Courting Poppy Tidemore (Lords of Honor Book 5)
Page 7
Soft but firm.
It was something her sister and husband had gotten right in the design of the hotel room…and a nonsensical detail to note. And yet, safer than acknowledging that even among one’s family, one found herself an object of pity.
With a sigh, Poppy tossed herself back and stared at the mahogany lattice overhead, the frame also draped in grey.
The mattress dipped as her sister joined her on the bed. Wordlessly, she lay down beside Poppy, so that they rested shoulder to shoulder.
In the end, Penelope broke the impasse. “I don’t pity you, Poppy. I could never pity you.”
Poppy angled her head and gave her sibling a pointed look.
“Oh, fine, by the very definition of pity, I am filled with regret.”
Poppy made to shove herself up on her elbows, but her sister settled a firm hand on hers, staying her. “But not for the reasons you think, Poppy. I regret that some bounder sullied your name. And I’m sorry that too many will fail to see anything but that scandal when they see you.” Penelope turned her head so she could look Poppy squarely in the eyes. “But I could never pity you. When I blubbered and sulked about my scandal, you’ve only held your head high and proud, and I could only wish to have your strength.”
Poppy’s lips pulled. “That is a perfectly splendid apology.”
Her sister gave an awkward toss of her head, knocking her chignon loose. “Why, thank you.” Penelope tempered her smile, and her features settled into a solemn mask. “I’d have you know, Poppy, I did invite you to stay with Ryker and I because I don’t believe you should be run off, and I wanted you here.”
“You just didn’t believe your hotel required any true work,” she said dryly.
Penelope stuck her tongue out. “I did think you might add paintings—”
“Murals.”
“To the guest suites.”
“Thank you,” Poppy said dryly.
Her sister shoved an elbow lightly against her side. “And I did want you to add an additional touch to these rooms.”
“Because the guest is so important?” She was expected to believe that, when her sister and brother-in-law, Ryker Black, as a rule didn’t allow rank to matter in any way?
“Because it’s Lord Maxwell, and Prudence mentioned he was decidedly glum and asked—”
Poppy sat up quickly. “Maxwell?” she echoed, her heart doing a little leap, just as it had when she’d been a girl.
“Yes, well, I suppose you’re correct,” Penelope pushed up onto her elbows. “He is no longer Lord Maxwell,” she said, misunderstanding the reason for Poppy’s shock.
Oh, her girlish fascination with the lord who loved dogs and her determination to bring the earl up to scratch had eventually faded…she’d too much pride to pine for or woo a man still gallivanting about town with his fancy pieces. And yet…he’d become more of a friend over the years, and she despised the idea of the once charming earl, reduced to a glum figure who needed cheering up.
“He’ll occupy these rooms, and Pru thought you might add a touch of something different to make them more cheerful.” Penelope thinned her eyes. “Not,” her sister spoke on a rush, “because there is anything wrong with silver.”
“Grey,” Poppy said as an afterthought. She hopped up, and set across the room to where her art supplies had been set and since forgotten—until now. “When is he arriving?”
“Within the fortnight.”
“A fortnight?” Muttering under her breath, Poppy hurriedly opened her art case and drew out her brushes and paints. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?” And here she’d gone on and on debating the décor, losing all this time.
“I’ve seen you craft great masterpieces in far less time.”
“That was different,” she said distractedly. “They weren’t…” For Tristan.
“For Maxwell?” her sister hazarded.
Sir Faithful awoke from his slumber. Scrambling to his feet, the dog gave a lusty bark of canine agreement.
Poppy briefly paused, and glanced over her shoulder. “Do not be silly. And he’s not Maxwell, he’s Tristan. Christian’s best friend and—”
“A man you were smitten with—”
“When I was a girl,” Poppy neatly slipped in. “You’ve nothing to worry about. Now…” Returning her attention to her work, Poppy gathered up her apron and tied it at the waist. “If you’ll excuse me?” Surveying the walls for the ideal canvas for her subject—her still unknown subject—Poppy considered her options.
“I will leave you to your business, then.”
Poppy dimly registered Penelope’s words, and then reminded herself to lift a hand in farewell.
Something cheerful. And yet…somehow elegant, as Tristan would only occupy these rooms temporarily and then another guest would replace him. She bit at the end of her brush, thinking. Thinking.
“Oh, and Poppy?” her sister called her attention over once more. “I didn’t say I was worried earlier about you and Tristan being near one another.” She swept her lashes down until she stared at Poppy through imperceptible slits. “Should I be?”
Poppy rolled her eyes. “I’ve far greater judgment than to fall for Tristan Poplar.” Even if he did have a way with dogs. And even if he did have a tangle of dark curls and—
Enough. You’re no longer the young girl mooning over the dream of the charming rogue…
“Of course,” Penelope said in serious tones. “Lord Rochford is proof and testament enough of—” She ducked as in one fluid motion, Poppy removed her slipper and tossed it across the room.
The moment the door was closed behind her, Poppy returned her work to walls. Her sister now gone, Poppy retrained all her energies on designing the mural for Tristan’s room.
