Courting Poppy Tidemore (Lords of Honor Book 5)

by Christi Caldwell

Poppy raised her gaze to his. “I know who I am, Tristan,” she whispered. She touched a hand to his chest. “It is a matter of you determining who you are.” Under her touch, his heart thumped wildly. Her gaze heavy, she glanced to the place her fingers rested. Reflexively, she curled them, crushing the fabric of his lawn shirt.

  Chapter 17

  Over the years, Tristan had fought the pull of desire for the woman before him.

  He had lied to himself. Had done such a good job of convincing himself that he’d come to believe the moments of awareness between he and Poppy were fleeting moments of madness.

  Until now.

  With a handsbreadth between them, and their chests rising and falling in a like frantic rhythm, he no longer had to lie to himself—he wanted her.

  “Are you going to kiss me?” she breathed, her husky curiosity temptation itself.

  “Would you like that, Poppy?” he whispered, running a palm down her cheek; thrilling as her eyes fluttered shut. For despite the terms she’d put to him, he would still have her know that he’d cede control to her in this decision—always.

  “If you cannot tell, I f-fear you’re not as roguish as p-purported.”

  “Oh, I can tell,” he said softly. “By the faint part of your lips.” He brushed his mouth over hers in a fleeting kiss that earned a little moan.

  Poppy angled her head, pleading without words, and only actions for another.

  “I can tell by the way your pulse pounds here.” He touched his lips to that throbbing beat, and lingered his attentions there. He lightly nipped and sucked until Poppy melted into him.

  Looping an arm around her waist, he steadied her, and continued his tutorial on seduction.

  “And here, I can tell by how hard your breaths come, Poppy,” he explained, in husky tones, as he the seducer became sucked under a spell that had him powerless to anything but his want, need, and awareness of this woman. Tristan tugged loose the strings of her paint-spattered apron, and drew the garment overhead. Letting it fall at their feet, he swept a hand along the bodice of her dress.

  Her breath caught.

  “There,” he murmured. “Right here.” With a deliberate, infinite slowness, he lowered his head, and then brushed his lips along the lace trim. He flicked his tongue over the soft, hot skin there, and then lightly blew.

  Poppy bit her enticingly full lower lip, muting that whimper. “I…I may have been w-wrong, after all,” she conceded in agonized tones.

  “Oh?” Tristan shoved aside the tangle of black curls and buried his face in her neck. “How so, love?” He kept his lips close, deliberately withholding that kiss.

  “Tristan,” she panted, curling her fingers in his hair, wordlessly urging him to continue.

  “Yes.” He flicked his tongue out.

  “Y-You are s-skilled, after alllll.” Her admission ended on a long moan, as he dragged the bodice of her dress down, and kissed along the sensitive spot at her shoulder, working his lips on a path, lower. He brought his mouth close to one of the swells of her breast shielded by her chemise, and then through that thin fabric, he kissed her.

  Poppy’s head fell back, and an endless groan spilled past her lips.

  He lightly suckled the already pebbled tip.

  “Please,” Poppy rasped.

  “Tell me what you want,” he urged, running his thumb over the erect peak.

  “You.”

  Another wave of desire pumped through him as his shaft swelled to a painful hardness. Tristan made quick work of the row of buttons down the back of her gown, and shoved it low over her hips.

  Panting, Poppy stepped out of it and kicked the garment aside.

  She hesitated.

  Tristan reached slowly for the hem of her chemise and slid it up, over her hips, higher, and then he removed it. Her drawers followed.

  And then, she stood there, before him, splendorous in her nudity. He paused to work an admiring gaze down every swathe of exposed olive-hued skin. Where English ladies were pale and cream white, Poppy’s skin, a sun-kissed shade, spoke to Roman roots. Tristan stretched both palms up to cradle the gentle swells of her breasts.

  Her breath rasped loudly in his ears. Or was that his own? It was all jumbled in his mind. “So beautiful,” he whispered, and lowered his head.

  He caught one of the pink tips in his mouth and suckled, ringing a cry from Poppy. She clutched his head close to her chest, as if to entrap him in the only place he yearned to be. He flicked his tongue back and forth over the peak, alternately laving and sucking. Until Poppy’s hips were undulating wildly.

