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maturity. He wondered if that appealed to Daisy, and immediately cursed himself for caring.
    But the way she had looked at him today…as if she were seeing him, really noticing him, for the first time…
    She had never given him such a glance on any of the occasions he had visited her family's Fifth Avenue house. His mind ventured back to the first time he had met Daisy, at a private supper with just the family attending.
    The grandly appointed dining-room had glittered in the effusively scattered light from a crystal chandelier, the walls covered in thick gilded paper and gold-painted molding. One entire wall was lined with a succession of four massive looking glasses, larger than any others he'd ever seen.
    Two of the sons had been present, both of them sturdy young men who were easily twice Matthew's weight. Mercedes and Thomas had been seated at opposite ends of the table. The two daughters, Lillian and Daisy, had sat on one side, surreptitiously nudging their plates and chairs closer together.
    Thomas Bowman had a contentious relationship with both his daughters, alternately ignoring them and subjecting them to harsh criticisms. The older daughter Lillian responded to Bowman with surly impudence.
    But Daisy, the fifteen year-old, regarded her father in a speculative, rather cheerful way that seemed to annoy him beyond his ability to bear. She had made Matthew want to smile. With her luminous skin, her exotic cinnamon-colored eyes and quicksilver expressions, Daisy Bowman seemed to have come from an enchanted forest populated with mythical creatures.
    It had immediately become apparent to Matthew that any conversation Daisy took part in was apt to veer into unexpected and charming directions. He had been secretly amused when Thomas Bowman had chastised Daisy in front of everyone for her latest mischief. It seemed that the Bowman household had lately become overrun with mice because all the traps they set had failed.
    One of the servants had reported that Daisy had been sneaking around the house at night, deliberately tripping all the traps to keep the mice from being killed.
    "Is this true, daughter?" Thomas Bowman had rumbled, his gaze filled with ire as he stared at Daisy.
    "It could be," she had allowed. "But there is another explanation."
    "And what is that?" Bowman had asked sourly.
    Her tone turned congratulatory. "I think we are hosting the most intelligent mice in New York!"
    From that moment on Matthew had never refused an invitation to the Bowman mansion, not just because it pleased the old man but because it gave him the chance to see Daisy. He had collected as many stolen glances as possible, knowing it was all he would ever have of her. And the moments he had spent in her company, regardless of her cool politeness, had been the only times in his life he had come close to happiness.
    Hiding his troubled thoughts, Matthew wandered farther into the manor. He had never been abroad before but this was exactly what he had imagined England would look like, the manicured gardens and the green hills beyond, and the rustic village at the feet of the grand estate.
    The house and its furniture were ancient and comfortably worn at the edges, but it seemed that in every corner there was some priceless vase or statue or painting he had seen featured in art history books. Perhaps a bit drafty in the winter, but with the plenitude of hearths and thick carpets and velvet curtains, one could hardly say that living here would be suffering.
    When Thomas Bowman, or rather his secretary, had written with the news that Matthew would be required to oversee the establishment of a division of the soap company in England, Matthew's initial impulse had been to refuse. He would have relished the challenge and the responsibility. But being in the proximity of Daisy Bowman— even in the same country— would have been too much for Matthew to withstand. Her presence pierced him like arrows, promising a future of endless unsatisfied