Her Every Wish (2 page)

But none of her wishes ever came true. It wasn't fair, but it was her life, and she was used to it.

“So.” She swallowed. “These are the figures.” She'd spent so long gathering them; now she felt herself deflating like a child's broken toy. She stumbled through the end of her speech.

Nobody applauded her.

“Well,” the grocer said. “The men have presented their ideas. The woman has…tried. Now the judges will confer. They will each pick one candidate to advance to the final proceedings.”

Daisy was left standing stupidly on the stage.

The grocer looked at her. “Go join your fellow…ah, candidates.”

Daisy stumbled to the seats at the back of the stage.

None of the other men looked at her, none but Mr. Flisk, who turned around and whispered to her. “You took a spot from a man who might have needed it. A man with a family to support. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Oh, she was. What did you call someone who refused to learn? Who kept reaching above herself?

The judges stood one by one, coming to the front. “I choose Mr. Flisk,” said the first judge. “Hargo,” said another. They named Manning and Porget next.

They were the ones Daisy would have picked out of the proposals she had seen. She supposed that Mr. Diggle would be the last one chosen. Stupid or no, his proposal had been the most sound out of everyone remaining.

The fifth judge came to the front. He didn't look at any of the candidates. He just looked out over the audience. He wouldn't choose her. Daisy knew it, the way she knew that snow was cold and winter turnips were bitter. She knew it in her chilled, numbing hands and her growling belly.

She'd reached. They'd slapped her down. It had happened to her often enough that she was almost used to it by now. One day, she'd learn to stop wasting effort chasing foolish dreams. One day. Just…not yet.

The final judge faced the crowd and said one word. “Whitlaw.”

Daisy jumped. A well of hope started up inside her. There was a moment of utter silence from the crowd. Maybe the strain had finally driven her mad.

Maybe he hadn't said it. It couldn't be true.

But Mr. Flisk turned to look at her with venomous eyes. The crowd murmured more loudly.

“Well,” the grocer managed after a meaningful pause. “We'll see you all next Saturday. And it looks like we have our entertainment in order. After all, we've just lined up the jester.” He gave Daisy an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows and let out a great, braying laugh, one that explained precisely why she'd been chosen.

D
aisy tried to sneak away
.

It should have been easy; nobody would look at her, let alone talk to her. Yet somehow, the crowd seemed to have more elbows on the way out. People stepped in her way as if she were not present. Feet stamped on her own. And no apologies were made.

After she had the wind knocked out of her a third time by an “accidental” blow that nobody else seemed to notice, she gave up on fighting her way out of the square with the crowd. She simply waited, stamping her feet to keep them from freezing, until everyone had left.

Almost everyone. A small knot of women remained on the street corner, clustered in the growing darkness under an unlit lamp.

She didn't want to go past them. She knew who was at the center of that knot, knew it before she could see him. Before she heard his voice.

“I was wondering,” one of the women was saying. “I have always so wanted to ask you…”

“Yes?” Daisy recognized Crash's voice, even though she couldn't see him through the crowd around him. It felt like a shock to hear him even after all these months apart.

A flush of heat—shame and excitement all mixed together—filled her. Speak of wishes gone awry.

“By all means,” Crash said, “ask me anything you like.”

The woman giggled, and Daisy felt a kind of sorry kinship for her fellow sufferer. She did her best to slink past the little gathering. That poor woman might have been a flirt, but Crash was an incorrigible charmer. He flirted with anyone and everyone who gave him the opportunity, men and women alike. Everyone had to learn not to play with fire in her own way, and Crash had been as good a place for Daisy to learn that lesson as any.

Enjoy the ride,
Daisy wished the girl as she slipped past.
I hope your heart can withstand what comes after.

“It's this,” the woman said, wide-eyed. “What
are
you?”

Ah. Daisy felt a little less sorry for her.
That
had to be the worst way to flirt with Crash.

She caught a glimpse of him through the ring of women.

Crash took off his rounded hat and smoothed back black, lightly curled hair. Daisy had spent long enough staring at him to know that he looked like nobody she'd ever seen. In those heady months when she'd thought of nobody else, she'd spent a great deal of time looking at him, and then at the rest of the world. Sailors, woodcuts of foreign delegations—it hadn't mattered. She'd searched for his features everywhere and found them only in him.

Those wide, dark eyes angled ever so slightly. His light brown skin never paled in winter. His hair never straightened. His cheeks took days to turn to patchwork stubble, which she knew only because he rarely bothered to shave.

“What am I? What sort of question is that?” She could imagine his smile—just a little tilted. “I should think that was clear enough.”