Tristan, who loved dogs…and fishing and…women. He loved those, as well. Scandalous ones, which, of course, had been what had settled it for her. Far too clever to be offended, even with all her efforts and the hope that he’d at last see her there, she had come to accept this truth—love and an awareness of another, was simply not something that could be forced. Nor should it be.
As such, she could not, nor would ever, hold a grudge against Tristan for his inability to see her as a woman. He would, however, remain…a friend.
“And a friend who is in surprisingly more dire straits than I am,” she said into the quiet. Folding her arms, she tapped the brush in a distracted staccato against her shoulder.
Elegant enough to appeal to any future guest, but specific to apply to Tristan…
The clock atop the mantel ticked a gratingly impatient rhythm.
Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick.
“That is really quite enough,” she muttered. Stomping over to the bed, she gathered up two pillows. Poppy marched across the room and promptly buried that timepiece.
She’d always been rubbish at designing under pressure, and even more so when she was creating work for family—she grimaced—not that Tristan was family. He wasn’t. He was like family. Not a brother, per se. A friend. He was a friend. As such, his opinion of her eventual creation mattered.
“Think,” she whispered as she returned to the center of the room. The muffled beat of the clock echoed, oddly more incessant. “Th—” Widening her eyes, Poppy tossed her brush down. “Of course.”
And with the first real enthusiasm for anything art-related since Lord Rochford had lured her away under false pretenses, Poppy gathered up a pencil and set to work outlining her design on the previously empty crisp, white plaster. Tireless, Poppy sketched until the afternoon light faded and ushered in the London night sky. Servants filtered in and then out, lighting candles, and fanning a fire, and through their noiseless entry and departure she attended her mural.
Nay, Poppy’s shoulders ached and her muscles strained from the continuous efforts, but the exhilaration of creating something upon a previously blank canvas won out over her discomfort.
Setting her brush down, Poppy retreated several paces and angling her head, left and
then right, she eyed her mural. She squinted in the dim lighting, attempting to bring the details into sharper focus.
The door opened. “I’m not hungry,” she said for the sixth time since one of four maids had attempted to bring her food.
“Which is good, as I’ve not come with food,” her sister drawled, sidling up beside her. “You’ve finished.”
“Not quite.” Poppy gestured with the end of her brush at her work. “I’ve only applied the first coat; as such, the colors are muted.”
“It is late, Poppy.”
“Bah, it is just…”
Together, her and her sister’s gazes went to the clock—still buried under the pillows.
“Nearly midnight,” her sister supplied, pointing to the timepiece affixed to the front of her gown.
“I’m hardly tired.” There was too much to be done. “Furthermore, I just need to—”
Penelope rested her hands on Poppy’s shoulders and lightly squeezed. “Rest.”
“I will. Soon.” Eventually.
“Now,” her elder sister pressed, releasing her. “Poppy, you’re not leaving any time soon. The hotel? You’ll have endless hours to work here. As many as you desire, forever, until the end of time, if you so wish.”
How was it possible for one phrase to elicit both joy and regret…such contradictory emotions that seemingly had no place blending. And yet…staring blankly at her recently completed work, she acknowledged the truth: she didn’t want to be the underfoot aunt.
“You’re not that.”
“What?” she asked, glancing over at her sister.
“The underfoot aunt.”
She gave thanks for the shroud of darkness to conceal the color rushing to her cheeks. “I didn’t say that,” she said gruffly.
“You didn’t need to. I know you,” Penelope said simply. “Either way, Poppy, you are not that and you never will be.” Her elder sister lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “You’re my friend.”
Emotion she’d not allowed herself since a gathering of society’s leading harpies had descended upon her and Rochford filled Poppy. Not for the loss of her reputation or the uncertainty of her future, but for the gift that was her family. She blinked back the sheen of tears. “I promise I’ll see my rooms shortly,” she promised.
“Oh, you’re impossibly stubborn.” Planting a kiss on her cheek, Penelope started for the door. She lingered at the entrance a moment. “You’re certain there is nothing I can say to convince you to—?”
“Good night, Penelope.”
“Fine. Fine.”
As soon as she’d gone, Poppy shrugged out of the apron stained with various shades of paint, and carefully rested the stained article along the scroll back armchair.
“Now,” she murmured, taking in the flower stand and cloak stand side by side near the middle of the room. “To fix this.”
With determined steps, Poppy began with the furniture she could herself move.
A short while later, slightly out of breath, and her curls hanging down her back, Poppy shoved the mahogany cloak stand from the center of the room to a more proper position near the doorway—off to the side where it was not another ornate piece on display.
Sweat trickled down her brow, and she swiped at it with the back of her sleeve before turning her attention to the hideous drapery atop the four-poster bed.
Hopping up onto the mattress, Poppy stood, and balancing herself on tiptoe, she reached for the front grey draping…just as the door opened.
She didn’t move. Oh, bloody hell. Of course, she’d not be rid of her sister that easily. Twenty years together should have aptly prepared her for that much. “I can explain,” she called to Penelope. Not allowing her sister a word edgewise, she continued, “I’m merely going to lift the fabric…” Gathering the silk in her fingertips, she stretched higher for the frame overhead, “…and hang it like…”
Her gaze collided with an all too familiar pair of dark eyes.
