Courting Poppy Tidemore (Lords of Honor Book 5)

by Christi Caldwell

  It is time.

  Her heart fluttered wildly, and at last, some small part of herself acknowledged the truth she’d been so adamant to keep at bay: she wanted this marriage to Tristan. She wanted it for reasons that didn’t have solely to do with the business arrangement she’d laid out before him.

  Standing at the front of one of the Viscount and Viscountess of Chatham’s many parlors in the hotel, Tristan had never felt more alone…and with a sea of glaring Tidemores at his back. Though, in fairness, they weren’t all glowering. There was a sea of Tidemore babes and children giggling and cooing and happily prattling on with one another.

  To give his hands something to do, Tristan reached for his timepiece.

  His fingers collided with nothingness.

  Of course, it had been repossessed by the current Earl of Maxwell. Tristan stole a glance at the ormolu clock across the room.

  Seven minutes.

  She was seven minutes late.

  The florid vicar, just two paces away, made a show of studying his bible, frantically whipping through pages.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught St. Cyr turning his two sons over to the Countess of Sinclair’s care.

  A moment later, his friend came to join him.

  Tristan whipped his gaze over.

  “Of course, I’d be here,” St. Cyr said grudgingly, his eyes forward. Tensely silent and unsmiling as he’d been since Tristan had taken his leave of his residence to share his plans for marriage. Which was no less than Tristan deserved. And yet, for the other man’s disappointment, he stood beside Tristan anyway. But then, he’d always been a better friend.

  “Thank you,” Tristan said quietly.

  His friend gave him a sharp look. “I don’t want nor need your thanks. I need your promise that you won’t hurt her.”

  “I will do everything in my power to never bring pain to Poppy.”

  “The commission with the hussars,” St. Cyr said from the side of his mouth. “Have you spoken with her?”

  “She’ll understand.” Wouldn’t she? Of course she would. They’d come to a formal agreement; their match was one they were entering into for mutually beneficial goals. “We each shared our expectations of the union and Poppy’s requirements all pertained to her autonomy and freedom.” Tristan’s being in the military certainly provided her that freedom.

  St. Cyr slid his eyes closed. “Christ.” It was a prayer.

  Even so, the vicar scowled darkly at that blasphemy.

  Muttering his apologies to the man of the cloth, St. Cyr turned to Tristan. “Answer me this, then. If you were so certain she would understand, then why didn’t you tell her when I presented you with the commission?”

  “I…” Tristan’s chest tightened.

  Because he’d been afraid she’d renege on their arrangement. That she would somehow decide she wanted more, and a future with him was not it. And it was terrifying, inexplicable madness that he could not make head or tails of.

  Tristan sensed Poppy before he saw her.

  His gaze slid to the entrance of the parlor.

  And he forgot to breathe. As guilt and worry for the future melted away, and all that he was capable of seeing…was her.

  She was a vision.

  An ethereal vision, not in white, but for the first time in all the years he’d known her, attired in something different than those whites and ivories which had failed to do her any justice. She wore a shimmery silk, a masterpiece that didn’t know whether it wished to be blue or purple, and yet, had somehow perfectly blended into one distinctly new hue.

  He devoured the sight of her in that creation. The silken white sash wrapped about her trim waist the single nod to the girl she’d been. That girl was gone, replaced instead with womanly perfection.

  If she’d made her Come Out in that glorious shade of blue silk, that clung to her every curve, they wouldn’t be here even now. She’d have been snatched up by some other. And selfish once more, Tristan was so very glad she hadn’t been.

  From across the length of the makeshift aisle formed by the guest’s seating, Poppy smiled. It dimpled her cheek and lit her eyes and—

  He grunted as St. Cyr sent an elbow sliding into his side.

  Tristan blinked several times to dispel the spell she’d cast.

  “Close your mouth,” St. Cyr suggested, smiling for the first time since Tristan had shared his plans to wed his sister-in-law. “Sinclair looks about ready to remove your head from your person.”

