Only, now there were no dogs; the pair of hounds that had followed him for his morning rides in Hyde Park. Or who’d risen with the sun to join him as he’d fished at the estates of his best friend, Poppy’s brother-in-law.
Sadness filled her.
Yes, Poppy’s mother might believe there could be no greater tragedy than the loss of Poppy’s reputation at the hands of some cad, but she was so very wrong in that self-centered opinion.
Poppy reached Tristan’s apartments. Balancing her work supplies in one arm, she inserted the universal key given her by her sister, and let herself in. The well-oiled hinges made not so much as a creak of protest as she entered and closed the door behind her.
The grey curtains drawn and the fire at the hearth having long since died, but for a lone candle flickering from a sconce near her mural, the room had since been pitched into darkness. Blinking to help adjust to the dim space, Poppy slipped inside, and then carefully pressed the panel closed behind her.
From behind the thick bed-curtains, a shuddery snore penetrated the quiet.
He snored.
It was not a new detail. Poppy had gathered Tristan’s slumbering habits when she’d come upon him hiding in a copse at Christian’s summer house party nearly three years ago. Finding him with his back pressed against a majestic oak, and his hat bent low over his eyes, had been endearing. There was, however, a deeper intimacy to this moment, with Tristan on the other side of a curtain, sleeping in his bed.
He emitted another snort, and Poppy gave her head a disgusted shake.
Do not be a silly nitwit. She’d ceased waxing on about Tristan Poplar in her mind some years ago. Well, two years to be precise. Regardless of whether she’d set aside her infatuation with the charmer, was neither here nor there.
The work she’d been brought in by her sister to do, however, was what mattered.
Carefully making her way across the room, Poppy took the path over the plush carpeting. As she set down her art supplies, she inspected her work from the previous evening. Setting down her case, she touched the tip of her smallest nail against the paint, and gave a pleased smile.
Dry—
Click.
Poppy went absolutely motionless.
“Not another movement.”
And despite knowing Tristan Poplar, she’d never heard this side of him; the steely baritones, that even laced with sleep, contained a sharpness and threat within them.
Her heart thudded in her chest, and she angled a glance to where Tristan slept—or had slept.
The head of a pistol glinted in the dark…that weapon pointed directly at her breast.
“And here I thought you’d been more appreciative of my work,” she said, her voice emerging faintly threadbare.
The gun disappeared, to be replaced by Tristan ducking his head out between the bed curtains, and she breathed more easily. “Poppy?”
It was not that she’d thought he’d kill her—not intentionally, anyway. But one never knew what another person might do when startled from slumber. “Who do you think it would be, Tristan?”
“I don’t know. I’m living in a hotel after my father coordinated the kidnapping of a nobleman and rightful heir…who’s since become a lord of the underworld. I can hardly imagine the reason for my paranoia.”
“Truly?” She tipped her head. “Because you’ve quite laid out—”
“Not truly, Poppy.” All vestige of sleep had vanished from his voice. With a long stream of curses, Tristan let the bed-curtains flutter shut. “I was being sarcastic,” he snapped.
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,” she took delight in informing him, as she fished her brushes from her apron. In a small jar, Poppy added yellow, orange, blue, and red and then blended the colors together until they’d formed the rich auburn of Tristan’s hunting dogs. Raising her brush, she made to touch it to the mural—
When she registered the utter still in the rooms.
Lowering her brush to the jar, she glanced back. “You’re not sleeping.”
There was a pause.
And then… “I might have been.”
Her lips twitched. Alas, he’d never been able to stop himself from rising to her baiting. As he was awake, she pushed the heavy curtains open. The glow from the moon sent light spilling into the room. “No one falls asleep that quickly,” she pointed out as she returned to her task.
“I do.”
That was a detail she’d not gleaned about Tristan Poplar; it highlighted, despite the connection she’d imagined between them, how little she truly knew about him. Just like the fact that he slept with a pistol. “Perhaps you do,” she conceded. “But you were not snoring enough to wake the person in the other rooms.”
