Scandal in Spring
Page 28
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“If you say so,” Westcliff said, sounding unconvinced.
CHAPTER 6
Staring in the looking glass poised atop the cherrywood dresser, Matthew carefully knotted his formal starched white evening cravat with deft twists and pulls. He was hungry, but the thought of going down to the long formal supper in the dining hall filled him with unease. He felt as if he were walking on a narrow plank suspended high in the air, and a misstep would send him hurtling to his doom.
He should never have allowed himself to accept Daisy’s challenge, should never have stayed and played that bloody game for hours.
It was just that Daisy had been so adorable, and while they played her attention had been focused entirely on him, and that had been too much temptation to withstand. She was the most provoking, beguiling woman he had ever met. Thunderstorms and rainbows wrapped together in a convenient pocket-sized parcel.
Bloody hell, how he wanted to bed her. Matthew was amazed Llandrindon or any other man there had been able to function rationally in her presence.
It was time to take control of the situation. He was going to do whatever was necessary to shove her together with Llandrindon. Compared to the other bachelors present, the Scottish lord was the pick of the lot. Llandrindon and Daisy would have a calm, well-ordered life, and although Llandrindon might stray occasionally, as most men of leisure did, Daisy would be too busy with her family and her books to notice. Or if she did, she would learn to turn a blind eye to his indiscretions and take refuge in her daydreams.
And Llandrindon would never appreciate the unimaginable gift of having Daisy in his life.
Moodily Matthew went downstairs and joined the elegant throng that had gathered in anticipation of the dining hall procession. The women were dressed in colorful gowns that had been embroidered and beaded and trimmed with lace. The men were clad in sober black and brilliant white, the plainness of their attire meant to serve as a suitable backdrop for the display of the women.
“Swift,” came Thomas Bowman’s hearty welcome. “Come here—I want you to quote the latest production estimates to these fellows.” In Bowman’s view there was never an inappropriate time to discuss business. Obediently Matthew joined the group of a half-dozen men who stood in the corner, and recited the numbers his employer wanted.
One of Matthew’s more convenient skills was the ability to store long lists of figures in his head. He loved numbers, their patterns and secrets, the way something complex could be reduced to something simple. In mathematics, unlike life, there was always a solution, a definite answer.
But as Matthew was speaking he caught sight of Daisy and her friends standing with Lillian, and half his brain promptly shut down.
Daisy was wearing a butter-yellow gown that wrapped tightly around her slender waist and pushed the small, pretty shapes of her br**sts upward into a low-cut bodice of gleaming, ruched satin. Yellow satin ribbons had been braided into artful ropes that held the bodice in place. Her black hair had been pulled to the top of her head with a few spiraling curls falling to her neck and shoulders. She looked delicate and perfect, like one of the artful sugared garnishes on the dessert tray that one was never supposed to eat.
Matthew wanted to tug her bodice down until her arms were confined by those satin ropes. He wanted to drag his mouth across her tender pale skin, finding the tips of her br**sts, making her writhe—
“But do you really think,” came Mr. Mardling’s voice, “there is any room for the market to expand? After all, we are discussing the lower classes. No matter what their nationality, it is a known fact that they do not prefer to bathe often.”
Matthew dragged his attention to the tall, well-groomed gentleman, whose blond hair shone brightly beneath the light of the chandeliers. Before he replied, he reminded himself that there was probably no malice intended behind the question. Those of the privileged classes often had genuine misconceptions about the poor, if they bothered to consider them at all.
“Actually,” Matthew said mildly, “the available figures indicate that as soon as soap is mass-produced at an affordable price, the market will increase approximately ten percent a year. People of all classes want to be clean, Mr. Mardling. The problem is that good quality soap has always been a luxury item and therefore difficult to obtain.”
“Mass production,” Mardling mulled aloud, his lean face furrowed with thought. “There is something objectionable about the phrase…it seems to be a way of enabling the lower classes to imitate their betters.”
Matthew glanced at the circle of men, noting that the top of Bowman’s head was turning red—never a good sign—and that Westcliff was holding his silence, his black eyes unreadable.
“That’s exactly what it is, Mr. Mardling,” Matthew said gravely. “Mass production of items such as clothing and soap will give the poor a chance to live with the same standards of health and dignity as the rest of us.”
“But how will one sort out who is who?” Mardling protested.
Matthew shot him a questioning glance. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
Llandrindon joined in the discussion. “I believe what Mardling is asking,” he said, “is how one will be able to tell the difference between a shopgirl and a well-to-do woman if they are both clean and similarly dressed. And if a gentleman is not able to tell what they are by their appearance, how is he to know how to treat them?”
Stunned by the snobbery of the question, Matthew considered his reply carefully. “I’ve always thought all women should be treated with respect no matter what their station.”
