Courting Poppy Tidemore (Lords of Honor Book 5)

by Christi Caldwell

  Poppy tamped down a sigh. The problem with sisters is they saw all; there were no secrets. Not well-guarded ones, anyway.

  “What is it, Poppy?” Penelope asked softly, shifting closer.

  What could Poppy say? She had to tell her something. Nay, she had to tell her the truth. Why, at this very instant, Tristan was either speaking to or had already spoken to Jonathan. Her sister would find out, and Poppy would rather she was the one in control of that narrative. For she’d done nothing wrong. She was no different than her sisters who’d taken control of their own fates. “Penelope—” she began.

  In the end, she was interrupted from sharing by a thunderous bellow.

  Both women jumped.

  Next came the slam of doors, and the frantic shouts of hotel staff.

  Horror creeping in, Poppy looked to the glass doors of the empty smoke room. “Oh, bloody hell,” she whispered.

  After all, she well knew that voice. Rarely had it been raised, and when it had? Never had it been raised at her or her sisters. Nay, this was bad.

  “Not now, Black,” her brother shouted from somewhere outside the smoke room. Jonathan’s shouting grew increasingly close in frequency. “I’ll deal with you later.” And then he was there, outside the double doors, with a gaggle of hotel staff at his back and Ryker at his side. “Where in holy hell is my—” His gaze slashed through the crystal panels. Poppy dropped to the floor.

  “I saw you.” Jonathan exploded into the room.

  “Sinclair, you are bad for my business,” Ryker bit out, closing the glass doors behind them.

  “I don’t give ten bloody damns on Sunday about your business.”

  Poppy remained pressed to the floor. Oh, hell. It was a dire day indeed when not even Ryker Black could quell his brother-in-law into silence.

  “Get up, Poppy,” her brother ordered. “I see your legs sticking out.”

  Poppy glanced down at her damning boots.

  “I take it this is the reason for your previous distraction?” Penelope whispered.

  “Of a sort,” she prevaricated.

  “And I hear you,” Jonathan snapped.

  At least he was no longer yelling or slamming things. It was little consolation. Gathering what Joan of Arc must have felt on that fateful day she’d met her maker, Poppy climbed reluctantly to her feet.

  His cheeks splotched red, his eyes brimming with rage, and his chest heaving. Whether it was from his ride here or fury, she knew not, and cared not to speculate.

  Except, when the storm came, it wasn’t with a thunderous bellow, but on a whisper.

  “No.”

  Penelope looked between brother and sister, perplexed. “No?”

  Poppy gave a slight shake.

  Jonathan’s lips curved into an ice-cold smile she’d never before seen on him. That was, not turned on her, anyway. “Will you care to tell her? Or should I?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “I’m not having this as a public discussion,” she said tightly, ignoring her sister’s query.

  “Tell me ‘what’?” Penelope pressed, with a greater urgency. “Furthermore, this is not a ‘public’ discussion. It is merely Ryker and I.”

  “This is all your fault.” Jonathan turned his rage on the elder of his sisters present. “Both of you,” he shot over his shoulder at Ryker, who’d set himself up as a sentry of sorts at the doorway.

  “My fault?” Penny squawked. “What in blazes have I done?” Not allowing a beat for an answer, she spun to Poppy. “What have you done?’

  “Have you watched her?” Jonathan demanded.

  Penelope and Ryker exchanged a look.

  Oh, Poppy had quite enough of all this. “I am not a dog.”

  Sir Faithful hopped up and barked angrily.

  The Tidemores spoke in unison. “Quiet.”

  With a soft whine, the dog sank to his belly and buried his face in his paws.

  Jonathan stalked across the room, and Poppy’s earlier bravado flagged. “Have you seen how she spent her days?”

  Penelope slid herself between Poppy and their fuming brother. “She has painted, Jonathan. Painted.” She enunciated each syllable, while jabbing at the canvas behind her. “And I’ll not make apologies for that.”

  Emotion clogged Poppy’s throat at her sister’s impassioned defense. But then, that was the bond they’d always had: steadfast. Unwavering.

