She’d found him.
Lingering outside the open doorway, the oak slab ajar, Poppy peered inside.
Tristan sat behind a George III sideboard. The narrow piece of furniture, a makeshift desk, overflowed with a stack so high of ledgers and books they nearly met Tristan’s eyes. It was not a book that held his attention, however…but an official-looking letter.
The harshly beautiful planes of his face were a study of intensity.
Whatever words were written there, were ones of import.
Tristan stiffened, and then, as if he felt her presence, he looked up.
“Poppy.” He hastily came to his feet. “Forgive me,” he said, swiftly folding the letter along a crease. “I did not hear you enter.”
“No. No. It is fine,” she assured, hovering at the entrance; waiting for him to mention whatever it was that had held him so engrossed. She was awash with disappointment as he tucked that note in his desk drawer, and said…nothing. Her own siblings and their spouses all belonged to marriages that were equal partnerships, where secrets didn’t exist. But then, your marriage began as an arrangement in business. As such, what expectation was there in Poppy and Tristan sharing those worries and concerns with one another. None. There is none.
And in this instance, there was not even an invitation extended for her to join him. “May I…come in?” she ventured hesitantly.
“Certainly,” he said quickly, coming around the desk. He drew out a chair, and a cloud of dust danced from the slight movement, little flecks dancing on the air.
As she settled into her seat and that awkward silence stretched on, Poppy used the opportunity to study his offices, which may as well have been a window into another time. The gilt furniture, dusty from neglect put the items from at least a century ago. And while society preferred new commissioned mahogany pieces, Poppy found herself admiring the originality of her—their—new residence.
“You are…well?” he asked after he returned to his seat; that query came…awkwardly.
When had she ever known Tristan to be…awkward? Or for that matter, formal?
She preferred them as they’d been. Wanted to go back to the effortless teasing, instead of this new stiltedness that had come with their marriage. “Very.”
Did he know her enough to know that she lied to him, even now?
They sat there with more uncomfortable silence, and Poppy glanced around once more. For, now that she was here, she didn’t quite know what to say. After all, a young lady didn’t go about asking her husband to come to her chambers and…get on with the wedding night. Did she?
She flickered her gaze over Tristan’s desk, and then she froze, her gaze caught on a familiar book, lying open. “My sketchpad,” she blurted.
Tristan followed her stare.
“You’ve been studying my work.”
An endearing blush stained his cheeks. “Yes.”
And just like that, the tension was snapped. Poppy hopped up and came around the desk to join him. “You weren’t supposed to be admiring my work,” she chided, as she gathered up the sketchpad.
His lips turned up in an involuntary grin. “Were you any other woman, I’d believe you were courting compliments.”
She snorted. “I’ve no interest in compliments—false or otherwise sincere.” Poppy waved the book at him.
Clasping his hands over his head, he spun in a peculiar swivel seat so that he faced her. The faded leather crackled from the movement. “On the contrary. Over the years, I’ve employed no fewer than five art instructors to deliver lessons to my sisters. As such, there’ve been any number of times my three sisters have had sketchpads in hand, or some floral or fruit arrangement displayed upon a canvas.”
“And you…disapproved of their subjects?” she ventured.
“I remained unmoved by any artwork…” He paused, “…until yours.”
Until yours…
Her family had viewed Poppy’s fascination with the arts as a hobby, at most. As such, they’d been complimentary of the work she’d sometimes displayed in their home, but never had they truly celebrated those works, either. Heat blossomed in her chest.
Letting his arms fall, he swiveled his chair forward. “I now know how greatly I underestimated—and failed to appreciate—all that went into those works. Even more…”
She looked at him, with a question in her eyes.
“I attempted my hand at sketching,” he confided, almost hesitantly.
Poppy’s brother, Jonathan, had never had much use for the arts…until he’d fallen in love with his wife. Even after his marriage had wrought about the complete reformation of the rogue, he’d supported Juliet, but never truly taken part.
