She matched his stance, and followed his gaze to the reflecting pool her brother-in-law had constructed at Penny’s request. With the breeze dusting ripples upon the surface and the overflowing gardens that bloomed with flowers, one could almost believe they were the teasing pair at her family’s summer picnics.
“You would regrettt it,” he said quietly, not taking his eyes from a pair of white swans that glided over the surface.
It did not, however, escape her notice that he’d not outright rejected her offer.
“Why?” She glanced up at him. “Because I’m young and don’t know my own mind?”
“Because you are young and will one day cooome to regret that you don’t have what your siblings share with their spouses.”
How very…easily he assumed they’d never have that. And for the first time since she’d put forward their marriage pact as the answer to both their situations, reservations crept in.
Could she spend a lifetime with Tristan Poplar and not fall hopelessly under his spell?
Poppy drew herself up onto the ledge, and perched herself there. “We like one another. We get on well. We’re honest. We’ve laid out very clearly our expectations of one another. I say we’d be better off than most married couples.”
A grin tugged his lips up into that rogue’s half smile that never ceased to play with her heart.
A moment later, the sharp planes of his face returned to their earlier, more serious mask. He caught her wrist in a grip that was an enthrallingly, contradictory mix of steel and softness. He guided her hand to his lips. “Tell me your expectations.”
“I-I have our list saved.”
“Uh-uh.” He guided her off the ledge, and anchored her there between the small stone wall and his chest. “I want the words from your lips, not ones written in a child’s hand long ago.”
Two years wasn’t so very long ago. She intended to say as much but he lowered his mouth; his breath tickled her skin, sending shivers radiating along her arm. Her breath caught.
And then he kissed her.
“Tell me, Poppy,” he whispered into her mouth. Tristan brushed the pad of his thumb along the inseam of her wrist, in a distracted back and forth caress. Her lashes fluttered under the deliciousness of that warmth. “Tell me what you want.”
You. I want you…
“I’m to have the largest space in the residence for an art room,” she managed to get out that first ask she’d put to him at Lord Smith’s.
“I’ve two properties. A crumbling estate in Dartmoor and a London townhouse, falling down. All the rooms are yours and you should use them as a great, big exhibit for all your art work.” He flung his arms wide. “All of it and signed, tooooo.”
Her lips twitched. “Great and big are redundant.”
“You’re trryying to change the topic.”
“A bit, I am,” she conceded.
“Have I mentioned I’ve a rat infestation?”
“You’ve not, Tristan.” She made a mental note of that detail. “We’ll require cats, then. Sir Faithful won’t be pleased, of course, but he should also dislike the alternative.”
A pained laugh escaped him. “Poppy, I’ve no words. What else would you request?”
“I’ll keep company with whomever I wish.”
He shifted his hip onto the edge of the balustrade. “Would that list include Rochford?”
Poppy lifted her chin. “And if it did?”
“I’d trust you to choose your friendships assss you would.”
It was the answer she should prefer. The one she should want. An absolute trust in her judgment and freedom to choose. And yet, perversely, she wished he might care enough to not want her anywhere near the bastard Rochford. “There’ll be no hunting,” she quickly added, lest he detect that inexplicable disappointment she couldn’t herself understand.
“This is becoming decidedly more real,” he muttered.
Yes, for the both of them. The significance of what she’d suggested and what they now spoke of, hit her like the weight of a fast-moving carriage…she and Tristan joined forevermore in a marriage of convenience.
As if he’d followed the uneasy path her thoughts had swerved, Tristan palmed her cheek, his caress gentle and hypnotic. “You see it,” he said quietly.
“See what?” she whispered.
“That you want more.” Tristan lowered his hand to the rail, and she bit the inside of her cheek at the loss of his touch. “That you deserve more, Poppy.”