  “And I trust you gave her free rein of the entire hotel.” Jonathan tossed a furious glance over at his brother-in-law. “Both of you?”

  Still silent, his arms folded at his broad chest, Ryker’s dark brows came together.

  Penelope paused. “I…” Her cheeks went grey.

  “Which included, no doubt, rooms generally reserved for gentleman patrons?”

  Penelope’s mouth dropped, and exhaling a noisy hiss through her teeth, she grabbed Poppy tightly by the arm. “What have you done?”

  So much for unwavering sisterly loyalty. “I’ve not done anything,” she said indignantly.

  “And did the rooms you provided her access to include Tristan Poplar’s?”

  That seemed to penetrate her brother-in-law’s previously unflappable repose. His body went whipcord straight.

  “She painted a mural and redesigned his rooms, but—” Penelope gasped, her grip going slack on Poppy. And with that, her loyal sister stepped out of the way and allowed Jonathan a direct path over.

  Poppy hurried to put several safe steps between them. “Nothing improper occurred.” Not that she’d ever dare admit what happened to a single Tidemore. Not if she wished to have a living, breathing bridegroom.

  “Did you paint him…naked?” Penelope asked on an outrageously loud and horrified whisper.

  “The bastard,” Ryker hissed. “Oi’ll kill him and then throw ’im out on ’is bloody arse.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Poppy ordered, stabbing a finger in her brother-in-law’s direction, before facing Penelope. “I didn’t paint him.” Though, in fairness, she would like to paint Tristan naked. His form needed to be preserved on canvas.

  “No,” Jonathan gritted out between clenched teeth. “It is worse. She proposed to him.”

  Penelope slapped hands over her mouth. “You…?”

  “She. Asked. Him. To. Marry. Her.”

  And at last…there was silence.

  Which was a rather impressive feat; few were able to quiet Penelope, the most garrulous of the Tidemore sisters. As such, Poppy should be contented. As long as no one was talking, there was no fury to counter or outrageous shows of temper.

  And yet…

  “Is that what Tristan said?” Poppy exclaimed, indignation pulling that question from her. Oh, the lummox would be lucky if she didn’t end it before it began. Unless, that was what he’d hoped. Or intended. “It wasn’t really me offering marriage.” She chewed at her fingernail. Though the idea squarely rested with her.

  “I knewwww it,” Jonathan exclaimed; sticking a finger in her direction, he waved it about. “You did propose.”

  Poppy winced. And here, she’d let Jonathan trip her up into revealing the truth.

  Her brother began to pace frantically before them. “The moment you mentioned his dogs six years ago, I should have called him out.”

  Her lips twitched, and she fought to conceal that smile. “He didn’t do anything then, Jonathan, and he didn’t do anything now,” she continued over his interruption. “I want this arrangement.”

  And all the fight seemed to go out of Jonathan. His shoulders slumped, and misery marched across his features.

  “Poppy,” Penelope started in with a gentleness in her eyes. “You don’t need to make a match. Not as I or Patrina or Prudence once had to. And certainly not because of a bounder like Rochford. You’ll find the man worthy of you.”

  She already had. In fact, entering into a marriage with Tristan, she already had far more than her sisters had previously known with men who’d been strangers to them. She had a friendship.
/>   “I don’t need to make a match,” Poppy agreed. She touched her gaze on her family present. “I want to.”

  Her sister stared back with stricken eyes.

  Poppy gathered her hands and squeezed them. “I know what I am doing.” And what she wished for.

  “May I speak alone with Poppy?” Jonathan asked quietly, with complete restraint and entirely different than the man who’d stormed the hotel.

  Penelope looked to her, the meaning clear in her Tidemore eyes: if Poppy wished for her to remain, she would.

  Poppy gave a slight nod. “I’m fine,” she promised softy, and with reluctant steps, her sister joined her husband. Ryker slid his fingers into Penelope’s and raised them to his lips for a brief kiss, before taking their leave.

  Poppy stared after them wistfully.

  “You see that,” Jonathan quietly noted, without judgment.

  “See…?”