  Sure enough, Lord Sinclair scowled blackly at Tristan.

  His cheeks fired hot, and he gave his head a slight, clearing shake. “Fair enough,” he muttered. “But he’s worn that same look for the better part of…” He searched his mind. Well, hell. “All the years I’ve known him.”

  St. Cyr sighed. “The same holds true for me.” He paused. “Be good to her.” And with that, his more-loyal-than-Tristan-deserved friend returned to his family…and Poppy reached Tristan’s side.

  “DEARLY beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church; which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence…”

  As the vicar droned on, Tristan angled his head down. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “I have,” she whispered. “It was all an elaborate scheme on my part. Replace my scandal with Rochford with an altogether different, and slightly less scandalous one.”

  “A wise plan,” he said, keeping his features deliberately masked in seriousness. “The only thing that might scandalize them more should be if you were to attempt to paint me naked here in front of—”

  Poppy laughed, and the vicar stopped mid-sentence, pausing to glare at her.

  Poppy feigned a cough.

  “You are incorrigible,” she said in barely there tones.

  “Unapologetically so.”

  They shared one more private smile, before falling silent for the recitation of the vows.

  “First, It was ordained for the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord, and to the praise of his holy Name…”

  Children.

  Poppy had been adamant that they’d not have a marriage in name only, and as he’d assured the lady, he was not so very honorable that he would ever enter into such an arrangement with her. As she’d insisted on those terms, Tristan had thought of the feel of her under him. Over him. Crying out her release, as he buried himself inside her.

  However, he’d not allowed himself to think about…children with her.

  His gaze went to the curly-haired babe perched on Lady Penelope’s lap. A babe with dark curls who was the image of Poppy.

  And an image slipped in…of a different babe, this one with Poppy’s dimpled smile, a little girl with her mother’s spirit.

  And perhaps he was becoming melancholy with the passage of time, but that musing enticed.

  “Have you changed your mind, after all?” Poppy whispered.

  Tristan didn’t blink for several moments, and then as he looked into Poppy’s twinkling gaze, he registered the flurry of whispers that went up behind them.

  The vicar cleared his throat.

  “You missed your vow.”

  “Did I?”

  “You did,” Sinclair snapped from the front row. “The part about having this woman, to live together after God’s ordinance. Loving her. Comforting her. Honoring her. Keeping her in sickness and health, forsaking all others—”

  “I will,” Tristan pledged, directing that oath to Poppy.

  “Are we entirely certain it counts as a complete vow given you don’t know what exactly you’ve agreed to?” Poppy teased, enjoying the moment far too much.

  They glanced to the vicar. “May I proceed?” he asked in his nasally tones, impatience snapping in his gaze, and Poppy and Tristan redirected
their focus to the ceremony.

  The remainder of the day continued in a blur; beginning with a noisy, surprisingly jubilant celebration hosted by Poppy’s sister and brother-in-law. With toasts made by each of her siblings present, and their children, along with Tristan’s friends Blackthorne and St. Cyr, one might almost believe his and Poppy’s wedding was, in fact, a real one.

  Seated beside a laughing, bright-eyed Poppy, regaling the gathering with a tale of her and her sisters driving off their first governess, Tristan stared on, a silent observer.

  They were married.

  He had married Poppy Tidemore.

  Little Poppy who’d fished and raced him astride her mount whenever he visited her family’s annual summer picnic.

  And what’s worse? I’d tell you not to hurt her, and yet, I know that there is no other possible outcome of this…

  St. Cyr’s warning pinged around the chambers of his mind. Tristan wiped his suddenly damp palms along his trousers. It had been so easy to become swept up in…Poppy, and the out she’d offered him so that he might care for his sisters that, just as St. Cyr had accused, he’d not truly given thought to the fact that this was Poppy. Poppy, whom he could barely support, whose dowry was all that would see her comfortable.

