Courting Poppy Tidemore (Lords of Honor Book 5)

by Christi Caldwell

  “They aren’t,” she informed him. Poppy wouldn’t be content to allow him any self-pity about his circumstances. “They’re cruel vipers who’d happily spin their offspring in a silken snare and feed on the gossip they could ring from their lifeless bodies, if they were so absent of a proper scandal.”

  “You speak as one who knows.”

  “Of course I know.” Did he imagine the faint hint of pride underlining that pronouncement?

  “Firsthand?” Tristan, however, may as well have spoken inside his head. The young lady had already climbed atop his bed and all thoughts fled, as Tristan became aware of a handful of details all at once:

  One, attired in close-fitting breeches and a paint-stained lawn shirt that hugged her every curve, Poppy Tidemore was no longer the young girl he’d first met.

  He swallowed painfully. And two…was there a two? As she stretched her arms up, the fabric pulled across her chest, and the garment strained, highlighting the dusky hue of her nipples. Lust bolted through him.

  And what is more, she is in my chambers.

  It was a detail previously noted but one that, with her body on display like a lithe Aphrodite, now took on a whole new meaning…and peril.

  Only one course remained.

  “You should leave,” he blurted, his voice hoarse to his own ears. Nay, it was the wrong word choice. She needed to leave. Tristan opened his mouth to correct himself.

  Poppy drew her attention away from whatever task so occupied her. “When did you become stuffy, Poplar?” Her plump lips formed a perfect Cupid’s bow, and the desire winding its way through his veins blazed all the hotter, and made a mockery of that very charge she now leveled at his roguish being. And pointedly rejecting his suggestion that she leave, Poppy resumed…

  He cocked his head. “What are you doing?”

  “Decorating.”

  “Decorating,” he repeated.

  “Hmm. Mmm.” Catching one corner of the silver fabric in her teeth, Poppy stretched the other out until it was drawn straight, and then lifting up on tiptoes, wound one corner around one of the bedposts.

  “And…uh…does your sister know you are re-decorating her suites?”

  There was another of those “Poppy Pauses”, as he’d come to think of them. Her tell. It was one of her only ones. Having played games of whist and hazard with the lady at various points over the last six years, he’d come to know as much. “Poppy?” he prodded.

  She jumped. “She…knows. Enough.”

  “And your mother.”

  “Is probably trying not to think about what I might be up to,” she said with her usual candidness…and accuracy.

  He felt another grin form on his lips; pulling his facial muscles up. “Yes, I suspect that much is true.”

  “Will you hand me that?” She jabbed a finger toward the floor.

  Tristan looked around.

  “The silver bed curtains?”

  “No, the Aubusson carpet, Tristan,” she said drolly. “Yes! I mean the bed curtains.” Poppy sank down on her heels. “And I’ll have you know, they’re grey.”

  Feeling like he’d stepped upon a Drury Lane stage and was the only one without the benefit of his lines, Tristan slowly picked up the bed curtains.

  “Splendid. Now, if you’ll walk that to the end of the frame. No, no, the other way,” she chided when he took several steps toward her. “I already have one end of it so how would that even work? You’re not very good at this, are you?”

  As he didn’t have a damned inkling what “this” in fact was, he did the only thing that made sense—he followed her directives.

  And here, he’d believed earlier that morn he found himself headed to the unlikeliest of places…only to find himself there now…on a bed with his best friend in the world’s sister-in-law…hanging bed curtains. Poppy continued twining the netting until it spiraled along the front poster.

  Retreating to the middle of the bed—his bed—she dropped her stained palms on her waist, bringing his gaze inadvertently lower to her rounded hips. Hips that begged a man to sink his fingertips into them. Only, they weren’t simply a woman’s hips. They were this woman’s hips. Poppy. Poppy Tidemore. St. Cyr’s sister-in-law.

  That enumeration of all the reasons it was only caddish to ogle her figure didn’t help. He gulped.

