Courting Poppy Tidemore
By
Christi Caldwell
Courting Poppy Tidemore
Copyright © 2019 by Christi Caldwell
Kindle Edition
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Other Titles by Christi Caldwell
Heart of a Duke
In Need of a Duke—Prequel Novella
For Love of the Duke
More than a Duke
The Love of a Rogue
Loved by a Duke
To Love a Lord
The Heart of a Scoundrel
To Wed His Christmas Lady
To Trust a Rogue
The Lure of a Rake
To Woo a Widow
To Redeem a Rake
One Winter with a Baron
To Enchant a Wicked Duke
Beguiled by a Baron
To Tempt a Scoundrel
The Heart of a Scandal
In Need of a Knight—Prequel Novella
Schooling the Duke
A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart
Lords of Honor
Seduced by a Lady’s Heart
Captivated by a Lady’s Charm
Rescued by a Lady’s Love
Tempted by a Lady’s Smile
Courting Poppy Tidemore
Scandalous Seasons
Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride
Never Courted, Suddenly Wed
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous
Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love
A Marquess for Christmas
Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love
Sinful Brides
The Rogue’s Wager
The Scoundrel’s Honor
The Lady’s Guard
The Heiress’s Deception
The Wicked Wallflowers
The Hellion
The Vixen
The Governess
The Bluestocking
The Theodosia Sword
Only For His Lady
Only For Her Honor
Only For Their Love
Danby
A Season of Hope
Winning a Lady’s Heart
The Brethren
The Spy Who Seduced Her
The Lady Who Loved Him
The Rogue Who Rescued Her
Brethren of the Lords
My Lady of Deception
Her Duke of Secrets
A Regency Duet
Rogues Rush In
Memoir: Non-Fiction
Uninterrupted Joy
Table of Contents
Other Titles by Christi Caldwell
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Other Books by Christi Caldwell
Biography
Dedication
For every reader who ever asked about Poppy Tidemore.
Prologue
Two and a half years earlier
London, England
Oh, hell.
Tristan Poplar, the Earl of Maxwell, had stumbled into it now.
He’d come upon a lady. Not just any lady, however…but rather, one who was crying.
He’d always been useless with weeping women. It was, in short, the only type of women he was rubbish around. If he could throw jewels and dresses to make a lady stop, he would.
What was worse? The weepy lady he’d discovered in his host’s conservatory was, in fact, Lady Poppy Tidemore. She was the sister-in-law to his best friend, Christian Villiers, the Marquess of St. Cyr, and had become a de facto friend.
As such, the last thing he could do for either of those reasons was to simply leave her here alone.
He glanced over his shoulder. Mayhap he should retrieve her sister. He could be gone and have the young woman here in hardly any time. Or he could always fetch St. Cyr. Or the mother. Or…in short, anyone other than himself. Yes, that was the decidedly safer option, given that the alternative was being caught alone with the young lady.
This, however, was a vulnerable, defeated Poppy, with her hands in front of her and her shoulders shaking. Poppy with whom he chatted often at summer picnics and chance meetings in Hyde Park—about dogs. Poppy whom he fished with.
He took a step forward…
Poppy peeked over. “You.”
As one of society’s most notorious rogues, detached annoyance was an altogether unfamiliar state to find himself in.
Tristan opened and then closed his mouth as several realizations came to him all at once: one, not only was the chit annoyed at his being here…but two, she’d decidedly not been crying.
The lady angled to face him.
Her bodice down.
“Oh, good God in heaven,” he strangled out. His face afire, Tristan squeezed his eyes shut, and promptly knocked into Lord Smith’s wrought-iron plant stand.
A porcelain planter crashed down, raining glass and soil upon the stone floor.
“Have a care, Maxwell,” Poppy groused. “Or you’ll see me ruined.”
“I’ll see you ruined? I’ll see you ruined? You’re the one with a gaping gown.” If one wished to be precise, that would actually be the culprit behind her demise. Nay, in truth, all he needed was one inopportune visit from her overprotective brother, and brother-in-law, and he’d be done for. There’d be no hasty marriage, but rather a bullet at sunrise. Two of them.
“Aww, you are blushing. That is adorable, Tristan.”
“I’m not adorable,” he said indignantly. “Kittens and pups are adorable. And even if I was red in the face, which I am not,” he said hastily, “it would be with entirely good reason.”
“Tsk, tsk. For shame, one would expect with your reputation, you’d be better at this tryst business. Why, it is even in your name.”
“I am,” he said automatically into his palms, his voice muffled to his own ears. Or he was. With the right women, and certainly not with this woman.