  “That tenderness. That partnership. That is what your sisters have with their husbands. That is what I have with Juliet. And that is what I want for you, Poppy,” he finished quietly.

  A sound of impatience escaped her. “You do not get to decide what is best for me. You don’t get to decide what I should want or have, nor not want nor never have.” Having been the youngest of the Tidemores, she’d long been the one they sought to protect. An eternal baby of their family that they were determined to relegate to the role of un-aging child whom they would keep with them always. “I want to marry him, Jonathan.”

  Sadness flickered in her brother’s eyes. “I know,” he said softly, his words barely reaching Poppy’s ears, “and I think that is what concerns me most.”

  “He spoke to you.”

  “He stated his intent.” Her heart thumped against her ribs. “And I informed him that I’d not be accepting that offer.”

  Poppy curled her hands into fists. “I am a woman, capable of making up my own mind.”

  “Funny, Bolingbroke said that very thing.”

  Her heart fluttered. “And that makes him someone I wish to wed. Someone who trusts my judgment and allows me a freedom of choice.”

  Her brother jerked as if she’d slapped him. His features twisted in such a mask of sadness, her heart spasmed. “Ah, Poppy, but that is the thing: I do. I recall the moments I first held you or wiped your tears or made you laugh. I don’t get to erase that because you’re grown. We protect the ones we love.”

  She strode over to her brother. “Preventing me from making my own decisions, Jonathan, is not protecting me. It is controlling me.”

  Jonathan dragged a hand through his unfashionably long hair. “Very well, if you wish to marry him, you may.”

  Poppy sprang forward, and then suspicion immediately sank her movements. “What is the catch?” she asked, eyeing him carefully.

  “Wait until Patrina delivers her babe and Mother returns. If you still feel the same way, I shall not object.”

  “That is arbitrary, Jonathan,” she snapped. It was him simply fishing for time in the hopes that she…or Tristan would change their minds.

  Poppy placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t require your permission, Jonathan. Not truly.” Spinning on her heel, she marched past him.

  She made it no further than four steps. “Poppy,” he implored. “Only you could take every single one of your sister’s scandals, make them all yours and add your own damned scandal to the mix.”

  It was hard in his beleaguered tones to determine whether he was on the cusp of crying or laughing.

  Poppy took another step, and then stopped. A memory traipsed in: her earliest one of Jonathan hefting her upon his shoulders and racing around the nursery. Poppy returned to her brother’s side. “Do you recall Chase the Monster?”

  A smile ghosted his lips. “Chase, both a name and the game. Clever, you were.”

  She nudged him in the side.

  “Clever, you are,” he corrected. “It was your favorite game.” His gaze took on a far-off quality as it shifted over the top of her head. “You always loved hiding from pretend monsters.”

  “Do you remember the time we were running in frantic circles, and it all became too real for me?”

  The slight knob in his throat moved. “You buried your head against my chest and cried.”

  Until her chest had ached from the force of her tears. “You promised you’d protect me always from anything and everything. Real and pretend.” And he had. He’d been the father she’d never known, and the elder brother a lady could only dare dream to have. That was why she hadn’t been able to simply walk out on him. Not without making him understand and offer his support.

  “If I let you do this now, Poppy, then I f-fail.” His voice broke.

  “Oh, Jonathan,” she whispered. “There is no failure in allowing me to make my own decisions. You empowered me to be a woman who could have my own mind and take control of my own life, and because of that, you’ve only done right by me.”

  His face contorted. “Ah, God, Poppy.”

  Stepping into his arms, she hugged him.

  He stood there, stiff, before folding his arms around her.

  Neither spoke for several moments. “I’m marrying him, Jonathan.”

  Her eldest sibling sighed. “I know. I suspect I always did.”

  “You believed Patrina’s decision to wed Weston was the wrong one,” she reminded.

  “It was,” he muttered. “At the time…”

  Her lips curved in a smile.

  “And you had reservations about Christian,” she pointed out.

  “Any brother would.”

  “And you also were violently opposed to a match between Ryker and Penelope.”

  “Fair point.” A scowl lit his features. “She was, however, nearly killed because of him.”