It was then that she knew definitively with all reservations lifted: she was going to marry Tristan Poplar. Her decision wasn’t born of a young girl’s flight of fancy. Or a young woman’s secret yearning. Nay, it came from a place of knowing that if she could not have love in her life, she would have a man of honor, who put her happiness before that of his own. Poppy smoothed her palms over her skirts. “There is the matter of my garments, Tristan. I’d wear—”
“Whatever you wished.” He held his palms aloft. “I assure you, I am in no way attacking your white garments. I wellll understand you are free to be annoyed by your skirts; however, it is an altogether different matter for others to express an opinion as to what you’re wearing.”
Her heart skipped several beats. Those words, a near verbatim echo of her warning to him, tugged forth that long ago night. That night, which despite his protestations he recalled. Oh, he might say he had no recollection of their exchange in Lord Smith’s conservatory, but he’d just proven otherwise. Something told her that if she asserted that point, this increasingly “more real” discussion would be at an end, and so too would their pact. Poppy came ’round to face Tristan, effectively trapping him upon the perch he’d made. “There are two more matters to address,” she said, tipping her head back.
His gaze slid to her mouth. Heat filled his eyes. “Yes?” he asked hoarsely.
He wants to kiss me. And I want that kiss. She wanted all of him and a lifetime of exploring the desire he’d awakened in her just days ago.
Then drawing her shoulders back, she put that last, and most important demand to him. “There’s to be no mistresses.” She’d have his loyalty. “Ever,” she added. “No opera singers, actresses, widows, serving girls. And…and…any other type of woman I might be missing.” Whether they never moved beyond anything more than friendship—which, given that was the state they’d found themselves in these past six years, was increasingly likely—she’d know she at least had his loyalty.
“There’ll be no mistresses, Poppy,” he murmured.
How effortlessly he made that pledge.
She darted her tongue out, tracing the seam of her lips. Could she finish the remainder of that request, one she’d been too innocent and even shy to present two years earlier but now could not have a marriage without a commitment from him? “There is one more…”
“And what is that, Poppy?” Tristan ran the pad of his thumb along the same path her tongue had traveled. She shivered, as a streak of heat went through her. His eyes darkened, reflecting back the very desire that now throbbed within her.
“I won’t have a marriage in name only, Tristan.”
“Say what you would have, Poppy,” he urged in a husked voice, just as he’d urged in Lord Smith’s conservatory. Only then there’d been teasing. Now, there was only his passion-laden command that liquified her. “Tell me what it is you want.” Tristan shifted his teasing caress lower, along the line of her jaw, and lower to the small teardrop-shaped birthmark upon her neck; he lightly touched it, as if discovering that mark she’d hated as a girl and sought to conceal as a young woman. But with his ministrations, somehow felt like a thing of beauty.
Her pulse thundered in her ears, and as she spoke, her voice came thickly. “I would have you…” Poppy tried again, her voice breathless, “…share my bed.”
A smile ghosted his lips; this was the smile she’d never had turned on her. Not from this man. Not from any man. This was the rogue’s grin more potent than the apple that had tempted Eve
into sinning, and every fallen lady thereafter, into willingly—happily—shedding her virtue—for the promises contained within that smile. “I assure you, Poppy, ours would never be a marriage in name only.”
His veiled promise said everything and nothing all at the same time, weighted her eyes closed.
Tristan lowered his head, so their breaths mingled. “Very well, Poppy.” As he spoke, their lips brushed in fleeting, all too brief kisses. “I’ll marry you.”
Chapter 12
Tristan had done many outlandish things while drunk. There’d been the time, on a wager, he’d raced shirtless astride his mount in the dead of winter. A wager he’d won. Or the time, fresh out of university, when he’d broken into a tavern ditty at Almack’s. An invitation that had been rescinded and then again only extended after his return from Waterloo.
Never before, however, had he proposed marriage.
Had he proposed marriage? Even drunk as he’d been, he would wager the rest of his holdings that it had been Poppy Tidemore who’d put the offer to him.
He, however, had been the one who’d accepted.