  Poppy leaned over. “You look like you ate a plate of rancid kippers,” she whispered.

  He forced a smile, even as his gut churned. “I know better than to touch the kippers.” Gathering her fingers, he raised Poppy’s knuckles to his mouth and brushed a kiss against them.

  The slightly adoring look there in her eyes redoubled the unease that had followed him since St. Cyr’s warnings. “It is nearly over,” she assured, mistaking the reason for his unrest.

  Nay, it was just beginning.

  As if on cue, a servant hurried through the dining rooms, and stopped before Lady Penelope. The viscountess nodded once, and then said something to her husband, who stood. Raising his glass in a final toast, he hefted it toward Poppy. “To Poppy and Bolingbroke.” He thinned his eyes on Tristan. “Don’t muck it up,” he warned. “Your carriages are readied.”

  Carriages were readied?

  Whose carriages?

  It was certainly not Tristan’s as he’d only two; one here in London but the other at Dartmoor with his mother.

  And furthermore, where in blazes would he be going? There weren’t funds for a honeymoon. His stomach clenched.

  Except, a servant drew back Poppy’s chair, and as she sailed to her feet it became clear—Black had been speaking to them.

  Tristan jumped up and before Poppy could join her sisters, he took her by the arm, and steered her to the corner of the room. She stared at him, a question in her eyes.

  “What is going on?” he asked, surveying the remaining guests as they climbed systematically to their feet, and proceeded to take their leave.

  Poppy angled her head. “The breakfast is over, Tristan. We’re going home.”

  With that she took him by the hand and tugged him toward the entrance of the room. Digging his heels in, he forced Poppy to stop.

  “Home?” he repeated. “You’re returning with your family?”

  She laughed, and then that clear, bell-like expression of her mirth faded and her eyes went wide. “Of course not.” She started toward her sisters once again, and he caught her, loosely about the forearm, bringing her back around to face him.

  “Then where are we going?”

  “Your townhouse.”

  “My townhouse.”

  She nodded, even as his hadn’t been a question but rather a puzzle he’d sought to work through.

  “I don’t have a townhouse.”

  Not anymore. He had neither servants nor silver, nor even the most basic furnishings that made a townhouse…well, a townhouse. Why, he barely had a roof. Not one that worked, anyway.

  “Yes, we do.”

  We do.

  Not “you” do.

  And then it hit him.

  “You intend for us to live at my townhouse.” It was an impossibility. He’d not bring her there. Ever.

  “We’re going, Tristan.”

  Ignoring the blatant stares her family had on their exchange, Tristan retained his grip on her arm. “My residence isn’t habitable.”

  She scoffed. “I’m certain—”

  “No, Poppy,” he interrupted. “It is quite dire. Quite dire, indeed.” He couldn’t live with her there. As ashamed as he was to accept the charity from her family, neither could he allow his wife to reside in a townhouse falling down around him.

  “Surely you didn’t expect that we’d remain here?”

  “Why…” He had. He stopped himself from making that humbling admission. Releasing her quickly, Tristan curled his fists tight at his side. Never more had he resented and regretted the new state of his affairs. He’d taken a battlefield-like planning to the decision that had brought him to this point. Only to find himself responsible for another person…whom he was wholly unable to care for.

  Poppy moved so close the tips of their shoes brushed. “We’re not staying here, Tristan,” she said quietly. “This isn’t our home.”

  This isn’t our home.

  Ours.

  Only he’d nothing to offer.

  Not truly.

  Tristan briefly closed his eyes. He couldn’t bring her there. He opened his eyes, and tried again. “Poppy,” he implored.

  And when presented with begging more charity from her already more-generous-than-he-deserved family or giving in to his wife’s insistence, Tristan knew there was no countering Poppy on this, either.

  Chapter 16

  The remainder of Poppy’s day continued in a whir.

