Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4)(21)

Although Daisy was still an innocent, she understood enough of sexual matters to be aware that one’s body could respond to a man without any involvement of the heart. As she had once responded to Cam Rohan. It disconcerted her to realize she was drawn to Matthew Swift in that same way. Such different men, one romantic, one reserved. One a handsome young gypsy who had stirred her imagination with exotic possibilities…one a man of business, hard-eyed and ambitious and pragmatic.

Daisy had seen an endless parade of power-seeking men during the Fifth Avenue years. They wanted perfection, a wife who could be the best hostess and give the best suppers and soirees, and wear the best gowns, and produce the best children who would play quietly upstairs in the nursery while their fathers were negotiating business deals downstairs in the study.

And Matthew Swift, with his enormous drive, the one her father had singled out for his talent and brilliant mind, would be the most exacting husband imaginable. He would want a wife who formed her entire life around his goals, and he would judge her severely when she failed to please him. There could be no future with a man like that.

But there was one thing in Matthew Swift’s favor: He had helped the goose.

By the time Daisy had stolen into the manor, washed and dressed in a fresh day-gown, her friends and sister had gathered in the morning room for tea and toast. They sat at one of the round tables by a window, looking up as Daisy entered the room.

Annabelle held Isabelle against her shoulder, rubbing her tiny back in soothing circles. A few of the other tables were occupied, mostly by women, although there were about a half-dozen men present, including Lord St. Vincent.

“Good morning,” Daisy said brightly, going to her sister. “How was your sleep, dear?”

“Splendid.” Lillian looked lovely, her eyes clear, her black hair pulled back from her face and caught in a pink silk net at the nape of her neck. “I slept with the windows open, and the breeze coming from the lake was so refreshing. Did you go fishing this morning?”

“No.” Daisy tried to sound offhand. “I just walked.”

Evie leaned toward Annabelle to take the baby. “Let me hold her,” she said. The baby was chewing frantically on a small fist and drooling copiously. Taking the restless child, Evie explained to Daisy, “She’s teething, poor thing.”

“She’s been fretful all morning,” Annabelle said. Daisy saw that her luminous blue eyes looked a little tired, the eyes of a young mother. The touch of weariness only enhanced Annabelle’s beauty, softening the goddess-like perfection of her features.

“Isn’t it rather soon for the baby to be teething?” Daisy asked.

“She’s a Hunt,” Annabelle said dryly. “And Hunts are an unusually hardy lot. According to my husband, everyone in his family is practically born with teeth.” She regarded the baby with concern. “I think I should take her from the room.”

A score of disapproving glances were cast in their direction. It was not the done thing for children, especially infants, to be brought into adult company. Unless it was strictly for show, with the child dressed in white ruffles and ribbons and briefly exhibited for general approval, and then carted quickly back up to the nursery.

“Nonsense,” Lillian said at once, not bothering to lower her voice. “Isabelle is hardly screaming or carrying on. She’s just a bit agitated. I think everyone can manage to have a little tolerance.”

“Let’s try the spoon again,” Annabelle murmured, her cultured voice touched with anxiety. She pulled a chilled silver spoon from a little bowl of crushed ice, and told Daisy, “My mother suggested giving her this—she said it always worked with my brother Jeremy.”

Daisy sat beside Evie, watching as the baby bit down on the bowl of the spoon. Isabelle’s round little face was flushed and a few tears had tracked from her eyes. As she whimpered, the tender, inflamed part of her gums was visible, and Daisy winced in sympathy.

“She needs a nap,” Annabelle said. “But she’s in too much pain to sleep.”

“Poor darling.”

As Evie tried to soothe the baby there was a minor stir at the other side of the room. Someone’s entrance had caused a ripple of interest. Turning in her chair, Daisy saw the tall, striking form of Matthew Swift.

So he hadn’t gone back to the river. He must have waited until Daisy had gone sufficiently far ahead, then walked to the manor without having to escort her.

Like her father, Swift found little in her that was worthy of interest. Daisy told herself that she shouldn’t care, but the knowledge stung.

He had changed into a perfectly pressed suit of clothes, dark gray with a dove-colored vest, his black necktie crisp and conservatively knotted. Although it had become fashionable in Europe for men to grow their side whiskers longer and wear their hair in loose waves, it appeared the style had not yet reached America. Matthew Swift was completely clean-shaven, and his gleaming brown hair had been shaped close to the sides of his head and neck, giving him an appealing touch of boyishness.

Daisy watched covertly as introductions were made. She saw the pleasure on the faces of the older gentlemen as they spoke to him, and the jealousy of the younger gentlemen. And the flirtatious interest of the women.

“Good heavens,” Annabelle murmured, “who is that?”

Lillian replied grumpily. “That is Mr. Swift.”