Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4)(47)

“It had never occurred to you until then that he might actually have feelings for you,” Evie murmured.

“Yes.”

“Daisy…is it possible his actions have been calculated? That he is deceiving you, and the button in his pocket was some kind of pl-ploy?”

“No. If you had only seen his face. He was obviously desperate to keep me from realizing what it was. Oh, Evie…” Daisy kicked morosely at a pebble. “I have the most horrible suspicion that Matthew Swift might actually be everything I ever wanted in a man.”

“But if you married him, he would take you back to New York,” Evie said.

“Yes, eventually, and I can’t. I don’t want to live away from my sister and all of you. And I love England—I’m more myself here than I ever was in New York.”

Evie considered the problem thoughtfully. “What if Mr. Swift were willing to consider s-staying here permanently?”

“He wouldn’t. The opportunities are far greater in New York—and if he stayed here he would always have the disadvantage of not being an aristocrat.”

“But if he were willing to try…” Evie pressed.

“I still could never become the kind of wife he would need.”

“The two of you must have a forthright conversation,” Evie said decisively. “Mr. Swift is a mature and intelligent man—surely he wouldn’t expect you to become something you’re not.”

“It’s all moot, anyway,” Daisy said gloomily. “He made it clear that he won’t marry me under any circumstances. That was his exact wording.”

“Is it you he objects to, or the concept of marriage itself?”

“I don’t know. All I know is he must feel something for me if he carries a lock of my hair in his pocket.” Remembering the way his fingers had closed over the button, she felt a quick, not unpleasant shiver chase down her spine. “Evie,” she asked, “how do you know if you love someone?”

Evie considered the question as they passed a low circular boundary hedge containing an explosion of multi-colored primulas. “I’m sure this is when I’m s-supposed to say something wise and helpful,” she said with a self-deprecating shrug. “But my situation was different from yours. St. Vincent and I didn’t expect to fall in love. It caught us both unaware.”

“Yes, but how did you know?”

“It was the moment I realized he was willing to die for me. I don’t think anyone, including St. Vincent, believed he was capable of self-sacrifice. It taught me that you can assume you know a person quite well—but that person can s-surprise you. Everything seemed to change from one moment to the next—suddenly he became the most important thing in the world to me. No, not important…necessary. Oh, I wish I were clever with words—”

“I understand,” Daisy murmured, although she felt more melancholy than enlightened. She wondered if she would ever be able to love a man that way. Perhaps her emotions had been too deeply invested in her sister and friends…perhaps there wasn’t enough left over for anyone else.

They came to a tall juniper hedge beyond which extended a flagstoned walkway that bordered the side of the manor. As they made their way to an opening of the hedge, they heard a pair of masculine voices engaged in conversation. The voices were not loud. In fact, the strictly moderated volume of the conversation betrayed that something secret—and therefore intriguing—was being discussed. Pausing behind the hedge, Daisy motioned for Evie to be still and quiet.

“…doesn’t promise to be much of a breeder…” one of them was saying.

The comment was met with a low but indignant objection. “Timid? Holy hell, the woman has enough spirit to climb Mont-Blanc with a pen-knife and a ball of twine. Her children will be perfect hellions.”

Daisy and Evie stared at each other with mutual astonishment. Both voices were easily recognizable as those belonging to Lord Llandrindon and Matthew Swift.

“Really,” Llandrindon said skeptically. “My impression is that she is a literary-minded girl. Rather a bluestocking.”

“Yes, she loves books. She also happens to love adventure. She has a remarkable imagination accompanied by a passionate enthusiasm for life and an iron constitution. You’re not going to find a girl her equal on your side of the Atlantic or mine.”

“I had no intention of looking on your side,” Llandrindon said dryly. “English girls possess all the traits I would desire in a wife.”

They were talking about her, Daisy realized, her mouth dropping open. She was torn between delight at Matthew Swift’s description of her, and indignation that he was trying to sell her to Llandrindon as if she were a bottle of patent medicine from a street vendor’s cart.

“I require a wife who is poised,” Llandrindon continued, “sheltered, restful…”

“Restful? What about natural and intelligent? What about a girl with the confidence to be herself rather than trying to imitate some pallid ideal of subservient womanhood?”

“I have a question,” Llandrindon said.

“Yes?”

“If she’s so bloody remarkable, why don’t you marry her?”

Daisy held her breath, straining to hear Swift’s reply. To her supreme frustration his voice was muffled by the filter of the hedges. “Drat,” she muttered and made to follow them.