  “I want to feel you, too,” she panted, breathtaking in her lack of restraint and honesty. Her determined fingers were already dragging his shirt up from his trousers. Her movements frantic, firing his hunger. Together, they divested Tristan of his lawn shirt.

  With jerky movements that fit not at all with the restraint he’d managed over the years, he raced to be free of his trousers, pushing them down, struggling out of them. He kicked them aside until he was naked before her. He reached for her, but Poppy darted out of his arms.

  He silently cried out at the loss and fought to retain some control over his passion.

  Poppy’s gaze drifted over him, before ultimately settling on the hard flesh jutting toward her.

  “Oh,” she breathed, and with the boldness he’d always admired in her, touched him.

  Tristan groaned, the sound low, primitive, and hungry, lodging in his throat, and emerging strangled from his lips. His manhood jumped in her hand, as she worked her exploring fingers over him. He closed his eyes and gave himself over to the sensation of her hand on him.

  “Does it hurt?” she murmured, lightly squeezing.

  Tristan moaned. He’d never survive this. Not without embarrassing himself with his lack of control.

  “I’m sorry.” Poppy made to draw her fingers back but he shot a hand out, holding her there.

  “Only the most wonderful kind of hurt,” he managed to rasp out, his voice hoarse as Poppy resumed her exploration. She stroked his length, teased a single finger around the plum-headed tip, coaxing a bead of fluid.

  “Amazing,” she marveled in awe-struck tones.

  Tristan squeezed his eyes shut and selfishly took for himself the aching pleasure of her touch. He rolled his hips, reflexively. Wanting to turn himself over to the mindless bliss that she tempted. With a pained groan, he removed her fingers from his person.

  Poppy looked up; a question in her desire-heavy gaze.

  Catching her in his arms, Tristan kissed her. Her mouth was already open and he was tasting her; stroking her, and being seared by every bold lash of her tongue against his.

  She tasted of chocolate and honey, sweeter than any dessert that he’d ever tasted.

  Poppy sighed and he swallowed that breathless whisper of her desire.

  For Tristan, through the years, sex had become an emotionless, physical act, one that he’d welcomed for the brief, explosiveness that came in reaching that peak of gratification. With the passage of time, with every bored widow or discontented wife he’d bedded, an ennui had eventually set in. Only to now find himself wholly alive and aware, drunken off the intoxicating magic of Poppy’s innocence.

  Tristan guided her down to the blanket made by their garments. Not breaking contact with her mouth, he devoured her, drinking of her innocence before shifting his focus to the line of her jaw.

  Poppy’s heavy lashes drifted up. “I-I’ve dreamed of this,” she rasped, turning her head slightly so he could worship her delicate collarbone. “The kiss. M-Making love.”

  His breath rasped in time to hers. “Never tell me with the pleasing Rochford.” His teasing coaxed a laugh from her.

  “You are…inco—” The air hissed between her teeth as he worked a hand between them, and slipped his fingers in the soft curls between her legs.

  Poppy stiffened, and then with an incoherent word that emerged garbled from her swollen lips, she let her legs fall open.

 
“What was that?” he asked. He slid a single finger within her sodden channel. Heat. Molten heat that he’d gladly let consume him.

  She tossed her head back and forth wildly. Her hips bucked as she arched toward his touch. Tristan continued to stroke her. In. And out. Until she was fire in his arms.

  And then she opened her eyes. “Incredible,” she whispered, working her gaze over his face; the depth of emotion there in her eyes burning with trust, and something more. Something he couldn’t identify. Something he didn’t want to identify. For that unacknowledged emotion in her crystalline gaze sent terror stabbing through him. Because of what it signified…that emotions were involved and always would be with Poppy. And he forced it back. Forced himself to hold on to this moment with her.

  Tristan kissed her, reveling in her fingers stroking his back, the light drag of her nails as she marked him.

  He lay between her legs. Tristan moved slowly, easing himself into her.

  Each of those slight movements sent a painful throbbing to his shaft. An ache for him to complete the act that would join him and Poppy.