In the light of a new day, with his head throbbing to beat the Devil, and being escorted through the halls of the Earl of Sinclair’s townhouse, Tristan conceded that he may have made a mistake.
And a terrible one at that.
It had been one thing to lose his fortunes and his title. There’d still been the possibility of Tristan restoring his wealth and eventually redeeming his name.
It was an altogether different matter forfeiting his life, which was certainly what he was doing, coming here to ask Poppy Tidemore’s, loving, overprotective brother for the lady’s hand in marriage. After all, there could be no going back from being murdered dead.
In fact, had he not given the lady his word, he might actually have changed his mind altogether.
Nay, that wasn’t altogether true.
The memory of her, on that terrace outside his rooms, with the scent of crimson roses thick in the air, and the crisp hint of citrus clinging to her skin, whispered forward as it had since their meeting. He’d wanted her in that moment. And he’d been spellbound with the possibility of knowing her—in every way.
“Here we are, my lord,” Lord Sinclair’s butler murmured, and he stifled the urge to groan as that slight sound sent another round of throbbing to his temples. The servant rapped once on Sinclair’s door.
Dying.
I am dying.
His stomach pitched, and he gave brief thanks when the knocking stopped and the door opened.
That relief was short-lived, however, as the reality of what he intended replaced that previous misery.
The brother.
The offer of marriage.
Or hell, he wasn’t ready for marriage in and of itself.
And certainly not to Poppy. He’d only hurt her. There could be no other outcome. She was young. Innocent. At some point, she’d convince herself that she cared more for him than she did. More than he was worth.
“Baron Bolingbroke,” the servant announced, and Tristan flinched as his head again screamed in protest.
He tried to make his legs move.
Who would have imagined that running to face a French soldier’s bayonet should prove easier than entering Lord Sinclair’s offices and putting an offer of marriage before him.
The butler coughed into his hand.
“Bolingbroke,” Sinclair called from the middle of that room. “Have you found yourself at the wrong residence? Is it my brother-in-law whom you seek?”
With that, the other man unknowingly offered Tristan an out. Tristan could very well claim to have been seeking St. Cyr on a matter of importance.
Only…
He could not. Not for Poppy whom he’d entered into an agreement with. And not for the sisters who depended upon him. That compelled Tristan forward.
He entered. “No, my lord,” he said, even the sound of his own voice excruciating. The servant bowed and took his leave, closing the door behind Tristan, and sealing off that path of escape. Uninvited, Tristan came forward, joining the earl in the middle of his Aubusson carpet. “I wished to speak with you.”
The other man’s eyebrows came together ever so slightly. “Oh?” There was a warning there, one that suggested he knew, which was both improbable and impossible. Tristan himself hadn’t known until just last evening that there would be anything between him and Poppy. The earl crossed to his sideboard and made himself a brandy.
It didn’t escape his notice that Poppy’s brother offered neither a seat, nor drink. Which was all well and good. After the bottle he’d consumed last evening, he never intended to touch a drink again.
Tristan tugged off his gloves, and beat them together in a nervous rhythm before catching Sinclair’s focus on that distracted movement. Tristan hurriedly stuffed the articles inside the front of his jacket, and clasped his hands behind him.
“I must admit,” Sinclair said, as he carried that drink over…and then promptly bypassed Tristan, for the sofa. “When I was informed you were here to meet with me, I wondered: what business we could possibly have with one another,” the earl went on, as he settled himself into the leather wingback chair at the hearth. “Because we’ve never had any business together that should merit a sudden visit.” Over the rim of his drink, Sinclair arched a single, dark, menacing brow. “Am I correct?”
So it was to be that manner of meeting.
“May I?” Tristan asked, looking to the seating.
Wordlessly, the earl waved his spare hand.
Tristan joined Poppy’s brother. Stopped. Considered the available seating, before ultimately opting for the matching wingback chair furthest from the earl…with a rose-inlaid table between them. Directness was always the best way. “I’m here to ask for your sister’s hand.”
