Companionably he handed her a small glass filled with rich, plum-red liquid.
Receiving it with some surprise, Daisy held it up to her nose for a cautious sniff.
"Madeira," she said with a smile. "Thank you. Although celebration is a bit premature since the baby still isn't here."
"This isn't for celebration. It's to help you relax."
"How did you know what my favorite wine was?" she asked.
He shrugged. "A lucky guess."
But somehow she knew it hadn't been luck.

You'll get wet," Daisy protested, glancing at his shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
He began to laugh. "I'm not made of sugar."
"Neither am I."
"Yes you are," he murmured, making her blush. He smiled at the sight of her face peeking out from the folds of her coat, like a little owl in the woods.

Her nerves, sated as they were, stirred beneath the caress of his fingertips. “Matthew…what will happen next? Will you speak to my father?”
“Not yet. In the interest of preserving at least a semblance of decorum, I’m going to wait until I return from Bristol. By that time most of the guests will have left, and the family will be able to deal with the situation in relative privacy.”
“My father will be overjoyed. But Mother will have conniptions. And Lillian…”
“Will explode.”
Daisy sighed. “My brothers aren’t too fond of you, either.”
“Really,” he said in mock surprise.

Do you like that?” he whispered.
“Yes, I…” She fought to speak between helpless gasps. “I thought…it was going to hurt.”
“Not from this.” A smile touched his mouth. “Later, however, you might have cause for complaint.” A shimmer of sweat gathered on his face as he felt the pulsing of her body around his exploring finger. “I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he said raggedly. “I’ve wanted you for too long.”
“I trust you,” she whispered.
Matthew shook his head, easing his hand away from her. “You have terrible judgment. You’re in bed with the last man in the world you should trust, and you’re about to make the biggest mistake of your life.”
“Is this your idea of seductive banter?”
“I thought I should give you one last warning. Now you’re doomed.”
“Oh, good.” Daisy moved to help him as he stripped off her drawers and stockings.

She felt a pang of excitement as she realized it was not Mr. Hunt but Matthew Swift.
He rose from his chair, and Daisy said bashfully, "No, please, I'm sorry to have interrupted..."
Her voice trailed away as she noticed there was something different about him. He was wearing a pair of thin, steel-framed spectacles.
Spectacles, on that strong-featured face... and his hair mussed as if he had been tugging absently on the front locks. All that combined with a plentitude of muscles and masculine virility was astonishingly... erotic.
"When did you start wearing those?" Daisy managed to ask.
"About a year ago." He smiled ruefully and removed the spectacles with one hand. "I need them to read. Too many late nights poring over contracts and reports."
"They... they are very becoming."
"Are they?" Continuing to smile, Swift shook his head, as if it had not occurred to him to wonder about his appearance.

I say," Llandrindon remarked, "your performance at bowls is exceptional, Miss Bowman. I've never seen a beginner do so well. How do you manage to deliver it perfectly every time?"
"Where the willingness is great, the difficulties cannot be," she replied, and saw the line of Swift's cheek tighten with a sudden grin as he recognized the Machiavelli quote.