The Rogue and His Flower (Princetown Heirs #2)

Chapter 7

DAISY

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I trust that you’ve settled in, Daisy?” Carl asks me from the head of the table, his steely gaze resting on mine as he clicks his fingers at one of his staff, presumably to clear away his plate.

He’s such an arsehole.

We’ve just finished eating food fine enough to be served in any Michelin star restaurant, and whilst it was delicious, I would’ve much rather spent the time gouging my own eyes out than be in the company of a man who clearly has zero respect for his staff, even less for me. Pretty sure he was oblivious to my presence for the duration given he barely looked at me, let alone tried to converse until now.

“I have. Thank you,” I add, smiling up at the maid who takes my plate, because even if he can’t be courteous, I can.

“Excellent,” he replies, his eyes dropping to my bright green sweater with the words: Be a unicorn in a field full of horses, printed across the front. “You might want to reconsider your choice of outfit next time we sit down to eat dinner together.”

“What’s wrong with my outfit?” I ask, my overly sweet tone tinged with warning.

“It’s… tasteless,” he says with a sneer.

“Father, that’s enough!” Dalton snaps, but I shake my head at him.

I can fight my own battles, thank you very much. Besides, it was only a few days ago that he was commenting negatively about my clothes too. Like father, like son, I guess.

“It’s comfortable, and I happen to like this sweater. Besides, why be boring when you can stand out in the crowd?” I question, eyeing his black shirt and dark grey, tailored trousers. He might not like my taste in clothes, but he’s going to have to suck it up, because I’m not changing who I am to suit him.

“Our image is important,” Carl counters, taking a sip of his expensive wine. “We wouldn’t want people to get the wrong impression of us now, would we?”

His condescending tone grates on me, but I refuse to let him see it. “And what impression might that be?” I ask pointedly.

“People judge you on how you present yourself, and if they’re judging you, they’re judging us,” he replies, as he leans forward, his gaze locking on to mine.

I take a deep breath, before responding as calmly as I can muster in the moment. “And what does my outfit say about me? That I’m an individual and unafraid to stand out? If that’s the case, then I’m good with that.”

Carl’s nostril’s flare. “You need to understand the importance of image to this family. This,” he says, waving his hand in my general direction, “Is not becoming of the future wife of one of the most eligible bachelors in the United Kingdom.”

“Perhaps you should’ve thought about that before you offered me the position,” I snap back, not giving two shits that there is still a member of staff in the room. Her eyes widen, and Carl notices.

“Out!” he demands before turning back to face me, a storm brewing in his eyes. Opposite, Dalton shifts uncomfortably, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “Out of respect for your father, I will give you some grace, but do not push me, Daisy,” Carl continues. “I will not tolerate you mentioning this arrangement again in front of our staff. Fortunately for you they’ve all signed an NDA. Regardless, you will keep yourself in check.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, to prevent myself from telling Carl to go fuck himself, and nod my head in agreement, realising that I could jeopardise Drix’s happiness if this arrangement were to somehow get out. That doesn’t mean I have to accept his shitty behaviour though.

“Good. This Saturday evening is your engagement party. It’s a black tie event with a black and white theme. I expect you to be dressed accordingly given we have over two hundred guests attending.”

“Of course it is. It’s as though you’re allergic to colour,” I mutter.

“It’s classic, sophisticated and perfectly fitting.”

“Yes, if you’re attending a funeral,” I can’t help but say. “Though I suppose it’s apt. Being tied to this family is the death of my happiness after all.”

“I suggest you curb your attitude, young lady, or we may have a problem,” Carl adds.

“I think you’ve made your point,” Dalton interrupts, his voice low and controlled.

Standing up from my seat, I meet Carl’s challenging stare head-on. “I am not some doll you can dress up to fit your idea of perfection,” I declare, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. “And I certainly won’t be moulded into your narrow-minded image of what a perfect wife should be.”

Carl’s jaw tightens, his face turning a dangerous shade of red as he rises from his chair, towering over me. “You forget your place,” he seethes, his voice a low growl. But I stand my ground, refusing to cower.

“I know exactly where I stand,” I retort, my tone unwavering. “And it’s certainly not beneath you or anyone else who seeks to control me.”

With that I stride from the room, letting the door slam shut behind me. As I drag in a steadying breath, I hear raised voices from inside the dining room.

“You had better get her in line, Dalton! I will not have her embarrass us,” Carl shouts.

“Daisy is a free spirit, always has been. I can no more control her, than I can the fucking weather,” Dalton responds angrily.

“You’re a Gunn, you will get her in line.”

I don’t bother to listen to anymore, instead I stride off down the corridor, fuming.

“Daisy, wait!” Dalton calls, his footsteps echoing down the hall as he chases after me a moment later.

“He’s a complete jerk!” I seethe as Dalton catches up, his fingers wrapping around my elbow.

“I agree, he was out of line,” Dalton says, cupping my other elbow as I turn to face him.