She sno
rted, as if she’d followed the silently self-deprecating thoughts.
Either way, the last thing he intended to do is provide a laundry list of all his past scandalous endeavors. “Is your gown righted?” he asked impatiently when Poppy returned to whatever earlier task had occupied her focus.
“It is.”
Tristan let his arms fall to his side. And here he’d believed she was crying.
Crying. As if fearless, spirited Poppy Tidemore could ever be brought to tears.
Just then, the lady picked up a cloth from Lord Smith’s table and dipped the fabric into the watering fountain. He rubbed his brow. It really wasn’t his business. She wasn’t his business. And yet, she was St. Cyr’s business and thereby, by default, Tristan’s. He peered into the dimly lit gardens. By the saints. “You’re dampening your dress,” he hissed.
Poppy favored him with an impressive scowl. “You’re still here.”
Why, the chit was annoyed by his presence? Which could only mean… Spinning on his heel, he yanked the door shut, and locked it.
“Maxwell,” she exclaimed. “What is wrong with you—?”
“You are meeting someone.” He’d kill the bastard. Poppy Tidemore was as off-limits as any one of Tristan’s own sisters.
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve greater sense than to sneak off with some rogue.”
He eyed her dubiously.
A mischievous grin turned her lips up into a saucy smile. “If I did, I’d certainly not find myself caught.”
“Dead. I’d kill the bastard dead.” St. Cyr would expect him to do nothing less in the name of their friendship.
“I daresay the whole ‘death’ part would be the expected outcome of the whole ‘killing’ business.”
“You’re making light of this?” Tristan balled his hands.
“Oh, stuff and nonsense.” Her smile dipped. “When did you go all proper on me?”
Since he’d stumbled upon her waiting about for some scoundrel. “This isn’t about me, Poppy,” he said, exasperated as ever by the chit. “This is about—”
Poppy fully faced him and all the anger went out of him. “Oh.” A sizeable splotch of pink marred the bodice of her gown.
Over the years, every Tidemore girl who’d made her Come Out had been forced into voluminous white dresses as if the color and sheer size of their skirts alone was enough to hold scandal at bay. As such, at her debut, Poppy had managed the impossible feat not a single one of the three Tidemore sisters to proceed her had managed—she wasn’t attired solely in white.
“At least it’s not white,” she said with her usual Poppy optimism.
No, it was certainly not white.
“Well, not entirely white,” she said under her breath.
Drip.
Lemonade slipped down her waist and with that, Poppy dismissed Tristan once more.
“Poppy, since when did you begin drinking lemonade?”
The lady despised the milquetoast drink, as she’d called it. It was a detail she’d shared by some lakeside over fishing at St. Cyr’s country estate…when she’d tried—and succeeded in—convincing Tristan to allow her a sip from his flask.
“I haven’t begun drinking lemonade, Tristan,” she said as if he’d lost his mind and deserved a prompt trip to Bedlam, which given the way his head spun whenever he was in the minx’s company, was likely not far from the mark.
“Then how did you spill the drink on yourself.”
Poppy looked up. “Careful, Maxwell.” She thinned her eyes into slits that oozed danger. “I’m not the clumsy sort.”
He opened his mouth to point out that the first time he’d come across her, she’d been knocked on her buttocks in Hyde Park, but time had taught him enough to refrain from pointing out that detail. “Then, how—?”
“Someone tossed it at me.” With a sigh, she set to work wiping at her bodice. “Are you happy? Someone tossed it at me.”
He opened and closed his mouth several times. “Someone tossed it?” he finally managed.
Poppy paused mid-wiping and released a long sigh. “Tossssed.” She managed to stretch that single, overly emphasized syllable into five. “As in ‘to throw’, ‘to hurl’, ‘to—’”
“I well know what the word tossed means,” he interrupted.
“Trust me, Maxwell, I’ve tossed enough objects and items at my siblings through the years that I can quite determine when the act is deliberate.” Her scowl deepened. “And when it is not.”
Who in blazes could possibly hold ill feelings for Poppy Tidemore? Spirited. Always smiling. Well, except, now; now she was managing an impressive scowl. “I’m sure whoever did so,” Tristan began, using the same tones he affected when dealing with his mother or sisters’ upset, “did so entirely by—oomph.”
The soggy rag she’d thrown hit his chest, and then landed on his feet with a plop.
Poppy lifted an arched brow. “Accident?”
He dusted the remnants of that sopping cloth from his jacket. “I see your point,” he muttered. Only…on the heel of that came the knowledge that someone had deliberately hurt her. Fury crackled to life. “Who is responsible?”