  Stepping out of his arms, she gathered his hands and squeezed. “I’m going to be happy, Jonathan,” she vowed. “You will see.”

  This time, there was no echo of agreement.

  “You don’t know that,” he said sadly. “What I do know, is if you marry without love, then you will never be happy.”

  And despite her resolve up to this moment, it wavered and doubt crept in, iced with fear. “Who is to say I won’t come to love him?”

  He took her by the arms and lightly squeezed. “It is not that I believe you won’t come to love Bolingbroke.” But rather, that Tristan would never come to love her.

  Could it be enough? Nay, would it be enough? Or was she merely attempting to convince herself as much?

  Chapter 14

  The moment Tristan entered through the double doors of the Paradise and found his trunks and valises stacked at the center of the rooms, several facts became clear on sight: Poppy’s brother-in-law had gathered Tristan’s intentions to marry Poppy. Two, Black was throwing him out on his arse for that offense, and three, with the proprietor standing there in wait, a menacing glower affixed to his scarred face, he intended to beat Tristan to a pulp before he did.

  As if in confirmation of that fact, Ryker Black cracked his knuckles. “Bolingbroke,” he greeted in graveled tones.

  God rot this day.

  But then, what did you expect? Despite Tristan’s scandal and circumstances and dire financial straits, Poppy’s family had opened their business to him, free of charge, and he’d repaid that.

  By what? Offering to marry the lady. Nay, as he’d said to Poppy’s brother, Tristan couldn’t very well blame them. What respectable family—any family, for that matter—would want a beloved sister or daughter or sister-in-law to wed him?

  A small servant came rushing over. “Mr. Black, Oi’ve ’ad the carriage brought ’round,” the boy whispered, adjusting his cap.

  “Thank you, Oliver. That will be all.”

  The small child shuffled off, but not before he flashed Tristan a faintly pitying look.

  “Oi’m not pleased with you,” the proprietor growled, after the boy had gone. Was the gentleman’s movement from proper King’s English to Cockney i
ntentional? Meant to intimidate and terrify? And then, as if in answer to that silent wondering, Black shoved his jacket back to reveal the dagger there. “Not pleased, at all.”

  Tristan flashed a bored glance at the less than subtle threat. “I’d gathered as much.” Perhaps had Tristan been another man, that tactic would have roused sufficient terror. Tristan’s having survived five years at war, there was little Tristan hadn’t himself seen…or done. “I was rather able to tell as much by my belongings being all lined up,” he said dryly.

  Fire flashed in those near obsidian eyes. Assessing his current nemesis, Tristan contemplated the same strategies he had when dealing with Sinclair, before settling for direct honesty. Tristan marched the remaining distance to Poppy’s brother-in-law. Of a like height, he met the equally tall gentleman’s gaze. “Have I crossed some line with the Tidemores and Blacks? I’m certain you see it that way,” Tristan said in hushed tones that could not be overheard by the servants and patrons milling in the lobby. “Does Poppy deserve more than m—?”

  “Yes,” Black said flatly.

  “Me?” he finished. “Yes. The lady certainly deserves far greater than a worthless rogue such as myself.” And she would have had so much more, and had the expectations for it…had it not been for some ruthless cad, who’d taken advantage of her trust. Except, there never would have been a marriage with her, which even with the suddenness of the idea of a lifetime with Poppy left him oddly…bereft.

  Chatham narrowed his eyes into menacing slits. “Wot are you saying?”

  “I am saying what Poppy wants is what matters most and no one: not you, not her brother, not any one of her sisters gets to determine her fate.”

  Black looked him up and down, with that eerily menacing stare. “Ya got a lot of nerve,” Poppy’s brother-in-law began his stingingly inventive diatribe.

  At his back, Tristan faintly registered the tinkling of the door as the butler admitted another patron. A moment later, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a patron stalking with bold strides through the hall.

  “Oi let ya into my home and this is wot—”

  Tristan narrowed his eyes, as the gentleman pulled into focus. Nay, the man wasn’t a patron. The tall, very proportional, and pleasing marquess started through the lobby. What in blazes?