His gaze slid over her in open evaluation, and there was a strange gleam in his eyes that drew a shiver from the marrow of her bones. He was staring at her, she thought, like a tiger in wait. She stared back at him, trying desperately to discern the clever workings of his mind, managing to decipher shadows of amusement and bewildering hunger. But hunger for what? Not for her, certainly.

“No,” he said softly, as if to himself.

Daisy shook her head in bewilderment. Her lips were dry, and she had to dampen them with the tip of her tongue before she could speak. It unnerved her that his gaze followed the tiny movement. “Was that a ‘no’ as in…‘No, I won’t marry you?’” she asked.

“That was a ‘no,’” he replied, “as in…‘No, I won’t promise not to.’”

And with that, Swift passed by her and continued toward the manor, leaving her to stumble after him.

“He’s trying to torture you,” Lillian said in disgust as Daisy related the entire story later in the day. They sat in the private upstairs parlor of the country manor with their two closest friends, Annabelle Hunt and Evie, Lady St. Vincent. They had all met two years earlier, a quartet of wallflowers who for various reasons had not been able to bring any eligible gentlemen up to scratch.

It was a popular belief in Victorian society that women, with their mercurial natures and lesser brains, could not have the same quality of friendship that men did. Only men could be loyal to each other, and only men could have truly honest and high-minded relationships.

Daisy thought that was rubbish. She and the other wallflowers…well, former wallflowers…shared a bond of deep, caring trust. They helped each other, encouraged each other with no hint of competition or jealousy. Daisy loved Annabelle and Evie nearly as much as she did Lillian. She could easily envision them all in their later years, prattling about their grandchildren over tea and biscuits, traveling together as a silver-haired horde of tart-tongued old ladies.

“I don’t believe for one second that Mr. Swift knew nothing about it,” Lillian continued. “He’s a liar and he’s in league with Father. Of course he wants to inherit the company.”

Lillian and Evie sat in brocade-upholstered chairs by the windows, while Daisy and Annabelle lounged on the floor amid the colorful heaped masses of their skirts. A plump baby girl with a mass of dark ringlets crawled back and forth between them, occasionally pausing with frowning concentration to tweeze something from the carpet with her miniature fingers.

The infant, Isabelle, had been born to Annabelle and Simon Hunt approximately ten months earlier. Surely no baby had ever been doted on more, by every one in the household including her father.

Contrary to all expectations the virile and masculine Mr. Hunt had not been at all disappointed that his firstborn was a girl. He adored the child, showing no compunction about holding her in public, cooing to her in a way that fathers seldom dared. Hunt had even instructed Annabelle to produce more daughters in the future, claiming roguishly that it had always been his ambition to be loved by many women.

As might have been expected, the baby was exceptionally beautiful—it would be a physical impossibility for Annabelle to produce a less than spectacular offspring.

Picking up Isabelle’s sturdy, wriggling body, Daisy nuzzled into her silky neck before setting her on the carpet again. “You should have heard him,” Daisy said. “The arrogance was incredible. Swift has decided that it is my own fault that I am still unmarried. He said I must have set my standards too high. And he lectured me on the cost of my books and said that someone has to pay for my expensive lifestyle.”

“He didn’t dare,” Lillian exclaimed, her face turning scarlet with sudden rage.

Daisy immediately regretted telling her. The family physician had advised that Lillian must not be upset as she approached the last month of her pregnancy. She had become pregnant the previous year and had miscarried early on. The loss had been difficult for Lillian, not to mention surprising given her hardy constitution.

In spite of the doctor’s assurances that she was not to blame for the miscarriage, Lillian had been melancholy for weeks afterward. But with Westcliff’s steadfast comfort and the loving support of her friends, Lillian had gradually returned to her usual high-spirited self.

Now that Lillian had conceived again she was far less cavalier about the pregnancy, mindful of the possibility of another miscarriage. Unfortunately she was not one of those women who bloomed during confinement. She was splotchy, nauseous, and often ill-tempered, chafing at the restrictions her condition imposed.

“I won’t stand for this,” Lillian exclaimed. “You’re not going to marry Matthew Swift, and I’ll send Father to the devil if he tries to take you away from England!”

Still seated on the floor, Daisy reached up and settled a calming hand on her older sister’s knee. She forced her lips into a reassuring smile as she stared into Lillian’s distraught face.

“Everything will be fine,” she said. “We’ll think of something. We’ll have to.” They had been too close for too many years. In the absence of their parents’ affection Lillian and Daisy had been each other’s sole source of love and support for as long as they could remember.

Evie, the least talkative of the four friends, spoke with a slight stammer that appeared whenever she was nervous or moved by strong emotion. When they had all met two years earlier, Evie’s stammer had been so severe as to make conversation an exercise in frustration. But since leaving her abusive family and marrying Lord St. Vincent, Evie had gained far greater confidence.