Daisy ducked her head, proceeding down the steps. She couldn't help but glance at him as she slipped past.

“I am not a pineapple.” He made a show of looking down his body, checking himself. Of course he drew attention to his own figure in the process. Crash was slim, lithe, and muscled. He had long fingers, slightly callused, square at the tip. Once, he'd held her…

She gave her head a shake and pointedly turned her face away.

But Crash was hard to ignore. “I am not an elephant, nor a mouse, nor an oak tree. I seem to land firmly in the human category.”

“Yes, but…” The other woman's voice was trailing off behind Daisy. “What
sort
of human are you?”

“That much is apparent at one glance,” Crash said. “I'm one hundred percent pure perfection. Now, if you'll excuse me?”

Daisy wouldn't look back. She wouldn't let him know she was paying attention.

“But—”

“Business calls,” Crash said.

“But couldn't we—”

“I'm afraid not,” she heard Crash saying.

“I haven't even said—”

She could just imagine the cocky smile Crash must be giving the woman. “It wouldn't have mattered,” she heard him say. “Now run along.”

Daisy could almost hear the sound of a heart breaking. She knew that sound all too well; she'd heard it in her own chest. She couldn't even really blame Crash for it; he'd done nothing but tell her the truth. It was her own fault that she'd wanted lies.

She didn't look behind her, but she could hear him following. “Excuse me,” he said. “Pardon me.”

There followed a set of gasps and a burst of applause. No doubt he'd done something ridiculous—something foolishly Crash-like, like doing a backflip off the steps to escape his hangers-on.

She'd spent enough time watching him to know what he could do. She wasn't going to look. She wasn't.

“Daisy,” Crash called behind her.

The word sounded like a warning. Once he'd said her name very differently, almost reverently. As if she were not some kind of joke. But she couldn't allow herself to dwell on that
once.
It wouldn't help.

The snow underfoot had changed from delicate white lace to the disgusting, dingy slush of well-trodden streets. Icy water seeped through the seams of her shoes. A cold wind tugged at her, and she cinched her scarf around her neck. She didn't look back. She wasn't foolish.

“Ahoy, Daisy.”

She wouldn't turn. That little skirling breeze coming up behind her would make her eyes water, and she was not, she absolutely was
not,
going to let Crash see her cry. Not even if her tears were merely wind-induced.

But Crash had never been deterred by…well, anything, Daisy suspected. Certainly not anything so mild as someone purposefully failing to hear him. He came jogging up to her, settling to a walk at her side.

At least he wasn't on that terrible contraption he'd taken to riding about everywhere. What did he call that two-wheeled unbalanced monstrosity? A velocipede?

Ha. An accurate description; it made her think of some monstrous twenty-legged thing, rushing about. One of these days he was going to crack his skull when he fell from the dratted thing, and she…

She wasn't going to care when he killed himself, not one bit.

“Daisy,” he said. “You rushed off far too soon.”

She made the mistake of meeting his eyes. Crash was a man who had mastered the speaking glance.
This
one could have been an epic saga. It was the unshakeable look that a farm lad gave to his sweetheart when she was sentenced to be fed to a dragon.
Don't worry,
it promised.
I'll save you. I've a plan.

It was the kind of look that would have that blushing farm girl spreading her legs for her love in the barn the night before she was condemned to die. She'd give up her virginity, her trust, her love, her future in one trembling hour. When she bid her swain farewell through tears and kisses, she would believe in her soul that he was going to kill the beast. She'd believe he would save her until the dragon crunched her between its teeth.

Even now, even knowing Crash as she did, a flush of heat blossomed along the back of her neck.

Daisy's mind knew all about Crash, even if her body pretended ignorance. She'd already given him everything. She'd had that trembling hour. All these months later, Daisy had no virginity, no trust, no love, and her future was chock-full of dragons.

“Aha,” Crash said, coming to a temporary halt. He snapped his fingers. “Right. Of course. I forgot. I'm to address you as Miss Whitlaw now.”

He gave her a teasing smile, arranged the cloth at his neck into a mockery of a cravat, and shifted his tone. When he spoke, he sounded almost proper—the way Daisy's mother sounded at her most querulous. The way Daisy spoke when she wanted people to take her seriously.

“My dear Miss Whitlaw,” he said in that distinctive, plummy-sounding voice, “I know you've little desire to speak with me at the moment. But I have a business proposition to put before you.”

“You may recall,” Daisy said severely, “that I do not care for your line of business.”

That smile on his face flickered. “My line of business is the business of making people happy.”

Ha. “Yes,” she said. “A great
many
people.”

“A great many people,” he agreed, instead of getting angry at her implication like a normal person would. “I'm here to offer my services.”