Eyes that were certainly not her sister’s.
In a face that was decidedly masculine.
And heavily amused.
She blinked. She was imagining him. It was late. Of course, she’d ceased conjuring the memory of him in her mind, long ago. And yet…
Poppy squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them, he remained there: Lord Tristan Poplar—or whatever blasted title he went by these days. “Lady Poppy,” he drawled, that also very much real voice snapping her to the moment, startling her from her precarious position.
And with a stream of curses stringing from her lips, wound in that hideous grey satin, she came toppling down with a heavy thump.
Chapter 5
Tristan blinked quickly several times.
Of course, she would be here.
Because…well, quite frankly, through the years, he’d run into Lady Poppy Tidemore any manner of places he shouldn’t: in a tree, under a table at an obscure London modiste. In various hosts and hostesses’ conservatories or gardens.
Yes, as such, he should have certainly expected that he would find her here…in his temporary rooms.
Except…it was late. As such, mayhap he’d merely imagined her.
After all, the lumpy pile of silk on the floor remained absolutely motionless.
Entering his new rooms, Tristan pushed the panel closed behind him. “Have I imagined you?”
There was a slight pause. And then, a faint rustle.
“If you were to imagine me, I should hope it would be kinder than suffocating within a swathe of unpardonably hideous grey fabric.” The silver fabric muffled her response.
“Was I shown to the wrong suite?”
“No.” There was a slight pause. “You have, however, arrived earlier than you were scheduled to,” she said tartly.
He smiled. A real, honest grin of mirth, which the minx had always managed to ring from him since he’d nearly run her down in Hyde Park six years earlier.
“Are you laughing out there, Poplar?”
Either she knew him too well, or had developed an uncanny ability to peer through heavy silk fabrics. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She snorted. Then, with that article draped over her frame that gave her the look of that mythical creature of Dartmoor his sisters were all too hopeful about running into, Poppy struggled to her feet. “Now, that I don’t believe.”
Tristan did a sweep of his apartments. They were his, were they not? “Have I entered the wrong rooms?”
“You’ve not.”
After seven muffled ticks of a clock from somewhere in the chambers, when it became apparent the lady had nothing more to say on it, he added, “Uh…is there a reason you are in here?”
“There is,” she said simply, still hidden by her fabrics.
He crossed his arms, and waited. And waited.
Alas, she intended to make him ask for it. Which was, of course, the absolute last thing he should do. What he should do was send her on her way. If they were discovered here, alone, it would usher in a scandal that would see Poppy Tidemore ruined. In Tristan’s case? Well, Tristan could not fall any further than his present level of descent. Proper gentleman that he still prided himself on being, he’d do well to send her quickly on her way…or take his leave.
Only, the rogue who’d missed what it felt like to laugh and enjoy himself these past weeks selfishly preferred her just where she was.
“Dare I even ask what you were doing?” he drawled, as she made no move to emerge from her makeshift cloak.
At last, she popped her head through an opening. “Oh, this?” She stretched her arms out, revealing that makeshift cloak. “This is quite innocent, I assure you.”
An indirect nod to the fact that, with her feats, she could not always claim to be “quite innocent”.
Setting his ancient infantry gear down near the door, he ventured over. “I’m intrigued.”
“I like you, Poplar,” she said matter-of-factly, her hands on her hips, displaying that silk like a cape.
“You remember that?”
“An insult that likened me to your propriety-driven mama?” he returned dryly. “Indeed, I recall that.” Along with any number of clever ones Poppy Tidemore had hurled his way through the years.
The young lady wrinkled her—he squinted, and peered hard—paint-smudged nose.
“If you expect an apology for that, Tristan, I shan’t.”
“Because apologies are hard to give?” he asked, surveying the tattered bedding behind her.
Good God, he couldn’t even begin to fathom what the lady had been up to.
“Hardly, you’ve been insufferable more times than I can count.” She gave a toss of her midnight curls, which hung in a tangle down her back. “However, it is entirely possible to be insufferable some moments, and redeem yourself in others.”
Tristan should be thinking about his kin making the long trek to Dartmoor while he attempted to put his future in some way to rights. Only, he found himself hopelessly curious—as Poppy no doubt intended—by that idea.
Settling into his new residence, Tristan rested a hip on the ornate nightstand. “And just how have I redeemed myself?”
Poppy’s features softened. “You didn’t rush to help me,” she said, with a wistful air to her words.
His eyebrows drew together. “I didn’t…”
Sighing, the lady gave another shake of her head. “Help me like I’m some fragile flower to be protected.”
He stared on a moment, measuring her sincerity. Alas, any other lady would have found fault in his not rushing over the moment she’d come crashing down. “I redeemed myself by not helping you?” he asked slowly.
Two dimples appeared in her cheeks. “Precisely.”
With that, Poppy shrugged free of the silver silk, divesting herself of the elegant fabric. And as always, he’d been spun in circles by the spitfire.
“If only society were as forgiving,” he muttered, loosening his cravat.