“I will not change who I am to suit him. I’m giving up enough of my happiness already!”

Dalton nods. “I will speak with him tomorrow once he’s had a chance to calm down.”

“You really think he’s going to listen to you?” I scoff, shaking my head.

“If he wants to ensure that he has access to his grandchild when he or she is born then he’s going to need to respect you, quirky clothes and all,” he replies, dropping his gaze to my sweater. If I didn’t know any better I swear there was humour in his gaze, acceptance even.

“I’m surprised you didn’t agree with him. I know you don’t like what I wear.”

“I never said that,” he replies, his hands dropping from my elbows as he tugs at the hem of my sweater.

I lift my brows. “What did you say to me the other night? Wasn’t it, I prefer sophistication over a circus?”

“I did, and it was wrong. I apologise,” he says, meeting my gaze.

I nod, accepting his apology even if I don’t entirely believe he means it. “I’m sorry for saying that you looked like you stepped through a storm cloud. Even if it was true.”

Dalton’s lips quirk up into a smile. “And there’s me thinking I was looking suave.”

“A bit of colour wouldn’t go amiss,” I offer.

“What would you suggest?” he asks.

I hitch a brow. “You really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t. Go on, enlighten me.”

I look up at him, chewing on my lip as I consider his question. “You have nice eyes, so something to bring out the shade. A royal blue, perhaps?”

“You think I have nice eyes?”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Dalton. It’s just an observation.”

His chuckle fills the hallway, a sound that warms me towards him more than I’d care to admit.

“So, royal blue it is then. Any other colour suggestions?”

“I think that’ll do for now. Got to ease you in slowly before I start suggesting cerise pink or coral.”

“Not in a million years. I’ll leave those colours to you,” he replies, a horrified look on his face that soon fades as we stand in awkward silence, having run out of things to say. “So what now?”

“I’m pretty beat after all the excitement,” I reply. “I just want to watch some trash TV and switch off for a while.”.

“Can I join you?”

“You want to watch trash TV?” I ask, aghast. “Aren’t you more interested in counting your piles of money or watching porn?”

“Porn could be classed as trash TV, I suppose,” he muses. “Though that really depends on the calibre of porn you’re watching. Sounds like you haven’t been watching the right kind.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I’ll leave that to you, thanks.”

“So you’re a prude?”

“I am not,” I protest. “I just happen to prefer my imagination, if that’s all the same to you.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” he smirks. “We have a cinema room in the basement that’s quite comfortable.”

“A cinema room? Of course you do,” I reply, blowing out a breath.

“And with high definition, and surround sound, it makes watching porn all the more… intimate,” he adds with a smirk.

“I bet you just love that, Mr I-Can’t-Keep-It-In-My-Pants,” I retort.

Another laugh bubbles up his throat as I pull a face. It’s not as if I haven’t watched porn before despite what I just said, but I don’t ever intend on watching any with Dalton Gunn, thanks very much. Can’t have him getting any ideas. Not that he’ll need any. I’m pretty sure Dalton is the type of man to film a sex tape. He’s probably got a whole raft of them to keep him occupied for the entirety of our marriage.

“So… Trash TV instead then?”

“Fine,” I huff, glad at least for the change of subject. “Lead the way, but be warned, my taste in TV shows is questionable at best.”

“Drix has told me as much,” Dalton replies, his hand briefly pressing against my lower back as he guides me along the hallway. “Pretty sure he said you binged watched an entire series of Bikers with Tats in one afternoon.”

“What can I say, I’m partial to a biker with tattoos,” I retort with a shrug.

“Then aren’t you lucky you’re engaged to one,” he replies, smirking as my cheeks flush a deep pink.

“You’re not that type of biker,” I counter.

“I ride motorbikes. I have tattoos,” he points out, opening a door to his left that leads to a stairwell into the basement. “I think that qualifies.”

“You also live in an obnoxious mansion big enough to house the entire town, drink Veuve Clicquot like it’s water, and own most of the businesses in Princetown.”

“Minor details.”

Five minutes later we’re seated next to each other on the plush leather recliners sipping sparkling water and watching a reality TV show about aspiring designers battling it out in a high-pressure fashion house. When the first episode comes to an end, Dalton reaches for the remote control and pauses the screen.

“So when did your interest in fashion start?” he asks, shifting in his seat to face me.

“You really want to know?”

“We’re supposed to be communicating, right? I’m communicating.”

“I guess.”

“So…” he prompts, folding his arms across his chest as he waits.

“I fell in love with fashion when Hubert took me to a children’s clothing store the first week me and Drix moved in with him. Neither of us had much when we arrived, apart from the hand-me-down clothes we were provided with by our foster parents.”

He winces at that, and his reaction makes my stomach coil with anxiety. I’m not ashamed of the fact I was adopted or the fact I was poor, it just serves to remind me how different we truly are.

“Go on,” he encourages.

