Page 25 of If a Lady Lingers

“I want you to be part of me, my beautiful Daisy.”

This time when he ground the heel of his hand between her legs, his thumb fluttered against her most sensitive spot, and the aching sensation jolted through her, clenching her toes and making her clasp her fingers in his hair. Heavens, it was wonderful! Yet she felt oddly empty…rightthere, right beneath where his fingertips rested against her through her skirt. She couldn’t explain the unsettled feeling, but she knew there was more pleasure he could give her, more of himself to share that would make the emptiness go away and let joy fill her to overflowing. A delightful and exciting yet comforting pleasure that only Whitby was capable of giving to her.

“Hugh,” she whispered and traced her fingertips over his cheek. “I want…”More. So much more…with you…

Misunderstanding what she was about to say, he placed a kiss to her lips. “Don’t worry. I’ll do that again to you, I promise.”

His words struck her speechless.

He lifted his head to gaze down at her. Instead of the bright grin or laugh she’d expected, he looked more serious than she’d ever seen him.

“Daisy…” His lips parted thoughtfully, as if he were about to ask her something incredibly important. Something that—

A commotion went up downstairs. The sound of the front door flinging open echoed through the house, followed by hurried steps into the entry hall. Every sound swept up through the house to the schoolroom, just as Whitby had said it would, followed by the especially loud creaking of the stairs.

He quickly moved away from her, and she scrambled to pull up her bodice and straighten her skirt—blast it, itwaswrinkled! As she breathed deeply to gather herself, Whitby simply stood there, looking completely calm and collected. Not one piece of colorful clothing or lock of his ginger hair was out of place. But the dark look of desire in his gleaming eyes couldn’t be hidden.

She touched her lips, still hot and wet and undoubtedly tell-tale red. All the implications behind his heated stare spun through her in a roiling knot of confusion.

“One of these times when I kiss you,” he warned, his voice thick, “there won’t be anyone to interrupt us.”

A tremble swept through her at the promise behind his words. A promise she shamelessly wanted him to keep.

“Miss Daring!” Mrs. Jones shouted with shrill excitement as she hurried up the stairs, each step reverberating with the noise of a herd of cows. Daisy made a mental note to give the stairs at the new house the same creaks and cracks of warning. “I have news!”

The housekeeper finally reached the upper landing and paused in the doorway to sag against the frame and catch her breath.

“Mrs. Jones—goodness!” Daisy raced to her side and put her arm around her waist to help the woman into the room and into the nearest chair. She knelt beside her, snatched up her dropped book, and began to fan her with it. “What’s wrong? Why are you here?” Dread seized her. “Is it Papa? Did something happen to him?”

The older woman shook her head. “Goodnews…I hope…” She woman beamed as she rested her hand on Daisy’s shoulder and struggled for breath. “I didn’t want you…to have to wait,” she panted out. Then she pulled in a deep breath. “So I took a hackney…but ended up running the last mile…when we were stuck in traffic along the river…”

Guilt squeezed Daisy’s chest at how breathless and exhausted Mrs. Jones was. “Just sit and rest now.”

She shook her head. “You have a special message.”

“From whom?” Whitby frowned as he came up behind her. One of the school workers had followed her up the stairs, and Whitby signaled to the woman to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen.

“His Majesty the king!”

Daisy rocked back on her heels, stunned. “The—the king?”

Nodding emphatically, the old housekeeper reached into the wicker basket she carried over her arm and fished beneath the yard of folded fabric that hid its contents from prying eyes. “It arrived at the house barely an hour ago, brought by special messenger from St James’s Palace. Not just some dandified footman in powdered wig either, but a real palace administrator.”

Good heavens. Daisy bit her bottom lip. What would the palace want with her?

Mrs. Jones pulled a letter from her basket. The envelope was wrapped with gold paper and tied with a red satin ribbon. It shimmered like foil in the sunlight.

Daisy darted a nervous glance over her shoulder at Whitby, who nodded reassuringly. She took it with trembling fingers and carefully removed the satin ribbon, still not convinced that the palace messenger came to the correct house. She removed the gold envelope and unfolded the linen paper.

She caught her breath when her eyes fell to the signatures at the bottom—John Nash and George IV, in large and commanding handwriting. “It’s from the architecture committee,” she whispered. “They’ve written about the contest.”

Whitby placed his hand on her shoulder as she sat back onto the floor. “Then you’ve won. Oh, Daisy, this is marvelous!”

Hot tears filled her eyes as she read the letter. “Not marvelous at all,” she choked out and swallowed hard to keep the tears from spilling freely. She read in a weak and shaking voice, “‘Although we find your plans possessing of merit and ingenuity, we regret to inform you that we cannot accept your entry.’”

“Why on earth not?” He knelt down beside her, just as confused as she was, if for a completely different reason. “Those plans were brilliant.”

She handed him the letter so he could read it for himself and whispered, “Not brilliant enough to overcome being a woman.” She swiped the back of her hand at her eyes. All of her hopes had been dashed, and the excitement that had bubbled inside her at receiving the letter changed into acute embarrassment and disappointment. “They’re not accepting entries from women. Only from serious architects.”