Read Online Scandal in Spring by Lisa Kleypas - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lisa Kleypas
Tags: Fiction, General, Americans, Romance, Historical, Love Stories, Regency Fiction, Marriage, Socialites, Americans - England - London
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Were it not for her sympathy for the ill-used goose, Daisy would have laughed.
It was ingenious. As the goose was tossed out into the water and had to swim its way back, the tin spoon would flash like a minnow. If a trout was attracted by the lure it would be caught on the hook, and the goose would tow it in. But the hook had caught on some bramble, effectively imprisoning the goose.
Daisy kept her voice soft and her movements slow as she crept toward the bramble. The bird froze and peered at her with one bright black eye.
"There's a nice fellow," Daisy soothed, carefully reaching for the line. "My goodness, you're large. If you'll just be patient a moment longer, I'll— ouch!" Suddenly the goose had rushed forward and struck her forearm with a hammer-blow of its beak.
Scampering back, Daisy glanced down at the little dent on her skin, which was beginning to bruise. She scowled at the belligerent goose. "You ungrateful creature! Just for that I ought to leave you here like this."
Rubbing the sore spot on her arm, Daisy wondered if she might be able to use her fishing rod to unhook the line from the bramble…but that still didn't solve the problem of removing the spoon from the goose's leg. She would have to walk back to the manor and find someone to help.
As she bent to pick up her fishing gear, she heard an unexpected noise. Someone whistling an oddly familiar tune. Daisy listened intently, remembering the melody. It was a song that had been popular in New York just before she had left, called "The End Of A Perfect Day."
Someone was walking toward her from the direction of the river. A man dressed in sodden clothes, carrying a fishing creel and wearing an ancient low-brimmed hat. He was wearing a sportsman's tweed coat and rough trousers, and it was impossible not to notice the way the layers of his clothing clung wetly to the lean contours of his body. Her senses leaped with recognition, galvanizing her pulse to a new pace.
The man stopped in mid-whistle as he saw her. His eyes were bluer than the water or the sky, startling in his tanned face. As he removed his hat in deference, the sun brought out rich mahogany glints in the heavy dark locks of his hair.
"Blast," Daisy said to herself. Not just because he was the last person she wanted to see at the moment, but also because she had to admit that Matthew Swift was extraordinarily good-looking. She didn't want to find him so physically appealing. Nor did she want to feel such curiosity about him, the desire to steal inside his privacy and discover his secrets and pleasures and fears. Why had she never taken an interest in him before? Perhaps she had been too immature. Perhaps it wasn't he who had changed, but she.
Swift approached her cautiously. "Miss Bowman."
"Good morning, Mr. Swift. Why aren't you fishing with the others?"
"My creel is full. And I was outfishing them to the extent that it was going to embarrass them all if I continued."
"How modest you are," Daisy said wryly. "Where's your rod?"
"Westcliff took it."
"Why?"
Setting down his creel, Swift replaced his hat. "I brought it with me from America. It's a jointed hickory rod with a flexible ash tip and a Kentucky multiplying reel with a balanced crank handle."
"Multiplying reels don't work," Daisy said.
"British multipliers don't," Swift corrected. "But in the states we've made a few improvements. As soon as Westcliff realized I was able to cast directly from the spool, he practically ripped the thing from my hands. He's fishing with it as we speak."
Knowing her brother-in-law's love of technological devices, Daisy smiled ruefully. She felt Swift's gaze on her, and she didn't want to look back at him, but she found herself staring anyway.
It was jarring to reconcile her memories of the odious young man she had known with this robust specimen of manhood. He was like a new-minted copper penny, bright and shiny and perfect. The morning light slid over his skin and caught in the glittering length
It was ingenious. As the goose was tossed out into the water and had to swim its way back, the tin spoon would flash like a minnow. If a trout was attracted by the lure it would be caught on the hook, and the goose would tow it in. But the hook had caught on some bramble, effectively imprisoning the goose.
Daisy kept her voice soft and her movements slow as she crept toward the bramble. The bird froze and peered at her with one bright black eye.
"There's a nice fellow," Daisy soothed, carefully reaching for the line. "My goodness, you're large. If you'll just be patient a moment longer, I'll— ouch!" Suddenly the goose had rushed forward and struck her forearm with a hammer-blow of its beak.
Scampering back, Daisy glanced down at the little dent on her skin, which was beginning to bruise. She scowled at the belligerent goose. "You ungrateful creature! Just for that I ought to leave you here like this."
Rubbing the sore spot on her arm, Daisy wondered if she might be able to use her fishing rod to unhook the line from the bramble…but that still didn't solve the problem of removing the spoon from the goose's leg. She would have to walk back to the manor and find someone to help.
As she bent to pick up her fishing gear, she heard an unexpected noise. Someone whistling an oddly familiar tune. Daisy listened intently, remembering the melody. It was a song that had been popular in New York just before she had left, called "The End Of A Perfect Day."
Someone was walking toward her from the direction of the river. A man dressed in sodden clothes, carrying a fishing creel and wearing an ancient low-brimmed hat. He was wearing a sportsman's tweed coat and rough trousers, and it was impossible not to notice the way the layers of his clothing clung wetly to the lean contours of his body. Her senses leaped with recognition, galvanizing her pulse to a new pace.
The man stopped in mid-whistle as he saw her. His eyes were bluer than the water or the sky, startling in his tanned face. As he removed his hat in deference, the sun brought out rich mahogany glints in the heavy dark locks of his hair.
"Blast," Daisy said to herself. Not just because he was the last person she wanted to see at the moment, but also because she had to admit that Matthew Swift was extraordinarily good-looking. She didn't want to find him so physically appealing. Nor did she want to feel such curiosity about him, the desire to steal inside his privacy and discover his secrets and pleasures and fears. Why had she never taken an interest in him before? Perhaps she had been too immature. Perhaps it wasn't he who had changed, but she.
Swift approached her cautiously. "Miss Bowman."
"Good morning, Mr. Swift. Why aren't you fishing with the others?"
"My creel is full. And I was outfishing them to the extent that it was going to embarrass them all if I continued."
"How modest you are," Daisy said wryly. "Where's your rod?"
"Westcliff took it."
"Why?"
Setting down his creel, Swift replaced his hat. "I brought it with me from America. It's a jointed hickory rod with a flexible ash tip and a Kentucky multiplying reel with a balanced crank handle."
"Multiplying reels don't work," Daisy said.
"British multipliers don't," Swift corrected. "But in the states we've made a few improvements. As soon as Westcliff realized I was able to cast directly from the spool, he practically ripped the thing from my hands. He's fishing with it as we speak."
Knowing her brother-in-law's love of technological devices, Daisy smiled ruefully. She felt Swift's gaze on her, and she didn't want to look back at him, but she found herself staring anyway.
It was jarring to reconcile her memories of the odious young man she had known with this robust specimen of manhood. He was like a new-minted copper penny, bright and shiny and perfect. The morning light slid over his skin and caught in the glittering length
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