  It was simply that she was in pants that clung to her person when he’d never before seen a lady in such a state. That was all that compelled his attention. Liar…

  “They’re lovely, are they not?”

  He strangled on a cough, choking. “Th-they?” he managed to gasp out.

  Poppy gave him a peculiar look. “The…bed curtains.”

  The bed curtains? He swiftly jerked his gaze up and made a show of considering her work.

  “It is marginally better; would you not say?”

  Gone. He needed her gone. Now. “Absolutely,” he said quickly.

  In the end, intervention came with a slight scratch upon the heavy oak panel.

  Oh, bloody hell. Pulse hammering, Tristan dropped to the floor. He caught himself on his palms. Pain radiated from his wrists up his arms from the force of that fall.

  Pain that would be a minor sting compared to the beating the lady’s brother-in-law would dole out were she to be discovered.

  Another muffled scratch split the quiet, followed by the slight squeak of the mattress as Poppy climbed off…and…

  What in hell?

  Peeking over the top, he batted at the bed curtains, and stared across the opening made by Poppy’s work.

  Poppy, who was even now striding purposefully across the room—toward the door.

  His stomach muscles clenched. Dead. His fall from societal grace would be a polite stroll through Hyde Park compared with what would follow if she opened that door. “Poppy,” he whispered furiously. “Poppy,” he repeated, his hushed voice slightly pitched.

  The minx glanced back; her high brow wrinkled in consternation.

  He gave his head a shake, and then tapped a finger against his mouth. “No,” he mouthed.

  It was the absolute wrong word ever to utter in any form to Poppy Tidemore.

  The young lady resumed her previous course.

  He dove back down and, lying on his back, he edged himself under the mahogany bedframe. The door opened and Tristan lay motionless. His pulse hammering in his ears, he stared up at the wood slats.

  In the course of his roguish existence, he’d found himself in this situation any number of times, always when a tryst had been untimely interrupted by interlopers. Never had he been caught with an innocent lady, because no matter the reputation he’d earned himself, Tristan hadn’t been one to dally with debutantes.

  The irony, that he would now be facing pistols at dawn for a misunderstanding…with his best friend’s sister-in-law, was not lost on him.

  Except…he strained his ears for some hint of discourse.

  A faint staccato click-clack reached him.

  What…?

  Tristan turned his head, and peered at the light filtering under his hiding place, just as a large canine head ducked under the bedframe.

  Thumping his paws playfully on the gleaming hardwood floor, Sir Faithful panted wildly; calling forth a painful reminder of Tristan’s own dogs.

  Tristan had lost everything.

  And as such, he should certainly be mourning the luxurious townhouse he’d forfeited or the sprawling country properties he’d thrilled in visiting each summer. Or the endless supply of fine French spirits.

  As it turned out, as he let himself in his new—and temporary—chambers, chambers given him solely as an act of charity, he found himself missing his dogs.

  The pair of hounds, Valor and Honor, now in a carriage bound for Dartmoor with his likely still sobbing mother.

  As if sensing that melancholy, Sir Faithful whined and proceeded to inch his way closer. When the dog was within reach, Tristan stroked that place between Sir Faithful’s eyes, and the creature’s tongue
lolled out the side of his mouth.

  He sighed.

  Yes, he missed his dogs.

  Dreadfully.

  “I assure you, it is safe to come out,” Poppy teased, her voice heavy with her amusement. “Sir Faithful won’t harm you.”

  “Minx,” he muttered. He grunted as the mattress dipped, the article hitting him in the nose.

  “I heard that, Poplar.”

  How did she always do that? Tristan gave the enormous dog one more pat before inching his larger frame out from under the bedframe. His gaze promptly collided with Poppy’s, which stared down at him. “I swear you are part owl, Poppy Tidemore.”

  A faint scowl marred her heart-shaped face. “I’ll have you know my ears aren’t crooked.”

  As if to accentuate that very point, Poppy pushed her midnight curls back, revealing perfectly delicate shells.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You likened me to an owl. The entire reason they hear as well as they do is because one is positioned at the front of their head and the other higher up.”