“I had your services once,” Daisy snapped. “I don't need them any longer.”

“Services,” Crash said with a slow grin. “Is that what we're calling it, now? It's a good thing you don't need them any
longer
. You couldn't find services any longer—or thicker—or harder than mine.”

Her cheeks flamed in memory of
long
and
thick
and
hard
. “Crash.
Please
don't say things like that.”

He shrugged. “It's simple. I saw what happened back there. They're planning to make a joke of you, you know. All they want is to laugh.”

“I know,” Daisy said through clenched teeth.

“You should give up now.”

“I know.” Her teeth ground against each other.

“But you won't.”

He knew that, too. His knowing things about her had fooled her thoroughly. She'd thought she was special. She had thought he actually cared. She'd been such an idiot.

As these things are reckoned, you are a complete waste of a woman.
That was what she had to remember him saying. Her teeth gritted.

“And since you won't give up,” he said, “then you cannot leave them with one single thing to laugh at. You know that's how it works, yes?”

“I know,” she whispered.

“You will have to be brilliant to win.” He looked at her. “You won't be able to hesitate. You'll have to make them believe that nobody will be able to survive without your…” He frowned. “I couldn't actually hear. Your…emporium, was it?”

She was not about to be inveigled into a conversation with him.

“That means you will have to practice.”

“I know all these things,” Daisy muttered. “It doesn't matter. I'm not going to win.”

“You'll need an audience to test yourself against.” Crash continued on as if she hadn't spoken. “Not your friend the marchioness nor your mother. You need to practice in front of someone you hate. Someone who makes your stomach curdle. Someone who will ask questions while you want to smash his face in. If you can impress
that
man, you can impress anyone.”

She frowned at him. “I'm not going to win.”

“Aren't you?” He took off his hat and gave her a flourishing bow. “I am, as ever, at your service.”

He straightened and set his hat back on his head at an angle that might have been called rakish. No, not rakish. Mere rakery was never good enough for Crash. He adjusted it to something altogether promiscuous.

Daisy eyed him suspiciously. “Stop flirting with me.”

His eyes widened in
Who, me?
innocence.

“I'm not going to win. I have a sweetheart.” She'd told him that before. She had nothing of the kind. But right now, a man—an honest man, a solid man, one with prospects and morals—seemed as good a talisman to hold up as any. She needed to remind herself why she'd cut ties with Crash.

“Of
course
you do,” Crash said in a tone that dripped with treacly, disbelieving sincerity.

He had seen her just now. In public. He'd been the only one to stand up, such as it was, on her behalf. If Daisy had a sweetheart, he was the most delinquent, useless sweetheart in the existence of romantic entanglements. Either that, or…

“He's a sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy,” she invented. “He'll be promoted any day—in fact, I expect he's already been promoted, but you know how the mails are at conducting letters written overseas.” She was saying too much. He would notice she was lying. “Once he's back in port, we'll marry. I'm not going to win. I don't
need
to win. And I certainly don't want your help.”

Crash rolled his eyes. “Come now, Daisy. You should know me better than that. You think I offered to help you because I wanted to interfere with your sweetheart? Nothing could be further from the truth.”

That sounded actually sincere, not overly so. She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “What do you want, Crash? What do you really want?”

“Ooh.” He scratched his chin. “So many things. Ten million pounds, a large house, three carriages—oh. Wait. You mean what do I want from
you?”

She exhaled. “You're being obtuse.”

“One of my greatest talents.” Crash ducked his head as if she'd given him a compliment. As if she'd mentioned the only modest bone in his body. “I'm flattered that you realized. But you were asking me a question. What do I want with you?”

He looked up, and her skin prickled under his attention. It was just her luck that she was susceptible to him. To the dark entreaty of his eyes, the way he adjusted his hat on his head.

“What do I want with you?” He shrugged. “Come, Daisy. You know I take odds.”

Among so many other things. If there was an occupation that skirted the edges of legality, Crash was involved in it. She'd seen him organize a spot of gambling at the slightest provocation. The bestowal of the charity bequest had turned into a pageant for the entire parish. There might as well have been a banner floating over her head:
Place wagers here.

Stupid to feel disappointment that he didn't want anything else from her. “I should have guessed. Of course you're gambling about the competition.”

He reached into his pocket and took out the little book where she'd seen him record his bets. “Think on it, Daisy.” He waved the leather-bound book at her before tucking it away. “After that little catastrophe on stage, do you imagine that
anyone
placed money that you would win? No. Everyone wanted to put odds on Hargo or Flisk. Imagine the purse I'd collect if you prevailed.”