Courting Poppy Tidemore (Lords of Honor Book 5)

by Christi Caldwell

  “There was the serving girl at the Hell and Sin Club,” she continued over him.

  Alas, the bloodthirsty minx was determined to stomp all over him in this battle. “Your sister talks too much,” he mumbled, glancing up at the ceiling. Past Poppy’s shoulder. Anywhere but at her.

  “And there was your mistress at Madame Archambault’s.” Poppy drifted forward, stalking around his chair so that she circled him. “You do recall our meeting—?”

  “I recall,” he croaked. Tristan adjusted his previously flawless cravat.

  “Where I was being fitted for my trousseau and you were accompanying your mistress?”

  The most out of the way modiste would have been the place Poppy had found herself. “Very well.” He eyed the exit covetously. “You were…are…indeed entitled to your suspicions. This time, however, was not one of those times.”

  Poppy leaned in, peering at his face as if searching for his every truth. She sank back on her heels. “Then what are you doing here?” she asked quietly, all earlier teasing gone.

  “I despise balls.” There it was…the truth.

  Poppy rocked back on her heels. “You?” she shot back, incredulously.

  Abandoning his negligent pose, Tristan pushed to his feet. “Yes, me.” Because given his reputation, the world would only expect him to be in the midst of the crowd. Loving every moment of the noisy, thrilling crush of a ballroom.

  “You, the adored, charming, always-sought-after Earl of Maxwell?”

  Flashing a grin, he drifted over to her. “Is that what I am? Adored? Charming?”

  The minx swatted him on the chest. “Oh, hush. Save your rogue’s smile for another, Maxwell.”

  Except, with the pale moon’s glow slashing through the conservatory windows, it didn’t escape his notice that a blush bloomed on Poppy’s cheeks. He opened his mouth to tease her once more…but when their eyes met, the very somber and very un-Poppy-like glint froze the levity on his lips.

  Shoving his hands behind his back, he wandered over to the little work station she’d set herself up by the fountain. “The balls and soirees eventually grow tiring.”

  “They do,” she murmured, gliding toward him.

  “The noise. The inanity. It was once—”

  “Thrilling?” she ventured, speaking as one who knew.

  He nodded, and stared down at the fountaining water. “Thrilling,” he murmured, his gaze on his visage in the pond. Upon his return from Waterloo years earlier, he’d welcomed the inanity. For it had proved a distraction. A desperately needed one. He’d relished each dalliance, for those very reasons. At thirty, time had aged him, and reminded him how…empty it all was.

  “I…never knew you felt that way,” she ventured, hesitantly…as if she believed he might still be feeding her a line.

  “I didn’t always,” he confessed. How easy it had always been to talk to Poppy. There’d been no messy entanglement. No fawning. Just…an unfettered honesty that only a girl was capable of. Only, that bluntness had followed her into womanhood.

  “What changed?”

  Life. Him. Everything.

  Tristan sank onto the step leading into the watering fountain. “Here,” he urged, motioning her back to her seat.

  She hesitated, and then in further un-Poppy like fashion, complied without complaint. Tristan took one of Lord Smith’s work rags.

  “What are you…?” Her words trailed off as he brought that cloth toward the front of her dress.

  He hesitated. Though there were years of friendship and history between them, Poppy Tidemore was still a lady. “May I?”

  With her eyes wide in her face, Poppy nodded.

  “Now, the first step to cleaning a stain is blot the area. Like so.” He dabbed at the mark. Tristan continued to dip the fabric in the fountain and then blot. “The secret is to remove the excess moisture from the fabric.”

  “I was attempting to rinse it.”

  He paused, eyeing the wide splotch on the waist of her gown. “Uh…I see that. One needs to remove the stain first.” Gathering up another cloth, he dipped it into the fountain, and soaked it. “Next,” he explained, as he rang out the excess water, “one rinses.”

  “You’ve experience with laundering your own garments?” She directed that question to his bent head.