“I…I most certainly do not snore,” he stammered.
A snort escaped her. “With all the mistresses you’ve kept these years, not one of them had the forthrightness to share that you snore worse than an overweight pug running too fast in the heart of summer?”
“I…I…” He strangled on his words.
Well, if that wasn’t certainly a first in all the years she’d known Tristan Poplar, effortless conversationalist. Her lips twitched up in a smile. “I’m personally of an opinion I would prefer to have a lover who was truthful with me about my habits.”
“You are not taking a lover,” he barked from the other side of the bed curtains, and Poppy might almost be endeared by the idea that he cared…if he didn’t have the indignant tones to match her overprotective brother.
“No,” she conceded. She counted several beats of silence. “At least not at this precise moment, anyway, as you are the only gentleman ab—”
The heavy netting around his bed did little to conceal the animalistic growl emanating from the gentleman tucked away there. “You are most certainly not taking any lover. Ev—ah—”
A heavy thump followed by a grunt filled the rooms as Tristan hit the floor hard.
Oh, this was entirely too much fun. Fighting to control the mirth shaking her frame, Poppy devoted all her focus to her mural. “Worry not,” she said with a false somberness to her tones. After Tristan’s reputation and the death of Poppy’s girlish dreams, coupled with Rochford’s treachery, the last thing she desired was a lover. “I’ve no intention of taking a lover. At least, not…” She cast a flippant glance back, “…soon—” Her words withered and died on a high-pitched squeak, as her gaze took in Tristan desperately clinging to a sheet around his waist.
Good God… It would appear there was one bit of information she’d not been privy to all these years—Tristan slept in the nude. Information, that would have been decidedly more helpful…before she’d gone and enlisted Rochford’s assistance. “You’re…naked,” she whispered. Her heart threatened to pound outside of her chest.
Clutching the sheet close to his body with his spare hand, Tristan slapped a hand over his eyes. “Why aren’t you closing your eyes?” he croaked.
He was magnificent. A towering, chiseled wall of muscular perfection. Flat of belly, narrow of hips, a light dusting of dark curls upon a sculpted chest…he epitomized the male form. That figure artists since the beginning of time had sought to forever memorialize.
Say something. Say anything. Be breezy. He’d of course be accustomed to breezy females.
“I believe the better question, Tristan, is why are you closing yours?” Except, for all her attempts at control of the situation…and her body’s awareness, her words emerged breathless. Faint and awestruck to her own virginal ears.
And embarrassment that weakness for him was ultimately what brought her eyes quickly closed. She pressed a palm over them for good measure, and promptly mourned the sight of him before her.
Tristan groaned. “Close your eyes.”
“They are. If yours were open, you’d know as much,” she said from around her hand. Even with that assurance, she slid her index finger and middle finger apart the minutest fraction.
Clutching at the satin sheet wrapped about his waist, Tri
stan jumped to his feet with an impressive agility. That slight movement sent the muscles of his flat stomach rippling.
Of their own volition, Poppy’s fingers slid apart a fraction more.
She needed a canvas. Immediately. And charcoal. As she committed the planes of his physique to memory, she catalogued the paints she’d require.
“Good God, are you peeking at me?” he choked out, tripping over himself as he rushed to the opposite side of the bed.
“No,” she lied, sliding her fingers tightly into place. In fairness, she’d been more openly staring.
There was the whispery rustle of silk indicating he’d let the sheet fall from his fingers.
And this time she let her arms fall to her sides. She scowled at those grey bed-curtains that obscured Tristan, and hated those dark articles all over again, and for very different reasons than their design.
“Why aren’t you sleeping, Poppy?” There was the sharp slap of fabric.
A moment later, Tristan emerged from the other side of the bed—bare-chested. Barefoot.
Bare for everything, except the tan trousers he’d donned. Her mouth went dry once more. Words. Speak words. Poppy mustered a smile. “I’ve never been one to rise late.”
