by Lisa Kleypas
“I dropped them on the floor, and as I was searching, I stepped on them.”
“Nearsighted, are you?”
“Quite.”
Having reshaped the earpiece, Leo scrutinized the spectacles carefully. “There.” He began to give them to her and paused as he stared into her eyes, all blue, green, and gray, contained in distinct dark rims. Brilliant, warm, changeable. Like opals. Why had he never noticed them before?
Awareness chased over him, making his skin prickle as if exposed to a sudden change in temperature. She wasn’t plain at all. She was beautiful, in a fine, subtle way, like winter moonlight, or the sharp linen smell of daisies. So cool and pale . . . delicious. For a moment, Leo couldn’t move.
Marks was similarly still, locked with him in a moment of peculiar intimacy.
She snatched the spectacles from him and replaced them firmly on her nose. “This is a mistake,” she said. “You shouldn’t have let it happen.”
Struggling through layers of bemusement and stimulation, Leo gathered that she was referring to his sister’s wedding. He sent her an irritable glance. “What do you suggest I do, Marks? Send Poppy to a nunnery? She has the right to marry whomever she pleases.”
“Even if it ends in disaster?”
“It won’t end in disaster, it will end in estrangement. And I’ve told Poppy as much. But she’s bound and determined to marry him. I always thought Poppy was too sensible to make this kind of mistake.”
“She is sensible,” Marks said. “But she’s also lonely. And Rutledge took advantage of that.”
“How could she be lonely? She’s constantly surrounded by people.”
“That can be the worst loneliness of all.”
There was a disturbing note in her voice, a fragile sadness. Leo wanted to touch her . . . gather her close . . . pull her face into his neck . . . and that caused a twinge of something like panic. He had to do something, anything, to change the mood between them.
“Cheer up, Marks,” he said briskly. “I’m sure that someday you, too, will find that one special person you can torment for the rest of your life.”
He was relieved to see her familiar scowl reassert itself.
“I’ve yet to meet a man who could compete with a good strong cup of tea.”
Leo was about to reply when he heard a noise from inside the vestry where Poppy was waiting.
A man’s voice, taut with urgency.
Leo and Marks looked at each other.
“Isn’t she supposed to be alone?” Leo asked.
The companion nodded uncertainly.
“Is it Rutledge?” Leo wondered aloud.
Marks shook her head. “I just saw him outside the church.”
Without another word, Leo grasped the door handle and opened the portal, and Marks followed him inside the vestry.
Leo stopped so abruptly that the companion bumped into him from behind. His sister, clad in a high-necked white lace gown, was silhouetted against a row of black and purple robes. Poppy looked angelic, bathed in light from a narrow rectangular window, a veil cascading down her back from a neat coronet of white rosebuds.
And she was confronting Michael Bayning—who looked like a madman, his eyes wild, his clothes disheveled.
“Bayning,” Leo said, closing the door with an efficient swipe of his foot. “I wasn’t aware you’d been invited. The guests are being seated in the pews. I suggest you join them.” He paused, his voice iced with quiet warning. “Or better yet, leave altogether.”
Bayning shook his head, desperate fury gleaming in his eyes. “I can’t. I must talk with Poppy before it’s too late.”
“It’s already too late,” Poppy said, her complexion nearly as white as her dress. “Everything’s decided, Michael.”
“You must know what I’ve found out.” Michael threw a pleading glance at Leo. “Let me have just a moment alone with her.”
Leo shook his head. He was not without sympathy for Bayning, but he couldn’t see that any good would come of this. “Sorry, old fellow, but someone has to think of appearances. This has the earmarks of a last tryst before the wedding. And while that would be scandalous enough between the bride and groom, it’s even more objectionable between the bride and someone else.” He was aware of Marks coming to stand beside him.
“Let him speak,” the companion said.
Leo threw her an exasperated glance. “Blast it, Marks, do you ever tire of telling me what to do?”
“When you stop needing my advice,” she said, “I’ll stop giving it.”
Poppy hadn’t taken her gaze off Michael. It was like something from a dream, a nightmare, having him come to her when she was dressed in her wedding gown, minutes away from marrying another man. Dread filled her. She didn’t want to hear what Michael had to say, but neither could she turn him away.
“Why are you here?” she managed to ask.
Michael looked anguished and imploring. He held out something . . . a letter. “Do you recognize this?”
Taking the letter in lace-gloved fingers, Poppy stared at it closely. “The love letter,” she said, bewildered. “I lost it. Where . . . where did you find it?”
“My father. Harry Rutledge gave it to him.” Michael raked a hand through his hair with distracted roughness. “That bastard went to my father and exposed our relationship. He put the worst possible light on it. Rutledge turned my father against us before I ever had a chance to explain our side of it.”
Poppy turned even colder, and her mouth went dry, and her heart labored with slow, painful thumps. At the same time, her brain was working too fast, racing through a chain of conclusions, each more unpleasant than the last.
The door opened, and all of them turned to watch as someone else entered the vestry.
“Of course,” Poppy heard Leo say dourly. “The drama only needed you to be complete.”