Nay, unlike Poppy’s sister Prudence, who shared with her husband a mutual love and admiration for art.
“May I?”
He nodded toward the notebook. “Of course.”
Secretly, Poppy had craved that bond Prudence had shared with Christian. Only, as a woman grown, she conceded, that there was something equally—mayhap more fulfilling—in not necessarily having the same interests as Tristan, but exploring and sharing one’s interests with one another. It required that one cared enough to invest any time in learning about those pursuits.
And yet, as he’d said…he’d attempted his hand at it. How easy would it have been for him to politely tuck that gift away, and not again think about it? But he hadn’t. He’d not been deprecating about what Poppy did, or condescending. He’d tried something, at her urging.
Perching her hip on the edge of his sideboard-desk, she fanned through the pages of her book, until she’d found one of the pieces in his own hand: an indecipherable image he’d captured in pencil. She angled her head. There was something mystical about the abstract rendering. Entrancing.
“I’m rot at it,” he conceded with a small grin.
“I find it intriguing.”
He snorted, and plucked the book from her fingers. “Like you, I’m not one for false compliments,” he said, turning her own words back at her. “I’m merely acknowledging that I attempted…and failed.”
Hopping down from her ledge, Poppy shifted around his shoulder, and leaning down, she placed her lips near his ear. “Like you, I’m not one to simply hand out words of praise unless I mean them, Tristan Poplar.”
He angled his head, inadvertently setting the chair to a light swivel. Molten heat spilled past Tristan’s thick, dark lashes.
Lashes, that when she’d made her Come Out, she would have traded her left littlest finger for on the hope that she might flutter them for this very man before her. Breathe, Poppy. Breathe.
“I also attempted poetry,” he murmured.
“D-Did you?” An image tempted the edges of her musings; Tristan stringing together a stream of words lauding her. As a girl she’d dreamed to hear such words dripping from his lips. Which was foolish. She was a woman grown, entered into nothing more than a business arrangement with a man who’d become a friend.
“I was rot at that, too.”
Too.
“Art isn’t supposed to be clear, Tristan. It isn’t always perfectly rendered captures of life’s moments,” she said softly.
He caught one of her curls and twisted it about his finger. “Isn’t that precisely what art is, Poppy?”
It was a caress that didn’t so much as brush against her skin, and yet, she felt it within her like the burn of a thousand suns. She drew in a shallow breath. “N-not at all.” Her fingers trembling, Poppy plucked the book from his fingers, and returned that aged volume to his desk.
“Come with me.”
Not waiting for his response, she hopped up. Collecting the candlestick, she started for the front of the room.
Together, she and Tristan wound their ways through the lengthy corridors. The floors, bare of carpets, creaked and groaned, echoing behind them as they went.
They reached the ballroom, and Poppy entered ahead of him.
“Are we waltzing, lady wife?” he called, h
is deep baritone soaring around the expansive room. “If so, we should remove the coverings on the flooring.”
He’d always been her favorite dance partner; he moved with an effortless grace. His name on her dance card, however, had always been a polite courtesy he’d paid her brother-in-law. And how much, as a girl, and then as a young woman, she’d wanted it to be more. “No.” Carrying her candle around the room, Poppy proceeded to touch it to the other wicks. “We are not dancing.”
“How very mysterious my wife is,” Tristan teased.
Poppy continued to light the other candles until a bright glow fell over the room. She faced her husband, and wavered. Forgetting the candle she held. Forgetting what she was to do with it. Forgetting to breathe.
With his shoulder propped against a Doric column, Tristan managed both regal elegance and effortless ease; her fingers ached to see him free of his garments so she might commit all his masculine form to paper.
A lazy grin pulled at Tristan’s lips, and wrought havoc on her heart. A smile that said he knew precisely the effect he was having on her. And was thrilling in it.
The rogue.
Tristan wandered to meet her—stopping when a handful of steps separated them.