“No, you haven’t,” he muttered, scouring the room. “Don’t you have an early morning ride to see to? A suitor to prepare to greet?”
Poppy retrieved the white lawn shirt near her feet, and held it up. “There’s hardly a rush of suitors now.”
Tristan sprinted over and tugged the garment from her fingers. “Not now, per se. But soon.” He drew the article overhead, and stuffed his arms into the sleeves.
She scowled. “Oh, come, you know there’s no suitors waiting.” And she’d never known Tristan to be deliberately mocking.
Teasing? Yes. Hurtful, no.
He dropped his hands on hips. “And whyever not?”
Such a rich indignation pulled that response from him and sent warmth filling her chest.
And then it occurred to her.
“You…don’t know.” It was a statement that left her on a slow exhalation.
Tristan shook his head. “Don’t know what?”
When everyone in London knew of and whispered about her scandal with Rochford, there remained one who hadn’t—Tristan. And there was something so very…refreshing in his not bothering with that gossip.
He closed the handful of steps between them, so just a handsbreadth separated them. She tilted her head back to meet his dark gaze.
“Know what, Poppy?” he clipped out slowly.
She smiled. “Why, I was ruined.”
Chapter 7
Mayhap he’d misheard her.
After all, she’d delivered those words conversationally with her usual smile in place. The one that dimpled both her cheeks, and lit her gaze.
Only, searching his tangled mind, he couldn’t bring together a single word that rhymed with those to explain any misunderstanding on his part.
Nonetheless, it bore confirming. “You were ruined?”
Poppy nodded once.
He shook his head.
She nodded a second time. “Ruined…as in one with a shattered reputation. A scandalous lady. A—”
“I know what ruined means,” he said tightly. “What I intended to ask was…” He slashed a hand at the air, and the lady ducked out of the way to avoid his gesticulations. “Was…was…?”
“What happened?” she hazarded.
Who. Tristan’s fingers curled into reflexive fists, as a blinding haze of red-hot rage dulled his vision. It was a name he sought. The blackguard who’d succeeded in destroying Poppy Tidemore’s name and reputation. The “what happened”, however, would do…for now. “We’ll begin there,” he said, in the calmest tones he could manage.
Poppy wandered over to her box of art supplies, and proceeded to unpack the remainder of its contents. “I went off with someone I had no business going off with, and we were discovered.”
An image flickered forward…of Poppy, with her gown shoved up around her hips, while some rogue guided her down the path of ruin. Rage sizzled in his veins. Biting. Sharp. Red-hot. “You. Went. Off…” A primal growl climbed his throat. Dead. Once he had a name, Tristan would kill the bastard with his bare hands in a death that would be as slow as it was brutal.
Setting down the brush she’d been holding, Poppy faced him. Her eyes formed perfect circles. “Are you thinking…never tell me you believe I…” A laugh burst from her lips.
And just like that, the tension went out of him. In her usual Poppy fashion, she’d been teasing him. And he didn’t know if he wanted to shake her or breathe a sigh of relief. Either way, her amusement, combined with his own, proved contagious. “You didn’t—?”
“Good God, no!”
His shoulders trembled, and he dusted his hands briefly over his face. “I thought—”
Laughing, Poppy slashed her palms at the air. “Absolutely not. I’ve no interest in a liaison with some faithless bounder.”
Oh, thank God. Because the idea of her, Poppy, wrapped in the arms of any man sent something dark and insidious rolling through him. Some emotion he didn’t care to examine or name. It was enough that Tristan needn’t worry about that image as a reality. Only…
His amusement ebbed. “If you weren’t…” I cannot even say it.
“Having sexual congress?” she supplied, the innocence of her tone belied by the sparkle in her mischievous eyes.
The minx. Only Poppy Tidemore would have devilish fun while discussing how her ruin came to be. Nonetheless, he was determined to have the whole story in the lady’s own words. Except… His brows came together. “Were you ruined because you accompanied a gentleman…somewhere?”
