Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4)(41)

“Mr. Swift?”

“Yes, Miss Bowman?”

“I have a favor to ask.”

His gaze sharpened. “What is it?”

“As soon as you tell my father definitively that you’re not going to marry me, he will be…disappointed. You know how he is.”

“Yes, I know,” Swift said dryly. Anyone acquainted with Thomas Bowman was well aware that for him, disappointment was but a quick stop on the way to high dudgeon.

“I’m afraid it will result in some unpleasant repercussions for me. Father is already unhappy that I haven’t brought someone up to scratch. If he assumes I’ve deliberately done something to foil his plans about you and I…well, it will make my situation…difficult.”

“I understand.” Swift knew her father perhaps better than Daisy herself did. “I won’t say anything to him,” he said quietly. “And I’ll do what I can to make things easier for you. I’m leaving for Bristol in two days, three at the most. Llandrindon and the other men…none of them are idiots, they have a fair idea of why they were invited here, and they wouldn’t have come if they weren’t interested. So it shouldn’t take long for you to get a proposal out of one of them.”

Daisy supposed she should appreciate his eagerness to shove her into the arms of another man. Instead, his enthusiasm made her feel sour and waspish.

And when one felt like a wasp, one’s main inclination was to sting.

“I appreciate that,” she said. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Swift. Especially by providing me with some much-needed experience. The next time I kiss a man—Lord Llandrindon, for example—I’ll know much more about what to do.”

It filled Daisy with vengeful satisfaction to see the way his mouth tightened.

“You’re welcome,” he said in a growl.

Perceiving that his hands were half-raised as if he were on the brink of throttling or shaking her, Daisy gave him her sunniest smile and scooted out of his reach.

As the day progressed the early morning sunshine was smothered in clouds that unrolled in a great gray carpet across the sky. Rain began to fall steadily, turning unpaved roads to mud, replenishing the wet meadows and bogs, sending people and animals scurrying to their respective shelters.

This was Hampshire in spring, sly and mercurial, playing pranks on the unsuspecting. If one ventured out with an umbrella on a wet morning, Hampshire would produce sunlight with a magician’s flourish. If one went walking without the umbrella, the sky was sure to dump buckets of rain on one’s head.

Guests clustered in various ever-changing groups…some in the music room, some in the billiards room, some in the parlor for games or tea or amateur theatrics. Many ladies attended to their embroidery or lace work while gentlemen read, talked, and drank in the library. No conversation escaped without at least a nominal discussion of when the storm might end.

Daisy usually loved rainy days. Curling up next to a hearth fire with a book was the greatest pleasure imaginable. But she was still trapped in a fretful state in which the printed word had lost its magic. She meandered from room to room, discreetly observing the activities of the guests.

Pausing at the threshold of the billiards room, she peered around the doorframe as gentlemen milled lazily around the table with drinks and cue sticks in hand. The clicks of ivory balls provided an arrhythmic undertone to the hum of masculine conversation. Her attention was caught by the sight of Matthew Swift in his shirtsleeves, leaning over the table to execute a perfect bank shot.

His hands were deft on the cue stick, his blue eyes narrowed as he focused on the layout of balls on the table. Those ever-rebellious locks of hair had fallen over his forehead once more, and Daisy longed to push them back. As Swift sank a ball neatly into a side pocket, there was a scattering of applause, some low laughs, and a few coins changing hands. Standing, Swift produced one of his elusive grins and made a remark to his opponent, who turned out to be Lord Westcliff.

Westcliff laughed at the comment and circled the table, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth as he considered his options. The air of relaxed masculine enjoyment in the room was unmistakable.

As Westcliff rounded the table, he caught sight of Daisy peeking around the doorframe. He winked at her. She pulled back like a turtle jerking into its shell. It was ridiculous of her to creep around the manor trying to catch stolen glimpses of Matthew Swift.

Scolding herself silently, Daisy strode away from the billiards room and toward the main hall and the grand staircase. She bounded up the stairs, not stopping until she reached the Marsden parlor.

Annabelle and Evie were with Lillian, who was half-curled on the settee. Her features were pale and tense, her forehead lightly scored with frown lines. Her slim arms were wrapped around her stomach.

“That’s twenty minutes,” Evie said, her gaze fastened on the mantel clock.

“They’re still not coming regularly,” Annabelle remarked. She brushed Lillian’s hair and braided it neatly, her slim fingers dexterous in the heavy black locks.

“What aren’t coming regularly?” Daisy asked with forced cheer, coming into the room. “And why are you watching the—” She blanched as she suddenly understood. “My God. Are you having birthing pains, Lillian?”

Her sister shook her head, looking perplexed. “Not full-on pains. Just a sort of tightening of my stomach. It started after lunchtime, and then I had one an hour later, and then a half-hour later, and this one came after twenty minutes.”