  He may as well have hung a star for the awe coating her voice.

  His lips twitched.

  Only Poppy Tidemore. Any other lady would long for baubles and pretty compliments. Poppy would admire and appreciate a person who could clean a garment.

  “In war, a soldier learns all manner of skills that he wouldn’t have otherwise acquired,” he murmured. They fell into an easy silence as he tended her gown. When he’d finished with the cloth, he set it aside. He leaned forward to blow on the damp article…

  The air crackled and hissed, thrumming with tension.

  And he, who’d been previously absorbed in helping little Poppy Tidemore right her gown, noted a sea of details that had failed to escape him: the lace trim of her neckline. The rise and fall of her chest. The gentle swell of her breasts; cream swells that would fit perfectly in his palms.

  He struggled to swallow.

  Did he imagine the slight increase in her breathing, a faint rasp?

  Or mayhap that was his own.

  Look away. Run. Run as far and as fast as your damned legs might carry you.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. And the concern in her voice sent reality rushing back.

  Cad. I am an utterly depraved cad.

  “Fine,” he managed gruffly. He gave his head a slight, disgusted shake. What momentary madness had overtaken him? “You should return,” he said, coming to his feet. “There’s a sea of suitors, I trust, awaiting you.”

  With a snort, Poppy lifted her dance card.

  He frowned.

  Why…why…? “It’s empty.”

  “You always did have a tendency for stating the obvious, Maxwell,” she said dryly. “There are no suitors. Zero of them.” She formed a small circle with her long fingers. “Nulla. Aucun.”

  Another lady might have been in tears. Poppy, however, was all matter-of-fact about her circumstances.

  “You’re better off without them.” Which were not simply words to make the lady feel better. Most lords of London were self-important, pompous bastards who’d never appreciate a spirited woman like Poppy Tidemore.

  “Perhaps,” she agreed. “But that does not take away from the fact that there are things a lady requires a husband for.”

  He dissolved into a fit.

  “I meant freedom, Maxwell,” she said, her tones rich with exasperation. “I meant my freedoms.” She wrinkled her nose. “Is there anything you men think of other than sexual relations?”

  Rarely. And as he couldn’t sort out whether hers was a rhetorical question or one she expected an answer to, he swiftly diverted the topic along safer courses. “You’ll find the right gentleman, Poppy.”

  Poppy folded her arms at her chest. “Will I, Tristan? Will I?” she repeated, placing a slight emphasis on those echoed syllables.

  He opened his mouth to deliver the expected, and requisite, reply…and yet, the answer remained lodged there.

  She sensed that hesitation. “And what of you?”

  Tristan angled his head. “What about me?”

  “Where’s your bride?”

  His brows went up. “Egads. I don’t have a bride.” He wasn’t the marrying sort. Eventually he’d see to those responsibilities. Soon. One day.

  “You’re struggling, too, then.”

  “I’m not…struggling. Mine—”

  “Is a choice?” she asked, without inflection.

  Tristan searched for a slight tremble to her lips or tears in her eyes. Instead, there was only a curiosity in her clear gaze. “Because I, too, have not found the right person yet,” he said smoothly. Nor was he in any manner of rush to do so.

  Poppy si
ghed. “There’s only one thing that makes sense.” She gave him a look.

  Something was expected of Tristan. And God help him, for all his effortless reads on discourse and women, any and every answer eluded him here. Tristan shook his head.

  She nodded.

  “Why are you nodding like that?” he asked, befuddled.

  “A Marriage Pact, Tristan. A marriage pact.”

  He recoiled. “What in blazes is that?”

  “A man and woman agree that should they not find a better match they shall settle on one another.”

  A laugh burst from him. “That sounds both positively horrific and pathetic all at the same time.”

  She glared at him, that look harder and sterner than that of any tutor or instructor he’d had in the whole of his life, and it effectively quelled his amusement.

  “Very well, we agree…if I’m unwed by twenty-six, we shall marry one another.”