  “Tristan,” Poppy moaned into his mouth.

  Sweat slid from his brow, those drops slid down his cheek. This need. This hungering… It has never been like this. Where logic melted away, and he was reduced to an almost painful thrum of desire. Not with any woman before her.

  Poppy opened her eyes once more, still heavy with desire, but soft.

  Panting, Tristan dropped his brow against hers. “You are perfection, Poppy Poplar.” And then he claimed the pebbled tip of her right breast between his lips and sucked deeply.

  Poppy arched her hips, and he thrust deep.

  She stiffened in his arms, and he braced for her cry of pain as he tore through that barrier.

  Except, her breathing increased its rapidity, and a slightly pained smile hovered on her lips. “I preferred the before,” she whispered, her voice ragged.

  Tristan brushed his lips against her temple; that kiss brought her eyes open. “Wait until the ‘after’, love,” he vowed, and slowly withdrew. Lowering his head, he swept his mouth over the crest of her right breast. He worshipped it with his lips, laving, sucking, until Poppy was incoherent once more, lifting her hips to meet each thrust of his. Slowly. And then increasing in frenzy until Poppy’s quiet cries were spilling from her lips and pinging around the empty ballroom, a symphonic medley that drove him faster.

  They arched against one another. Their bodies straining.

  Poppy arched her back, tossing her head, those shimmering black curls a beautiful cascade about her.

  He stared, riveted by the pleasure contorting her features.

  Never had it been like this. Not with any woman.

  Where her fulfillment was all that mattered, where his passion was fueled by the flush of pleasure upon her skin.

  “Come for me, Poppy,” he urged. Tristan stroked deep.

  She went absolutely motionless in his arms. Her entire body stiffened. And then Poppy came undone.

  She screamed her release to the rafters, and he thrust once more, joining her over that precipice with a guttural shout, just one word: “Poppy.”

  Their voices blended, as they found their surcease, together.

  The life drained from him and he collapsed over her, catching himself by the elbows. He could hear nothing beyond the solid, thundering beat of his own heart. When their chests slowed, he rolled onto his back, and brought her atop his chest.

  “Mmm,” she murmured, her eyes closed, a sated smile on her lips. “You are correct.”

  “And there were words I never thought to hear from you, lady wife.” He buried his lips against the sensitive skin of her collarbone, earning a laugh. “On what have I proven right?”

  Poppy opened her eyes; and an impish sparkle glowed in their depths. “The ‘after’ is far better.”

  Tristan’s shoulders shook as he joined in the tinkling sound of amusement that spilled from her lips, until she rested her cheek against his chest…and went silent. She stroked her fingers at his shoulder. His skin jumped at the butterfly-soft caress. “I didn’t notice these the first time I saw you shirtless.” And then she abruptly stopped. “What happened?”

  He dipped his chin at an awkward angle to see the spot she spoke of.

  The white flesh puckered and scarred. “Luck,” he murmured.

  She glanced up questioningly.

  “I ducked out of the way of a Frenchmen’s bayonet, and missed the bullet another soldier had intended for me,” he explained.

  On your feet, Poplar. They’re charging…

  He briefly closed his eyes. Through the years, he’d become a master of controlling the memories. He’d shaped the narrative in his mind, and kept it all locked away. Compartmentalizing those years as he did, kept them…safe. Moments that belonged to another. But occasionally…they trickled in. It had been so long…

  “You nearly died,” Poppy whispered. Her eyes darkened, and she brushed her fingertips lightly over the mark.

  Tristan caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “Ah, but I didn’t and that therefore makes me lucky.”

  Instead of those assurances deterring her from further talk about his years as a soldier, Poppy sat up. Her breasts bobbed slightly with that movement, before her cascade of black curls fell about her shoulders, shielding those soft mounds. She proceeded to run her gaze over his person, touching her gaze…and fingers to the marks left by bullets and blades.

  Over the years, the women he’d bedded had shown almost a sick fascination with his scars. As if there was something dangerous about Tristan and because of that, thrilling to bed. For the first time since the mad frenzy to disrobe and make love to Poppy, however, he considered how he must look…to her. Poppy with her eye for artistic perfection had desired to paint one such as Rochford. And then there was Tristan…in his own flawed form. He shifted, and reached under him.