Harry came into the small, overcrowded room, looking suave and astonishingly calm. He approached Poppy, his green eyes cool. He wore his self-control like impenetrable armor. “Hello, darling.” He reached out to run a hand lightly over the transparent lace of her veil.
Even though he hadn’t touched her directly, Poppy stiffened. “It’s bad luck,” she whispered through dry lips, “for you to see me before the ceremony.”
“Fortunately,” Harry said, “I’m not superstitious.”
Poppy was filled with confusion, anger, and a dull ache of horror. Staring up into Harry’s face, she saw no trace of remorse in his expression.
“In the fairy tale . . .” he had told her, “I would probably be the villain.”
It was true.
And she was about to marry him.
“I told her what you did,” Michael said to Harry. “How you made it impossible for us to marry.”
“I didn’t make it impossible,” Harry said. “I merely made it difficult.”
How young and noble and vulnerable Michael appeared, a wronged hero.
And how large and cruel and contemptuous Harry was. Poppy couldn’t believe she had ever found him charming, that she had liked him, that she had thought some form of happiness would be possible with him.
“She was yours, if you’d truly wanted her,” Harry continued, a pitiless smile touching his lips. “But I wanted her more.”
Michael launched at him with a choked cry, his fist raised.
“No,” Poppy gasped, and Leo started forward. Harry was faster, however, seizing Michael’s arm and twisting it behind his back. Expertly he shoved him up against the door.
“Stop it!” Poppy said, rushing to them, hitting Harry’s shoulder and back with her fist. “Let him go! Don’t do this!”
Harry didn’t seem to feel her blows. “Out with it, Bayning,” he said coldly. “Did you come here merely to complain, or is there some point to all this?”
“I’m taking her away from here. Away from you!”
Harry gave a chilling smile. “I’ll send you to hell first.”
“Let . . . him . . . go,�
� Poppy said in a voice she had never used before.
It was enough to make Harry listen. His gaze connected with hers in a flash of unholy green. Slowly he released Michael, who swung around, his chest heaving with the anguished force of his breaths.
“Come with me, Poppy,” Michael pleaded. “We’ll go to Gretna. I no longer give a damn about my father or my inheritance. I can’t let you marry this monster.”
“Because you love me?” she asked in a half whisper. “Or because you want to save me?”
“Both.”
Harry watched her intently, taking in every nuance of her expression. “Go with him,” he invited gently. “If that’s what you want.”
Poppy wasn’t at all deceived. Harry would go to any lengths to get what he wanted, no matter what destruction or pain he caused. He would never let her go. He was merely testing her, curious to see what choice she would make.
One thing was clear: she and Michael would never be happy together. Because Michael’s righteous fury would eventually wear off, and then all the reasons that had seemed so important before would regain their validity. He would come to regret having married her. He would lament the scandal and the disinheritance, and the lifelong disapproval of his father. And eventually Poppy would come to be the focus of his resentment.
She had to send Michael away—it was the best thing she could do for him.
As for her interests . . . all choices seemed equally bad.
“I suggest you get rid of both these idiots,” Leo told her, “and let me take you home to Hampshire.”
Poppy stared at her brother, her lips touched with a hopeless smile. “What kind of life would I have in Hampshire after this, Leo?”
His only reply was grim silence. Poppy turned her attention to Miss Marks, who looked anguished. In their shared gaze, Poppy saw that her companion understood her precarious situation more accurately than the men did. Women were judged and condemned far more harshly than men in these matters. Poppy’s elusive dream of a simple, peaceful life had already vanished. If she didn’t go through with the wedding, she would never marry, never have children, never have a place in society. The only thing left was to make the best of her situation.
She faced Michael with unyielding resolve. “You must go,” she said.
His face contorted. “Poppy, I haven’t lost you. You’re not saying—”
“Go,” she insisted. Her gaze switched to her brother. “Leo, please escort Miss Marks to her seat in the congregation. The wedding will start soon. And I need to speak to Mr. Rutledge alone.”
Michael stared at her in disbelief. “Poppy, you can’t marry him. Listen to me—”
“It’s over, Bayning,” Leo said quietly. “There’s no undoing the part you’ve played in this bloody mess. Let my sister deal with it as she chooses.”
“Christ.” Michael lurched toward the door like a drunken man.
Poppy longed to comfort him, to follow him, to reassure him of her love. Instead, she stayed in the vestry with Harry Rutledge.
After what seemed an eternity, the other three left, and Poppy and Harry faced each other.
It was clear he was indifferent to the fact that she now knew him for what he was. Harry wanted neither forgiveness nor redemption . . . he regretted nothing.
A lifetime, Poppy thought. With a man I can never trust.
To marry a villain, or never to marry at all. To be Harry Rutledge’s wife, or live as an object of disgrace, to have mothers scold their children for speaking to her as if their innocence would be contaminated by her presence. To be propositioned by men who thought she was immoral or desperate. That was her future if she didn’t become his wife.
“Well?” Harry asked quietly. “Will you go through with it or not?”