  He stared bemusedly up. “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve observed them in the country so that I might sketch them.”

  He chuckled. When other ladies were painting floral arrangements, she’d gone off into the woods of her family’s properties to paint something different. “Is there anything you do not know?”

  “Actually, there is.” Leaning further down, she peered under the bed.

  He opened his mouth to ask again what she was doing now.

  And then, promptly closed it. Having known Poppy Tidemore since she’d been a girl, he knew enough to know when not to prod her. “Hmm.” Then with an uncharacteristic restraint, she let the remainder of that statement go unfinished. Leaving her meaning veiled, and his intrigue redoubled.

  Poppy started across the room, to where containers of paints and stained brushes lay out, items he’d failed to note until now.

  Drawn to the brightly painted mural, he joined her. “Did you do this?” he asked; awe coated his question.

  “I did,” she said matter-of-factly, as she wiped the tip of a brush upon a multi-colored stained rag.

  That was it: “I did.” When any other woman would have used the opportunity to search for compliments and talk about her work.

  Moving closer, he stood shoulder to shoulder beside her, and continued his perusal up close. “Are you an artist?” she asked, interrupting his examination.

  “An—?”

  Poppy eyed him with a newfound interest in her expressive gaze. “Your hair is long. You’ve scruff on your cheeks”—she brushed her knuckles over his in a touch that was more clinical than caressing—“and you’re rumpled.”

  “Alas, I fear that is where any similarities between me and an artist ends.”

  “Ah.” She eyed him with such abject disappointment that left him feeling wanting, an increasingly familiar and quite despised sentiment. “Well, then you shouldn’t go about looking so rumpled. Artists are rumpled with scruff on their cheeks.”

  “Duly noted, my lady,” he said drolly. With her dismissive pronouncement, Poppy began cleaning her brushes.

  Tristan examined her work once more.

  His heart slowed.

  A pair of hunting dogs remained poised for all time, reaching for the hawk mid-flight. That creature forever from their eager reach. From the arch of their wide stances to the upturned positioning of their noses, Poppy had masterfully captured the pair of dogs’ excitement.

  Only, they weren’t just…any dogs.

  Tristan leaned close, and his chest constricted with the weight of emotion.

  “They are my dogs,” he whispered.

  Not pausing, she continued to tidy her workstation. “Yes.”

  She’d painted Valor and Honor, as Tristan had always enjoyed their company most—on the hunt. She’d captured the lush green grass of his Kent estates…beloved grounds that had gone and passed to another. And now Valor and Honor would explore anew, elsewhere.

  He glanced over at her. “You despise hunting,” he murmured, as he was swept by a genuine curiosity to make sense of her subject.

  “Yes, but not everyone does. Some love it.”

  He loved it.

  “It is a compromise.” Poppy shrugged. “I’ve created something that anyone might appreciate. The hint of a hunt, with a bird taking its flight to freedom. Anyone might enjoy it, that way.”

  With that she closed up her neat leather case.

  Tristan glanced over at Poppy. “What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning up.”

  “But…” Tristan returned his attention forward. “You’ve not even signed it.”

  At her silence, he looked back. A blush stained her cheeks. “I’m not.”

  “Whyever not? It is your painting.” Hers was magnificent work. “It shouldn’t be anonymous. The world should know it is yours, Poppy.”

  “It is enough that I know it is mine, Tristan,” she said softly.

  He scoffed. “You’ve created something that will be remembered through time and you’d leave everyone who stepped inside this room to wonder at the artist’s identity?”

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  Did she realize that she was afraid to reveal her talent to the world? “I’m disappointed, Poppy…”

  He let that hang on the air; knowing she would not be able to let it remain in silence for long. “About what?” she asked defensively.

  “You, who’d thumb her nose up at society, would hold yourself back from sharing your art.” It fit not at all with the woman he knew her to be. But then, each person had their vulnerabilities.

