeth.

Daisy could pretend all she wanted—he’d be back. That kiss had stunned him, and he wasn’t going to ignore it. He didn’t know what it meant, didn’t have any idea what he was going to do about it, but he was damned if he’d pretend it hadn’t happened.

*   *   *

He let himself out of Daisy’s workroom and met Lady Beatrice on the landing. “Flynn, dear boy, delightful to see you again so soon. Did you enjoy the masquerade ball last night?” She took his arm. “Visiting Daisy again, eh? Been seeing quite a bit of her lately, haven’t you? I thought now the Season had started, and with your courtship of Lady Elizabeth, you wouldn’t pop in quite so much.” She cocked her head and added with a mischievous expression, “Not trying to seduce my Daisy, are you, Flynn, dear boy?”

He blinked. “What? No, I—” He swallowed.

She chuckled at his discomfiture. “No need to look so appalled—I’m not accusing you of anything. I have no idea where these notions come from. They just . . . pop into my head. But you wouldn’t dream of compromising my dear gel, would you?” She smiled at him with a guileless expression.

“No, of course not, Lady Beatrice.” Flynn felt like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

She patted his hand. “Of course not. You’re a man of honor, I know, and I’m a foolish old lady. Walk me down the stairs, will you, dear boy? I am shattered, positively shattered—I’m too old to attend balls.” She bore him along, chattering animatedly about the ball, sharing all the latest on-dits.

Flynn was the one who felt shattered. First the kiss, now the old lady seeming to read his mind—before he even knew it himself. Not trying to seduce my Daisy, are you, dear boy?

It was just a kiss for God’s sake.

“Are you all right, my boy? You seem a trifle distrait.” The old lady’s question jolted him back to the present.

“My apologies, m’lady, I was woolgathering.”

“Things not going too well with Lady Elizabeth, eh?”

Flynn stared at her. How did she do that? She was a witch, she must be. “Not exactly,” he admitted. “But speaking of Lady Elizabeth, I have a question for you. What do you know about Lord Flensbury?”

*   *   *

The minute Flynn left, Daisy stopped fussing around. She dumped the armful of clothing she’d gathered, and collapsed into a chair. Her knees still felt all weak and wobbly. That kiss . . .

So she fancied him rotten—so what? She wouldn’t dream of acting on it.

Gawd, if a woman acted on every fancy she had, she’d be ruined in a flash, and Daisy was too smart to let herself be ruined by a man.

He was flirting, that’s all. The man was born to flirt. Those blue eyes of his were an invitation to sin—and enjoy it. And she had to admit, she enjoyed flirting back.

But they were just friends. She enjoyed talking to him, she liked making special waistcoats for him—and charging the earth for it—and talking with him about business and other things. He was good company, Flynn.

It had only ever been a bit of fun, nothing to take seriously. And it still was.

A kiss. She’d had dozens of kisses. Hundreds, maybe.

Nothing like that one.

Too bad. It didn’t mean nothing. He’d only kissed her to prove a point about Lady Elizabeth, that’s all. That fact that it had just about knocked her into next Tuesday was . . .

Was her own bloomin’ fault. She shouldn’t have stirred him up about it. Teasing him had been irresistible. But it had turned out to be dangerous.

The way he’d stared at her afterwards . . . as if he’d never seen her before. As if he could eat her up.

She’d have to nip that idea in the bud quick smart. She didn’t want him getting ideas. He ought to know as well as she did that there was no future in it, only danger, especially for her—but men didn’t always think of that. They had an itch, they scratched it. It was women who bore the consequences.

So if Flynn was making plans, if she’d read that gleam in his eye a’right, he was going to be one disappointed Irishman, because Daisy wasn’t interested in any kind of—what did the toffs call it? Dalliance, that was it. She wasn’t having none of it.

She was a respectable woman. Now. She had a business to protect.

It was just a kiss, that’s all.