All the while, he surveyed the room, touching his gaze on the empty white walls and the worktables littered with brushes, paints, and jars. “Very well. I’ll admit. You have me intrigued.”
Poppy hurried over to fetch an apron. Pulling it on, she tied it at the waist. “Remove your jacket.”
Tristan flashed a wolfish smile.
She felt her cheeks burning. “For shame, Tristan Poplar. One would think I asked you to remove your trousers.” She dipped her gaze to the fitted pants that clung to his muscular limbs, and all her amusement fled. Her breath quickened and her fingers twitched. Both with an awareness of him as a man…and as a subject. She chewed at her lower lip. Why…she had wasted her time with Rochford. Tristan, however…she’d not considered him because—
“Poppy,” he said hoarsely, his features strained. His voice faintly pleading.
And then it hit her…
In this instance, he didn’t tease. In this instance, the emotion burning from his eyes was, in fact, real desire—for her.
Emboldened, she nodded for him disrobe.
“I’ve no idea why you’re nodding at me in that way.”
She motioned to his still fully clad frame. “Your jacket. Remove it.”
Tristan pressed his palms to his lapels and glanced down, and then up at Poppy once more. “I…” She gave him a look, and his hands went to the buttons of his jacket. “Only one thing can come from this,” he said hoarsely.
He tossed the garment aside and it fell with a noisy flutter.
His muscles strained the lawn fabric of his shirt. Tightly corded biceps more fitting of a man accustomed to work and so very different than the lean, wiry swains who padded their shirts and jackets.
Her mouth dried, and she, who’d initiated this exchange, fought to remember the purpose of why she’d brought him here. “Your boots…please.”
That arrogant glint was back in his eyes, and he winked. “Well, only because you said, ‘please’.” Tristan shook his head, and a dark strand tumbled over his eye, giving him a rakish air. “If you were any other woman, I’d say you were attempting to seduce me,” he murmured, as he balanced on one leg, and proceeded to tug at the gleaming black Hessian. At last free of the article, he tossed it aside where it landed with a thump. “That is if I had a title or fortune for a lady to trap.”
Poppy went and gathered that discarded shoe. “Come now,” she scolded as she neatly lined it up alongside his jacket. “I’ll not have you be the self-pitying sort.” Loyal and loving as he was to his family, and champion that he’d always been to the Tidemores, even without his fortunes, he was of greater worth than any other lord.
“I’m not being self-pitying,” he said matter-of-factly, as he went on to battle his other boot. “I’m being truth—” His boot went flying from his grip, and thumped her in the back, before falling to the floor.
His shoulders shook. Why…why… “Are you laughing?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She narrowed her eyes on the smile ghosting his lips.
“Now what, my lady?” he urged, splaying his arms open. “Does my shirt come next? Or my trousers?”
“Don’t be silly. Although…” Poppy chewed at the tip of her index finger. The plans she’d abandoned—been forced to abandon—because of Rochford presented themselves once more.
Tristan folded his arms, almost protectively at his chest. “Get that look off your face, Poppy Poplar.”
She scowled. “What look?”
“The one that says you might very well be considering it.”
How in blazes did he know her so very well? How, when she’d believed herself to be invisible to him? “You’re the one who suggested—”
“I was teasing,” he cut in.
She stuck her tongue out. “You are not the fun rogue the world proclaims you to be.”
“Proclaimed. I’m now the dark, wicked scoundrel who’d steal the king’s crown if presented with the opportunity.”
There was nothing dark about him. Charming still, with his life in shambles, he was the same affable, kind-hearted, clever-witted gentleman who’d made her heart race at their every encounter over the years. “A razor and hair trim would help with that.”
He dusted a hand over his eyes, and his shoulders shook. “You are…something, Poppy.”
Something.