  “I don’t hold myself back,” she said impatiently. “I’ve created it. As I said, art is to be enjoyed. People will enter this room and do precisely that.”

  “And the artist should be honored,” he persisted.

  “I’m not signing it, Tristan.” He opened his mouth to continue debating the point, but she glowered him into silence. “Enough about what I should or should not do with my work.” Poppy bent down and rummaged through a basket. For several moments, she fished around and then drew out several of the sketchpads there. She proceeded to flip through book after book, discarding them for the next. “Full,” she murmured, dropping the journal in exchange for another. “Nearly full.”

  He craned his neck. “What are you doing?”

  Ignoring his question, Poppy turned through the pages of another. “Perfect.” Book in hand, she stood. “Here.”

  Tristan grunted as she pressed the heavy volume hard against his chest. A question in his eyes, he glanced between her and the sketchpad. “What is this for?”

  “Go ahead,” she urged him. “Have a look.”

  Tristan hesitated before taking the thick sketchpad. He flipped it open. “My God,” he whispered, to himself. The Kent lake where they’d fished so many times. He turned to the next. A young girl on a riding path in Hyde Park. How expertly, how perfectly she’d captured every detail. Tristan looked up. “You truly are nothing short of remarkable, Poppy Tidemore.” And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to memorialize her name.

  Another one of those pretty pink blushes stained her cheeks. “Uh…yes…well, thank you, but that is not what I’m showing you,” she mumbled, endearingly discomfited by his praise. Ripping her pad from his fingers, she flipped through, and held the sketchpad out so it faced Tristan.

  He stared perplexed. “They’re empty.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m…confused,” he admitted. But then, the minx had always had that effect on him.

  Poppy lowered the book. “You need to find yourself, Tristan.”

  Find himself…

  Two words which suggested he was lost. Which was perhaps the most accurate way with which to describe who and what he’d become. He’d been a rogue. A soldier. A war-hero. None of what he’d been or done helped him from his current circumstances. “I’m no artist,” he said gruffly.
With that, he closed the book, and made to hand it over.

  She lifted her palms and refused his rejection. “It is a journal, Tristan. Let the pages guide you.”

  “I can’t take your book, Poppy.”

  “I have plenty more.” Filling her arms with the remainder of her art supplies, Poppy started for the front of the room.

  Tristan sprang into movement. His longer-legged stride surpassed her shorter one, and reaching for the handle, he opened the door. Ducking his head out, he did a sweep of the corridors, and then motioned for her.

  With impressively noiseless footfalls, Poppy slipped from the room. The quiet, however, was broken by the enormous dog trotting at her side.

  Tristan followed her retreating frame several moments.

  “Poppy,” he called after her on a whisper.

  She paused, glancing back.

  “Thank you.”

  With a smile, Poppy bowed her head, and then rushed off.

  He stared after her until she’d gone, and then closed the door. Leaning against the panel, he glanced around the fine hotel rooms. With Poppy and her dog and her teasing gone, the melancholy returned.

  This was…home.

  Chapter 6

  Most people despised rising early.

  Poppy had never been one of those people. In the early morn hours, when most of the world slept on, one was permitted the freedom to do what one wished, without those prying eyes about.

  There was a difference, however, between early…and ungodly.

  Quarter to four in the morning fell firmly into the latter column.

  She raised her arms filled with art supplies, to stifle yet another yawn.

  Tristan.

  He’d always lived life his own way.

  Arriving early and upending her schedule was on point for the earl.

  Nay, he went not by the title Earl of Maxwell now. But, rather, baron.

  It was a foreign concept to try and wrap her mind around, still. What must it be…for Tristan? To have lost everything familiar? And his entire circumstances—the very name he’d gone by these past years—ripped away.

  And yet, he’d not descended into some surly, dark scoundrel. He’d retained that ability to tease and be teased. That had been one of the reasons she had been so enamored of the gentleman. That and, of course, his appreciation for dogs.