The Earl of Sinclair went absolutely motionless; his untouched drink dangled from his fingers. And then…Poppy’s brother downed the contents in one long, slow swallow, his throat muscles frantically working. When he’d finished, his face twisted in a grimace. “I’m sorry,” he said darkly. “It had sounded as though you said…”
“I want to marry your sister.”
“My sister.”
“Poppy.” When the other man’s face remained peculiarly static, Tristan clarified. “Your sole remaining unwed sister.”
The earl opened his mouth. And closed it. He opened it again. Then, lifting a finger, he stalked over to the sideboard. He returned a moment later with the same bottle of French spirits. Pouring himself another drink, Poppy’s brother set the decanter and snifter down before him. “You want to marry Poppy.”
All things considered, even with the repeating echo of Tristan’s every word, the earl was handling this a good deal better than he’d expected. “I do.”
“No.”
Tristan frowned. “I—”
“Beg my pardon? As you should.”
“I was going to say ‘I don’t understand’,” Tristan drawled.
Ignoring that bid for levity between them, Sinclair rested his palms on his knees, and leaned forward. “You asked for my permission, and the answer is ‘no’.”
He resisted the urge to rub at his aching temples. “I was being polite.”
“Pooolite? Polite. Polite.”
Perhaps at another time, Tristan would have been singularly impressed at the earl’s ability to transform the same word into three different meanings: incredulity. Shock. And fury. Now, his patience was really wearing thin. “That is correc—”
“Ah-ah,” the earl cut him off before he’d finished. Poppy’s brother wagged a finger at him like he was a troublesome child. “Polite is not entering my household and stating a desire to marry my youngest sister.” Sinclair’s voice grew increasingly strident. “My sister whom you know, not at all, Maxwell.”
“Bolingbroke,” he felt inclined to point out. Errors in names and forms of address were a good deal safer than the other man’s volatile rage simmering and
about ready to boil over. “And you were correct, I misspoke.”
Some of the tension eased from the earl’s shoulders. “Indeed.”
“Poppy and I wish to marry one another.” His earlier tolerance gave way to annoyance. Tristan knew how to make her smile and what she found joy in. He knew those interests that mattered most to her. And now, he knew the taste and feel of her, too… “And we know one another quite well, in fact.”
The earl’s face went red.
“Not in that way,” Tristan rushed to reassure. At least, not in ways he’d ever admit. Not if he still wished to remain breathing.
“Not. In. What. Way,” Sinclair’s whisper was lined in steel.
Tristan wrestled with his cravat. “Ah, intimately that is. Not yet. Not until we marry, that is.” Stop talking.
There was a beat of silence, and then—the earl roared. “Get out.”
He swallowed a groan. Ill. I’m going to be ill. The agony beating around in his skull was going to make him vomit right on Sinclair’s office floor, in the middle of a proposal. In a bid for calm he didn’t feel, Tristan looped his knee across his opposite leg in response. “I am afraid that is not going to make the situation go away. I’m here asking to marry your sister. Your sister who wishes to marry me.” The sister who, in fact, was the creator of their marriage pact, and the one who’d proposed.
“Absolutely not.”
Gathering up his glass and decanter, the earl started for his sideboard. He returned the bottle to the row of other fine spirits, and then took a more casual sip, before returning to his desk. Setting his drink aside for the open ledger atop the mahogany piece, the earl proceeded to dismiss him.
Very well, directness had not worked. Tristan employed another tactic with the gentleman. “In fairness, we are not unalike, you and I.” Even the sound of his own voice made him want to cast up his stomach.
Sinclair leveled him with a flinty stare. “We are nothing alike.”
“We both have sisters whom we care deeply for,” Tristan pointed out.
That effectively silenced the earl. The other man did tip his chin reluctantly to the vacant chairs, and Tristan took heart.
Courting Poppy Tidemore (Lords of Honor Book 5) Page 15