CHAPTER 6
Staring in the looking glass poised atop the cherrywood dresser, Matthew carefully knotted his formal starched white evening cravat with deft twists and pulls. He was hungry, but the thought of going down to the long formal supper in the dining hall filled him with unease. He felt as if he were walking on a narrow plank suspended high in the air, and a misstep would send him hurtling to his doom.
He should never have allowed himself to accept Daisy’s challenge, should never have stayed and played that bloody game for hours.
It was just that Daisy had been so adorable, and while they played her attention had been focused entirely on him, and that had been too much temptation to withstand. She was the most provoking, beguiling woman he had ever met. Thunderstorms and rainbows wrapped together in a convenient pocket-sized parcel.
Bloody hell, how he wanted to bed her. Matthew was amazed Llandrindon or any other man there had been able to function rationally in her presence.
It was time to take control of the situation. He was going to do whatever was necessary to shove her together with Llandrindon. Compared to the other bachelors present, the Scottish lord was the pick of the lot. Llandrindon and Daisy would have a calm, well-ordered life, and although Llandrindon might stray occasionally, as most men of leisure did, Daisy would be too busy with her family and her books to notice. Or if she did, she would learn to turn a blind eye to his indiscretions and take refuge in her daydreams.
And Llandrindon would never appreciate the unimaginable gift of having Daisy in his life.
Moodily Matthew went downstairs and joined the elegant throng that had gathered in anticipation of the dining hall procession. The women were dressed in colorful gowns that had been embroidered and beaded and trimmed with lace. The men were clad in sober black and brilliant white, the plainness of their attire meant to serve as a suitable backdrop for the display of the women.
“Swift,” came Thomas Bowman’s hearty welcome. “Come here—I want you to quote the latest production estimates to these fellows.” In Bowman’s view there was never an inappropriate time to discuss business. Obediently Matthew joined the group of a half-dozen men who stood in the corner, and recited the numbers his employer wanted.
One of Matthew’s more convenient skills was the ability to store long lists of figures in his head. He loved numbers, their patterns and secrets, the way something complex could be reduced to something simple. In mathematics, unlike life, there was always a solution, a definite answer.
But as Matthew was speaking he caught sight of Daisy and her friends standing with Lillian, and half his brain promptly shut down.
Daisy was wearing a butter-yellow gown that wrapped tightly around her slender waist and pushed the small, pretty shapes of her br**sts upward into a low-cut bodice of gleaming, ruched satin. Yellow satin ribbons had been braided into artful ropes that held the bodice in place. Her black hair had been pulled to the top of her head with a few spiraling curls falling to her neck and shoulders. She looked delicate and perfect, like one of the artful sugared garnishes on the dessert tray that one was never supposed to eat.
Matthew wanted to tug her bodice down until her arms were confined by those satin ropes. He wanted to drag his mouth across her tender pale skin, finding the tips of her br**sts, making her writhe—
“But do you really think,” came Mr. Mardling’s voice, “there is any room for the market to expand? After all, we are discussing the lower classes. No matter what their nationality, it is a known fact that they do not prefer to bathe often.”
Matthew dragged his attention to the tall, well-groomed gentleman, whose blond hair shone brightly beneath the light of the chandeliers. Before he replied, he reminded himself that there was probably no malice intended behind the question. Those of the privileged classes often had genuine misconceptions about the poor, if they bothered to consider them at all.
“Actually,” Matthew said mildly, “the available figures indicate that as soon as soap is mass-produced at an affordable price, the market will increase approximately ten percent a year. People of all classes want to be clean, Mr. Mardling. The problem is that good quality soap has always been a luxury item and therefore difficult to obtain.”
“Mass production,” Mardling mulled aloud, his lean face furrowed with thought. “There is something objectionable about the phrase…it seems to be a way of enabling the lower classes to imitate their betters.”
Matthew glanced at the circle of men, noting that the top of Bowman’s head was turning red—never a good sign—and that Westcliff was holding his silence, his black eyes unreadable.
“That’s exactly what it is, Mr. Mardling,” Matthew said gravely. “Mass production of items such as clothing and soap will give the poor a chance to live with the same standards of health and dignity as the rest of us.”
“But how will one sort out who is who?” Mardling protested.
Matthew shot him a questioning glance. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
Llandrindon joined in the discussion. “I believe what Mardling is asking,” he said, “is how one will be able to tell the difference between a shopgirl and a well-to-do woman if they are both clean and similarly dressed. And if a gentleman is not able to tell what they are by their appearance, how is he to know how to treat them?”
Stunned by the snobbery of the question, Matthew considered his reply carefully. “I’ve always thought all women should be treated with respect no matter what their station.”