Poppy felt foolish standing there in her bridal finery, bedecked in flowers and a veil, all of it symbolizing hope and innocence when there was none left. She longed to tear off her betrothal ring and throw it at him. She wanted to crumple to the floor like a hat someone had stepped on. A brief thought came to her, that she wanted to send for Amelia, who would take charge of the situation and manage everything.
Except that Poppy was no longer a child whose life could be managed.
She stared into Harry’s implacable face and hard eyes. He looked mocking, supremely confident that he’d won. No doubt he assumed he’d be able to run circles around her for the rest of their lives.
To be sure, she had underestimated him.
But he had underestimated her, too.
All of Poppy’s sorrow and misery and helpless anger swirled together into some new bitter amalgam. She was surprised by the calmness of her own voice as she spoke to him. “I will never forget that you took away the man I loved and put yourself in his place. I’m not certain I can ever forgive you for that. The only thing I am absolutely certain of is that I will never love you. Do you still want to marry me?”
“Yes,” Harry said without hesitation. “I’ve never wanted to be loved. And God knows no one’s done it yet.”
Chapter Thirteen
Poppy had forbidden Leo to tell the rest of the family about what had happened with Michael Bayning before the wedding. “You may tell them anything you wish after the breakfast,” she had said. “But for my sake, please keep quiet until then. I won’t be able to endure all those rituals—the breakfast, the wedding cake, the toasts—if I have to look into their eyes and know that they know.”
Leo had looked angry. “You expect me to take you to the front of this church and give you to Rutledge for reasons I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to understand. Just help me through this.”
“I don’t want to help if it results in you becoming Mrs. Harry Rutledge.”
But because she had asked it of him, Leo had played his part in the elaborate ceremony with grim-faced dignity. With a shake of his head, he had offered his arm, and they had followed Beatrix to the front of the church where Harry Rutledge was waiting.
The service was mercifully short and unemotional. There was only one moment when Poppy felt a sharp pang of unease, as the minister said, “. . . if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak; or else hereafter forever hold his peace.” It seemed the whole world stilled for the two or three seconds that followed his pronouncement. Poppy’s pulse quickened. She realized she expected, hoped, to hear Michael’s vehement protest ring out through the church.
But there was only silence. Michael had gone.
The ceremony went on.
Harry’s hand was warm as it closed around her cold one. They repeated their vows, and the minister gave the ring to Harry, who slid it firmly onto Poppy’s finger.
Harry’s voice was quiet and steady. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
Poppy didn’t meet his gaze, but instead stared at the gleaming circlet on her finger. To her relief, there was no kiss to follow. The custom of kissing the bride was in bad taste, a plebeian practice that was never done at St. George’s.
Finally bringing herself to look up at Harry, Poppy flinched at the satisfaction in his eyes. She took his arm, and they walked back down the aisle together, toward the future and a fate that seemed anything but benevolent.
Harry knew that Poppy thought of him as a monster. He acknowledged that his methods had been unfair, selfish, but there had been no other way to have Poppy as his wife. And he couldn’t work up even a second’s worth of regret for having taken her away from Bayning. Perhaps he was amoral, but it was the only way he knew to make his way in the world.
Poppy was his now, and he would make certain that she would not be sorry for marrying him. He would be as kind as she would allow. And in his experience, women would forgive anything if one offered the right incentives.
Harry was relaxed and in good spirits the rest of the day. A procession of “glass coaches,” elaborate carriages with gold empire decoratio
ns and abundant windows, conveyed the wedding party to the Rutledge Hotel, where a huge formal breakfast was held in the hotel banquet room. The windows were crowded with onlookers, eager to catch a glimpse of the glittering scene. Greek pillars and arches had been placed all around the room, swathed in tulle and masses of flowers.
A regiment of servants brought out silver platters and trays of champagne, and the guests settled in their chairs to enjoy the repast. They were given individual servings of goose dressed with cream and herbs and covered with a steaming golden crust . . . bowls of melons and grapes, boiled quail eggs scattered lavishly on crisp green salad, baskets of hot muffins, toast and scones, flitches of fried smoked bacon . . . plates of thinly sliced beefsteak, the pink strips littered with fragrant shavings of truffle. Three wedding cakes were brought out, thickly iced and stuffed with fruit.
As was the custom, Poppy was served first, and Harry could only guess at the effort it took for her to eat and smile. If anyone noticed that the bride was subdued, it was assumed that the event was overwhelming for her, or perhaps that, like all brides, she was nervously anticipating the wedding night.
Poppy’s family regarded her with protective concern, especially Amelia, who seemed to sense that something was wrong. Harry was fascinated by the Hathaways, the mysterious connections between them, as if they shared some collective secret. One could almost see the wordless understanding that passed between them.
Although Harry knew a great deal about people, he knew nothing about being part of a family.
After Harry’s mother had run off with one of her lovers, his father had tried to get rid of every remaining trace of her existence. And he had done his best to forget that he even had a son, leaving Harry to the hotel staff and a succession of tutors.
Harry had few memories of his mother, only that she had been beautiful and had had golden hair. It seemed she had always been going out, away from him, forever elusive. He remembered crying for her once, clutching his hands in her velvet skirts, and she had tried to make him let go, laughing softly at his persistence.