  At what point did the minx believe they’d come to that agreement? “Bah, when you’re twenty-six, I’ll be fast approaching forty.”

  “Not so much fast-approaching as gracefully sliding into it,” she allowed, holding her index finger and thumb up a smidge.

  And because he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t hear the whole of this out, he asked, “And what are the terms of said arrangement?”

  “You won’t hunt.”

  He paused.

  “I’ll not agree otherwise, Maxwell.”

  He blinked slowly. “Uh…were you not convincing me of the terms?”

  “Your word, Maxwell.”

  His lips twitched. “Very well. No hunting.”

  “If it is any consolation, you shall be nearly forty at the fateful date, and entirely too old for hunting anyway.”

  Another grin tugged at his lips; not the practiced one he’d affected for scandalous purposes. And how much better this smile felt…and was. “I thought I was sliding into my doddering years.”

  Then with a remarkable aplomb for a lady whose gown was damp from lemonade and waters—she gave a toss of her curls. “I was being polite.”

  He knew better than to point out that as long as he’d known her—now four years—the chit hadn’t ever opted for politeness over honesty. He again perched himself on the edge of the work table. “Carry on.”

  “There’ll be no mistresses, Maxwell.”

  He strangled on his cough.

  Poppy sharpened her eyes on his face. “That fit had better not be because of an inability to commit to that vow.”

  “N-not at all,” he managed to rasp between his great, heaving gasps for breath.

  With a grunt, Poppy thumped him with an impressive strength between the shoulder blades.

  And it occurred to him in that instant that had he provided a disagreeable answer, the minx would have happily left him choking. He didn’t know whether to be impressed or terrified. “It occurs to me, Lady Poppy, that your list is comprised largely of things you do not want, and not that which you desire.”

  “Hmm.” She nibbled at the tip of her finger. “I do believe you’ve a good idea there.”

  “Occasionally I manage that,” he said dryly.

  “I’m to have the largest space in the residence for an art room.” There was a challenge in her eyes; one that indicated she expected him to rebuff that pretend clause.

  She still sketched. The last time he’d seen her with a sketchpad in hand, she’d had a rough-looking outline of a dog on the page. “Any space you desire will be yours,” he said with a flourish of his hand.

  “I’ll keep company with whomever I wish.” Her fingers balled into fists at her sides. “None of this disapproval society is so famous for.”

  A little pang struck. The Tidemores had been riddled with scandal for more than a decade now. They’d been met with unkindness and disdain. It had become as casual a fact as the London streets fogged over. And yet…to her, to this young woman, it was her life. He bowed his head somberly. “You’ll have no complaints from my future self on that score.”

  She nodded slowly, approvingly.

  “Anything else, my lady?”

  The lady settled into her seat, one wholly warming to her role of arbiter of her fate. “I’ll wear what I wish, without being made to feel guilty for choosing whichever garment I choose.”

  “Absolutely,” he said automatically. Unbidden, his gaze took in the heavily ruffled satin skirts. He repressed a shudder. Poppy caught him in the shins with her foot. “Oopmh.” Scowling, he bent down and rubbed the wounded flesh. “What in blazes was that for?”

  “For eyeing my skirts in that manner.”

  Tristan tossed his arms up. “You hate white.” She’d said as much, no fewer than…well, at nearly every exchange they’d had.

  Poppy gave another toss of her head. “That’s entirely different.”

  “How so?” he asked, unable to help himself.

  “I can be annoyed by my skirts. It’s altogether different when other people express their opinions over what I’m wearing. Do you understand?”

  Nothing much made sense whenever he was around or with Poppy Tidemore. “Completely,” he lied.

  “Now.” She hopped up and drifted over until their knees brushed. Nearly five inches shorter than him, she had to tip her head back to meet his gaze. “What do you want?”