“I remember walking into the store and being so overwhelmed by all the colourful outfits,” I explain, smiling softly at the memory. “We were there for hours.”

“I can imagine Drix enjoying that,” Dalton says with a smirk.

“He hated every minute, but me, I was in heaven.”

“So that started your obsession with fashion?”

“With colour, actually. It wasn’t so much the clothes, although they were lovely. It was the vibrancy, the patterns, the way bright colours made me feel when I was wearing them.”

“And how did they make you feel?” he asks, looking at me curiously.

“Happy,” I respond honestly. “Colour makes me happy.”

“Why?” Dalton asks.

I chew on my lip, dropping my gaze as I debate whether to tell him the truth. “It’s not really important,” I lie, knowing that I’m not ready to go there, that I may never be. Dalton might be trying to make an effort here, but I don’t trust him enough with my truth. I don’t think that I ever will.

“It’s important to me to know what makes you happy,” he counters.

“Why?”

He regards me for a moment, a frown pulling together his brows. “Because if I know what makes you happy I can earn some brownie points when I get you the perfect gift for your birthday coming up in a few months,” he eventually responds. “Got to make sure my future wife has everything she needs.”

“Right,” I reply, unable to hide my disappointment as I flick my gaze away and stare at the screen in front of us, feeling let down by his response.

Dalton seems to think that he can buy my happiness, that material possessions will somehow make up for the emotional distance between us. What he doesn’t understand is that what I truly crave is a deep bond that goes beyond expensive gifts and extravagant gestures. I would happily choose a modest life with someone I love over a lavish one full of gifts but lacking any real love and connection.

Silence expands between us, and I can feel the heat of his stare as he looks at me. “Daisy, what did I say?” he asks, reaching for me, his fingertips brushing against my arm.

“Exactly what I expected. I’m going to bed. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Dalton,” I retort, pushing upright and striding towards the door.

He rises to his feet, following me. “Daisy, talk to me,” he persists, gripping my arm.

I shake off his touch, feeling a surge of frustration and hurt bubbling within me as I turn to face him. “There’s nothing to talk about,” I reply, my voice sharp and final.

His eyes widen in surprise, clearly taken aback by my sudden change in demeanour, but despite everything I said earlier in the car, I can’t bring myself to explain why I’m reacting the way I am. How can I tell him that I love colour because I was kept locked up in a dark room for the first five years of my life? That my birth parents treated me so badly that I can’t sleep without a light on, that his comment earlier about sleeping on a dirty mattress was dangerously close to a truth that haunts me still, or that his father’s reaction to my choice of clothing shook the foundations of the carefully constructed walls I’ve built to protect myself.

“You wanted us to be open and honest, and yet here you are doing the exact opposite,” he protests. “I’m trying here.”

“Are you though?” I ask, still feeling as though this is all just his way of paying lip service to my request to communicate. I’m not confident that he really means it, that he would actually care enough to listen and process my story, to empathise even.

“I wouldn’t be sitting here watching shitty reality TV shows if I wasn’t!” he snaps back.

“I didn’t ask you to join me,” I reply, just as heatedly.

“You said you wanted us to find some common ground,” he reminds me. “Or has that conveniently slipped your memory too?”

I heave out a sigh, feeling suddenly heavy with sadness. “Look, I don’t want to fight. I just want to go to bed.”

“You don’t want to fight?” he replies with a scoff. “I’m pretty sure that arguing with me is at the top of the list of things you like to do to piss me off.”

“This isn’t about pissing you off,” I whisper.

“Then what the hell is it? One minute we’re having a conversation, then the next you’re storming off like a goddamn child!”

“I just…”

“What, Daisy?” he prompts, scowling at me.

“I just really need to sleep. It’s been a long day.”

He stares at me, frustration evident in his eyes as he processes my words. After a tense moment, he lets out a breath, running a hand through his hair in exasperation.

“Fine,” he mutters, his tone filled with a mixture of anger and resignation.

Too tired to engage further, I turn on my heel and make my way back towards my bedroom. When I enter, the bed sheets have been turned down, and the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminates the room as I remove my clothes and slip under the covers.

Despite my exhaustion, sleep eludes me and I toss and turn, my mind replaying the tense exchange with Dalton. Minutes stretch into hours before I hear the creak of the bedroom door opening. Pressing my eyes shut, I feign sleep, instantly aware of Dalton’s presence, his familiar cologne giving him away. Keeping my breathing even, I remain still with my eyes pressed shut, hoping that’s enough to convince him that I’m deep asleep.

“I promised Drix I’d take care of you, and I’m already fucking it up,” he whispers, his tone laced with remorse as he sits down on the edge of the bed.

The vulnerability in his voice tugs at something deep within me, stirring up a conflict of emotions. I almost open my eyes, but when he leans over and brushes a strand of hair off my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek, I keep them shut.

“Sleep well, Daisy,” he says, and a moment later he’s gone.