  With the aid of her lady’s maid, and the elderly housekeeper and butler, Poppy had swept the dirt from her floors, beat the more than faintly musty coverlet and draperies until they’d been cleared of dust. Most dust, anyways. Her garments had been properly stored and tucked away.

  Until she stood there…

  “Oi never thought it could be done,” Mrs. Florence whispered.

  Poppy looked around the room, pride filling her at the transformation that had overtaken the previously dusty, cluttered space. The furniture was still absent of a proper coat of wax and missing a shine, but despite Tristan’s glum prediction of the place where they’d reside, it was anything but uninhabitable.

  At least, this room, anyway.

  A faint squeaking split the quiet, and Poppy followed the frantic path a lone mouse took across the floor. Barking wildly, Sir Faithful charged hot on the rodent’s heels.

  “There’s a lot more to be done than this,” Mr. Florence muttered.

  His wife jammed an elbow into his side.

  “Oomph.”

  “Wot?” he shot back defensively. “There is.”

  “Her Ladyship’s done a fine job.”

  While the couple proceeded to bicker themselves right out of the room, Lucy hurried to close the door behind them. “They’re a peculiar lot, my lady,” the girl was saying as soon as they’d gone.

  Yes, garrulous and bluntly rude even, the older pair of servants—the only hires in her husband’s employ—were certainly unlike any Poppy’s family had ever employed. In truth, however, she found them refreshingly honest and real.

  “Is there anything else you require, my lady?”

  From across the room, Poppy caught a glimpse of herself in the cracked bevel mirror; the intricate arrangement Lucy had created of Poppy’s hair for the wedding was long gone. Her hair having since been plaited. Several curls had popped free and now lay in a sad tangle about her face. And of course, there was the matter of her dusty garments. “A bath. I’ll require a bath.”

  Lucy dipped a curtsy. “As you wish.”

  The moment she’d gone, Poppy found herself alone.

  Busy tidying her rooms as she’d been, she’d waited for Tristan to join her. Only realizing now—Tristan had no intention of doing so.

  The memory of his face upon their arr
ival came back to haunt her; the resignation in his gaze. A gaze that could not meet her own. The regret.

  He hated this.

  He hated everything about his situation. Any other gentlemen would have welcomed the marriage to an heiress which would see them freed from their circumstances. Tristan, however, had ceded all of Poppy’s dowry over to her, the only sum set aside a small one dedicated to his sisters’, so that they might have another Season.

  Her gaze snagged upon her sad visage in the mirror of the mahogany dressing table.

  And what was more, she hated this for him. Tristan was so much more than what he’d lost and what he didn’t have. He, however, was too proud to see that.

  Was that why he even now avoided her? Or did he do so out of regrets about their marriage?

  Stop it.

  “You stay here,” she urged Sir Faithful.

  He let out a little whimper, and scratched at her skirts.

  Poppy ruffled his ears affectionately. “Ah, you know there is too much work to be done here. There’s mice for you to chase.” His dark eyes were filled with canine disapproval. “I could always add several cats?” she suggested.

  Sir Faithful promptly sprinted off in the opposite direction.

  Abandoning her plans for a bath, she drew the door closed behind her, and went in search of her husband. After all, a bride couldn’t just spend her wedding night…alone. There were certainly rules against it.

  Her husband.

  Butterflies fluttered in her belly.

  I am married.

  Nay, not just married. Married to Tristan Poplar. Poppy wound her way through the dark, cold townhouse. The first whispering of uncertainty stirred. It danced low in her belly, a reminder of what this night would entail.

  Oh, she’d dreamed of kissing Tristan, and had even done so…but what would happen this night, what her sisters had spoken of candidly, if in slightly veiled terms and descriptions, would be real, and for the sliver of a moment, she eyed the path behind her that she’d traveled, and considered returning to her rooms…

  The faint flicker of a candle’s glow penetrated the otherwise dark corridors. Feeling very much like that proverbial moth to the flame, Poppy drifted forward—and then stopped.