  In any other woman, there would have been a veiled suggestiveness to those four words, an invitation that welcomed sin and seduction…and God help him for the scoundrel he was, his blood thickened at the slightly sultry quality of her contralto. He slipped his gaze lower…

  And by the tangle of white ruffles, was hit with the reminder that: one, he was chatting with his best friend’s sister-in-law, and two…the chit was…innocent. And three, being caught with her was no longer the same as it had been when she’d been a child of fifteen. Now, she’d be ruined, and he’d be trapped, and—

  Poppy narrowed her eyes. “Are you going to go choking again?”

  “Beg pardon?” he said hoarsely.

  “Your face has gone all red and your voice is gruff.”

  God, the minx missed nothing. “I’ll require help with the running of my household.”

  “Very well. What else?”

  Did he imagine the faint moue of disappointment at that tedious and expected-by-a-gentleman requisite? And he allowed himself to consider the child’s game she played, he caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed it contemplatively. “Hmm…there is the matter of my dogs.”

  She perked up. “What about them?”

  “I’d require someone to help me care after them and see to their daily walks.”

  Poppy nodded enthusiastically. “Of course.”

  “And then, fishing. I’d expect that we fish daily.”

  A smile curled her lips up. “In the winter, Maxwell?”

  Tristan tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Very well, spring and summer months. In the winter, you’d be permitted your own time.”

  A shadow darkened her eyes; but was gone so quick it might as well have been a trick of the light. “Is there anything else you require?”

  He shook his head. “I think that quite settles it.”

  Taking his hand in his, she shook it once. “It is settled.”

  With that, she spun on her heel, and rushed off.

  Bemused, Tristan stared after the swift-retreating slip of a girl. There was only one certainty; whichever bounder found himself wed to the minx was going to find himself in deuced trouble.

  Chapter 1

  London, England

  1826

  Everything was a lie.

  All of it.

  The fortunes. The landholdings. The title. The respectability.

  And because of it, even Tristan Poplar, the Earl of Maxwell’s honor was being called into question.

  Which therefore meant…everything was gone.

  Or that was what the man—nay, the investigator—seated across from Tristan expected him to believe.


  It was also the moment where Tristan was to say…something.

  He knew as much. He, ever effortless in discourse and conversations, so affable he’d earned a reputation for it and never missed a beat, knew this moment was his cue.

  But he could manage…nothing.

  His office crackled from the tension at the revelation which had been made…ten minutes? Ten hours? Ten lifetimes ago?

  Only, if the investigator seated across from Tristan was to be trusted, this wasn’t Tristan’s office. According to the last utterance made, this space and everything in it belonged to another.

  Or had it been, not an utterance, but rather an accusation? Mayhap it was both. It was all jumbled in his confused mind. After all, there was no certain protocol, no code of etiquette for how to respond to charges that the title one had inherited, in fact, belonged to…another.

  The hearth crackled; the flames snapped and hissed angrily across the room.

  He’s burning…my God, he’s on fire…do something, Tristan…

  That haunting echo of those memories upon the battlefield that would never fade echoed in his mind, in a sobering reminder…that for everything that the stranger seated across from him had revealed, Tristan had faced down cannon fire and the bayonet of Boney’s most ruthless soldiers with calm. With the smallest of garrisons, he’d faced down Napoleon’s assault eighty guns strong. He’d not be reduced to silence by the stranger before him.

  Steepling his fingers, Tristan rested them on his chest. “I beg your pardon?” he began in shockingly steady tones. “You are claiming I am not the rightful holder of the Maxwell title?” Somehow, giving those words life helped steady him. It was too fantastical to ever make any sense. It was a title he’d inherited less than ten years ago. “That the title, in fact, belongs to—”

  “Another,” the illustrious investigator Connor Steele put forward smoothly, for a second time. “Percival Northrop.”

  So the man had a name; the Northrops had been the family who’d died along with their staff and seen Tristan’s father—and now Tristan—elevated to the rank of earl. And an obscenely wealthy one at that. He laughed, the mirthless rumbled in his chest.