Poppy glanced up from her stained gown, and he forced himself to relax the tense muscles in his face into a small half grin. “Lady Kathryn Delaney.”
The Diamond of the First Water. “What in blazes issue could she have with you?”
“My family.”
Tristan cocked his head.
“She had…words to say about my family.”
Ah, of course. Loyal as she was spirited. He dropped his hip atop the work table. “And you no doubt took offense.”
“I undoubtedly did.”
He grinned. “I trust you told her where to go?”
Poppy curled her lips slowly up at the corners in that minx’s grin that likely accounted for the grey at her brother’s temples. “With very specific directions on how she might find herself there.”
Tristan tossed his head back and laughed. Another debutante might be filled with tears at how the stain had come to be there. Never Poppy. She’d go toe-to-toe with the king himself if she felt one she’d loved had been wronged.
Poppy joined in laughing; and hers was a full, colorful expression of mirth that compelled another to join. The sound of it honest and so different from any lady of his acquaintance. He dusted amusement from the corners of his eyes. “God, you’re refreshing, Poppy Tidemore,” he said, after his hilarity had abated.
Her eyes softened. It was not an unfamiliar look he’d received from other women…but never from this woman.
Tristan hurriedly straightened. “You should return,” he croaked. “We should both return.” He grimaced. “Not together.” He swiped his palms down toward the ground. Not unless he wished to face her brother at dawn. She furrowed her brow. “You should take yourself off.” Now. As it was, society would dearly love to feast upon a scandal involving another Tidemore girl.
And just like that, the dangerous warmth that had been in her eyes was replaced by a keen sharpness. “Why, you’re trying to be rid of me.”
“Not at all,” he said smoothly. Not technically. He was trying to rid both of them of one another’s company before scandal came raining down.
“Listen here,” she said, stabbing a finger in his direction. “And listen well.” She proceeded to march in his direction, and Tristan, who’d earned a reputation of only ever advancing into the fieriest battle, did something he’d never done before—he retreated. “I found this hiding place in our host’s home first, Tristan Poplar.” Oh, hell, not even his own mother dragged out his full name when displeased. The backs of his legs knocked into a stool, and he toppled into the seat. Even in partial repose, he was several inches taller than the petite spitfire, and yet, she still somehow managed to stare down the length of her pert nose at him. “There are infinitely more locations a gentleman can steal for himself.”
He knew ending this exchange and being on his way, and seeing that she was on hers, was
the wisest course. The safest one. Only, in all the years he’d known the lady, she’d always managed to stir his damned curiosity. “And what places are those?”
Without missing a beat, Poppy proceeded to tick off a list on her gloveless fingers. “The billiards room. Lord Smith’s offices. The stables. Lord Smith’s dungeons.”
He sat up straighter. “Dungeons? Surely you jest?”
“They were part of an original structure that he kept and—” She eyed him suspiciously. “Are you funning me?”
Tristan marked an X over his chest. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” It was another lie. Over the years, Poppy had proven more fun to tease than even his own mother and sisters. Granted, they didn’t have quite the same…zest for life that Poppy Tidemore—or any Tidemore, for that matter—did.
Poppy gave a toss of her dark curls. “Either way, there are countless places you can safely seek out for your tryst where no one would dare look for you, thus you shouldn’t go about taking mine. Now, shoo.” Like she was trying to be rid of a bothersome cat, she gave a little flick of her fingers.
And it was precisely then that he knew he’d no intention of abandoning this exchange.
Tristan stretched his feet out, and crossed them at the ankles; the movement forced the minx back several steps. “And what makes you believe I’m here for…for…?” God help him. Even with his bid to tease, he couldn’t manage to utter that word. Not in front of this woman.
“A tryst?” she supplied with a mischievous grin.
His ears went hot. “That,” he settled for.
“For your roguish reputation, you’re shockingly prudish.”
Prudish? That charge was certainly…a first. “I don’t have a reputation.” At least not one that she should know about, anyway.
Switching to her opposite hand, Poppy went on to tick off another list. “There’s been the widow at the Opera House.”
“Gossip,” he scoffed. Accurate gossip, but he’d sooner lop off his own arm than concede to those indiscretions to a young lady. “I’d trust a Tidemore wouldn’t take everything written in the scandal sheets as fact.”
“I saw you,” she said flatly.
Tristan coughed into his hand. “Ah…I see.” Checkmate.
“Shall I go on?” she drawled, lifting a thin black brow.
“No.” He’d rather wandered himself down a path he’d no business walking. “I’d rather you didn’—”
Courting Poppy Tidemore (Lords of Honor Book 5) Page 1