Which was more than “nothing” but so vague as to leave her with boundless questions. Taking him by the hand, Poppy tugged him forward, and he went unquestioningly. She released him and fetched one of her aprons. Donning it, she fumbled with tying it. “We are taught to believe life is a certain way. That art is a certain way. One uses simple, geometric, and linear shapes and from that comes a distinct symbolic or decorative purpose.” Dipping a brush into a jar of green paint, Poppy hurriedly crafted an evergreen on the wall.
“It is lovely,” he murmured, leaning in to observe the final, hurried, but complete project.
Heat blossomed in her cheeks at that admiration and she forced herself to focus on the lesson. “You are failing to see the point.”
He puzzled his brow. “And what is the point.”
Poppy returned her brush to the table. “It is lovely because you recognize it and have connections to it. It makes you think. But in thinking, sometimes we overthink.” Picking up a clean brush and a jar of blue paint, Poppy soaked her bristles and then whipping her arm she flung paint at the wall. It splattered upon the previously white plaster; leaving a trail of dripping dots and lines.
Tristan stumbled back a step. “What are you…?”
“Several years ago, I was attending an art exhibit at the London Museum. There was one area no passersby bothered visiting. An antechamber filled with the works of Buddhist painters.” The same wonderment of stepping into that room flared fresh as it had been when she’d first entered. Wonder at the puzzling pieces affixed to the walls. “I could not understand how the world had simply hidden those great works, as if they were somehow inferior…because of their subject. Because of the artists responsible for creating them. Until one day, I began to experiment with paint in that same way.”
“You’ve gone and marred your magnificent tree,” he said, his voice pained.
She smiled. Poor Tristan. Polite Society…his friends, the world on the whole may have taken Tristan for a carefree sort. Yet, with him pacing alongside her, unease emanating from his frame, he proved constrained in ways that only hurt him now. “Stop thinking, Tristan.” Poppy soaked her brush and let it fly again, filling empty portions of the wide wall.
He winced.
“Overthinking strips one of the ability to search inside for what is inside one. It does not for analysis or head based questions.” Poppy grabbed another brush and held it out.
&nb
sp; He stared at it like he’d never before seen a brush. “What is that?”
Poppy shook it. “It’s for you. Dip it in paint.” When he made no move to take it, she sighed, and carried the brush over to the row of jars. Poppy dunked the bristles in green and carried it back, dripping remnants on the covering over the floor. “Here.”
A question in his eyes, Tristan took it. “Now paint,” she urged.
“I don’t—”
“Then feel,” she whispered. “Close your eyes.” And for the first time since she’d begun her lesson, he complied. “Now, open them. Paint,” she said once more.
He took a step closer and made an experimental stroke.
She tunneled her focus and energy and every thought upon the blossoming color before her. Until she registered Tristan at her side, flinging green splatters of paint upon the wall, their colors melded together.
And then they stopped.
As if attuned in this most special of ways.
“It is magnificent,” he said in reverent tones. He touched his gaze on every detail, and warmth filtered to every corner of her person. For this was not Tristan the rogue with all the right words on his lips. His palpable appreciation of their work was real, and so very beautiful for it. “Do you know, Poppy? I can’t name anything that has made me feel that way.”
She remained silent, waiting for him continue. Wanting for him to continue. All these years she’d known him, and yet…at the same time she hadn’t. She knew his likes and where and how he found his pleasures…but those were surface-level joys. They said nothing about who he was as a man.
Her chest still rising and falling, she kept her eyes upon that abstract rendering. “Whether it is or isn’t wasn’t the intended outcome,” she quietly explained. “All that mattered was what I felt in here.” Raising her brush, she pressed it to her heart. “It clears the mind and cleanses the soul and brings clarity into who we are.”
He glanced down at her, and the emotion that spilled from their depths robbed her lungs of breath. “And who are you, Poppy Poplar?” he asked in hushed tones, gathering the ends of her plaited hair, and teasing it in his fingers. His actions an afterthought, and quixotic for it.
Courting Poppy Tidemore (Lords of Honor Book 5) Page 20