  “What are you doing?” Poppy asked as he grabbed his lawn shirt.

  “Dressing.” Protecting her.

  Or are you protecting yourself?

  Poppy caught the garment, and tugged it from his fingers. “You’re hiding.” There was an accusatory edge to her tone.

  “I’m protecting you.”

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  Poppy’s eyes narrowed into thin slits of fury. Pressing her hands hard against his shoulders, she shoved him back. Tristan grunted as he hit the floor. “You think me so weak that I’m somehow horrified by your scars?”

  “I saw your eyes, Poppy,” he said softly. “You wear your every emotion in them.” Every emotion.

  Poppy’s scowl deepened. “You’re correct. I was horrified.” The fight seemed to go out of her, and she sank back on her haunches. “At the idea of you hurt, T-Tristan.” Her voice broke.

  “Poppy,” he said softly, reaching for her.

  She swatted off his touch. “Don’t patronize me. I—”

  Cupping a hand around her, he guided her down, and then kissed her.

  She stiffened, and then with a sigh, melted into his embrace.

  “You’re trying to distract me,” she murmured, when they broke apart.

  “I wouldn’t dare. It would be futile. You cannot be distracted, Poppy Poplar.”

  Poppy picked her head up, resting her chin on his chest.

  A smile teased her lips. “Poppy Poplar sounds atrocious.”

  “Yes,” he conceded. But it felt right. “It is, however, far preferable to Lady Poppy Flowers.” Even in jest, the tendrils of jealousy wrapped about him, and he wanted to beat Lord Rochford all over again.

  Poppy propped her chin on his chest so she could look him in the eye. “Oh, there’s something poetic in Poppy Flow—”

  He rolled her under him so quick, he rang a startled laugh from her. “Minx,” he growled.

  “S-stop,” she howled, breathlessly, as he nuzzled that sensitive spot at her neck. “I was t…teasing.”

  “No regrets that you are not,
in fact, Poppy Flowers, Lady Rochford.”

  Snorting and gasping, she thrashed her head back and forth. “Y-You must c-concede that all together, i-it is a v-very g-garden inspired—ahhh.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, as he raised her barefoot and glided his fingers over the sensitive arch. “I-I concede.”

  Tristan relented and while she regained control of her mirth, he studied her. Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes sparkling. She was temptation personified.

  And had it not been for that bounder Rochford, she and Tristan even now would have never been wed. Why did the idea leave him bereft? Why should it when they’d entered into a marriage of convenience?

  Because you lied to yourself. It was always going to be more with her… And there was a certainty: Tristan would have despised any man who’d lured her into her sister-in-law’s paint room.

  “You’ve gone all serious,” Poppy murmured.

  He lifted his head. “Have I?” Tristan stroked his palm along the soft curve of her back, alternating an up and down stroke with his fingers along her spine. How…right this moment felt. With Poppy in his arms. Not even a week ago, the idea would have been laughable for the inconceivability of it; because of who she was. Because of who he was. And yet, she belonged here.

  She ran a finger along his lips. “Here. You become all tense.” She lightly touched his brow. “And you’ve three creases here that draw up. What are you thinking about?” Poppy murmured.

  “Rochford.”

  Of all the reasons for her husband’s sudden seriousness, mention of Rochford would have been the last reason she expected. “Rochford? Never tell me, you’ve thought of painting him, too,” she teased.

  A half grin formed on Tristan’s lips; the tension there, however, belied any hint of his earlier levity. He drifted his fingers through her thick, dark curls, brushing them back, and she luxuriated in the tingling along her scalp that his touch roused. “Why Rochford?”

  She wrinkled her brow. “I already told you he—”

  “Was pleasing to the eye and proportional. Yes. Yes, I know all that. But why?”

  He had been the first to ask that question. In the immediacy of her fall, Poppy’s family had been so caught up in the scandal that such a question would have never occurred to them. And then, even after…they wouldn’t have bothered to ask. Rochford had nearly been naked and she’d been determined to paint him and no other details than that had mattered to them. Nor would they ever.