“One might say that,” she said, as she applied another frantic flurry of brushstrokes to her mural. Resting her brush in a jar dirtied with water, Poppy reached for another. Tristan slid into her path, intercepting her efforts.
“One did say that. I did.” He folded his arms, and when she made no move to speak, impatience swirled. “Well?”
“I was merely enlisting the gentleman’s help with my current art project.” He caught the crimson color now staining her cheeks.
Tristan narrowed his eyes. There was more there. More specifically, there was a reason for the blush. The dark niggling was back; pulsing at the back of his head. “And society was scandalized because you were discovered alone together?” It would be reason enough that a lady was ruined.
Knowing Poppy Tidemore, however, it could only be something more…
She paused. “And he may have beenpartiallynak—”
Even as close as he stood to the lady, his ears strained to make sense of those muffled words she rolled together. “I’m sorry? It sounded as though you said ‘he may have been partially…’” He tried to get the word out. For, it had sounded a good deal like she’d said…
Darting out from behind him, Poppy slipped away, moving to the opposite end of her mural. “Naked, Tristan. He was partially naked,” she enunciated like instructing someone who’d never before heard the words.
And damn if it did not feel that very way. Because in this instance, he tried to talk. He tried to order his thoughts. Both efforts failed. That same red-hot sentiment of before returned; dangerously deep that commanded him to hunt the bastard and kill him dead.
“Again, I have to say I am very disappointed in you.”
Because she directed that utterance to the likeness of Tristan’s dogs, it took a moment to register that she, in fact, spoke to Tristan. “You’re disappointed with me?”
“That you should be so prudish about me seeing a naked man.” She glanced pointedly at his shirtsleeves. “And this from a gentleman who”—he sprinted over to the minx—“sleeps in the nuph—” He caught the remainder of those words with his palm.
“Do not.” Reflexively he darted his gaze around the room, more than half-fearing the lady’s brother-in-law would spring forward and cut Trista
n down…which Tristan would rightly deserve. It was in bad form enough that he’d been in a state of dishabille around the lady. It was an altogether different matter to continue speaking on it.
Over his hand, Poppy withered him with a glare.
“Furthermore,” he went on, “we were discussing you and your naked gentle—ah!” Tristan yanked his injured hand back and stared at the imprint of her teeth upon his skin. “Good God, you’re savage,” he said on a breath, and it was admiration that drew that exclamation from him—smarting flesh and all.
Poppy gave a toss of her plaited hair. “Thank you.” She made to add another stroke to her artwork, but he caught the brush and held it out of her reach.
“The story, Poppy,” he gritted between clenched teeth.
Going up on tiptoes, she plucked the article from his hand, and proceeded to blend several paints together. “I don’t answer to demands, Tristan.” Then in a wholly dismissive gesture, she proceeded to re-paint the auburn patches upon Valor or Honor’s fur.
There wasn’t a prouder woman than Poppy. Even as a girl of fifteen who’d been adamant that her elder sister not marry some bounder who’d tricked her. In the end, her sister had married Tristan’s friend, anyway, but through it, Poppy had been the lady, outraged and stubborn in the face of her sister’s tears. That remembrance of the girl she’d been, and the woman she’d become, stayed with him now. He rested a light touch upon her shoulder. “Please, tell me the rest.” And when Tristan had that information, the cad would pay a price.
With an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability, Poppy studied the tip of her brush. “There’s nothing more to say, Tristan. He accompanied me to Juliet’s art rooms, and we were discovered.”
She’d accompanied some man to her sister’s art rooms… Equal parts rage and pain swirled inside him; in a contradictory melding that left an ache in his chest. None of her telling, or the state of her reputation, should come as any kind of surprise. After all, the last unwed Tidemore girl was the most frequent wager laid down at the betting books from White’s on down to the Devil’s Den. And yet, it was a bet Tristan himself had never, nor would have ever made…not against any lady’s reputation.
Courting Poppy Tidemore (Lords of Honor Book 5) Page 9
