Tempt Me at Twilight

by Lisa Kleypas

  Her expression turned pensive. She was so deep in thought, in fact, that she didn’t appear to notice that the ferret had crawled into her lap. “Harry’s parents had taken little enough notice of him before. After Nicolette left, however, he was utterly neglected. Worse than neglected—he was deliberately isolated. Arthur put him in a kind of invisible prison. The hotel staff was instructed to have as little to do with the boy as possible. He was often locked alone in his room. Even when he took his meals in the kitchen, the employees were afraid to talk to him, for fear of reprisal. Arthur had made certain that Harry was given food, clothing, and education. No one could say Harry was being maltreated, you see, because he wasn’t beaten or starved. But there are ways to break someone’s spirit other than physical punishment.”

  “But why?” Poppy asked with difficulty, trying to absorb the idea of it, a child being brought up in such a cruel manner. “Was the father so vindictive that he could blame a child for his mother’s actions?”

  “Harry was a reminder of past humiliation and disappointment. And in all likelihood, Harry isn’t even Arthur’s son.”

  “That’s no excuse,” Poppy burst out. “I wish . . . oh, someone should have helped him.”

  “Many of the hotel staff felt terrible guilt over what was being done to Harry. The housekeeper, in particular. At one point she noticed that she hadn’t seen the child in two days, and she went looking for him. He had been locked in his room with no food . . . Arthur had been so busy, he had forgotten to let him out. And Harry was only five.”

  “No one had heard him crying? Hadn’t he made any noise?” Poppy asked unsteadily.

  Catherine looked down at the ferret, stroking him compulsively. “The cardinal rule of the hotel was never to bother the guests. It had been drilled into him since birth. So he waited quietly, hoping someone would remember him, and come for him.”

  “Oh, no,” Poppy whispered.

  “The housekeeper was so horrified,” Catherine continued, “that she managed to find out where Nicolette had gone, and she wrote letters describing the situation in the hopes that they might send for him. Anything, even living with a mother like Nicolette, would be better than the terrible isolation that was imposed on Harry.”

  “But Nicolette never sent for him?”

  “Not until much later, when it was too late for Harry. Too late for everyone, as it turned out. Nicolette took ill with a wasting disease. It was a long, slow decline, but when the end approached, it progressed quickly. She wanted to see what had become of her son before she died, and so she wrote asking him to come. He left for London on the next available ship. He was an adult by then, twenty years of age or so. I don’t know what his motives for seeing his mother were. No doubt he had many questions. I suspect there was always an uncertainty in his mind, as to whether she had left because of him.” She paused, momentarily preoccupied with her own thoughts. “Most often, children blame themselves for how they are treated.”

  “But it wasn’t his fault,” Poppy exclaimed, her heart wrenched with compassion. “He was only a little boy. No child deserves to be abandoned.”

  “I doubt anyone has ever said as much to Harry,” Catherine said. “He won’t discuss it.”

  “What did his mother say when he found her?”

  Catherine looked away for a moment, seeming unable to speak. She stared at the curled-up ferret in her lap, stroking his sleek fur. Eventually she managed to reply in a strained voice, her gaze still averted. “She died the day before he reached London.” Her fingers twined into a tight basket. “Forever eluding him. I suppose to Harry, any hope of finding answers, any hope of affection, died along with her.”

  The three women were silent.

  Poppy was overwhelmed.

  What would it do to a child, to be raised in such a barren and loveless environment? It must have seemed as if the world itself had betrayed him. What a cruel burden to carry.

  I will never love you, she had told him on their wedding day. And his reply . . .

  I’ve never wanted to be loved. And God knows no one’s done it yet.

  Poppy closed her eyes sickly. This was not a problem to be solved in a conversation, or in a day, or even a year. This was a wound to the soul.

  “I wanted to tell you before,” she heard Catherine say. “But I was afraid it might have inclined you more strongly in Harry’s favor. You’ve always been so easily moved to compassion. And the truth is, Harry won’t ever want your sympathy, and probably not your love. I don’t think it likely that he can become the kind of husband you deserve.”

  Poppy looked at her through tear-hazed eyes. “Then why are you telling me this?”

  “Because even though I’ve always believed that Harry is incapable of love, I’m not entirely sure. I’ve never been sure about anything regarding Harry.”

  “Miss Marks—” Poppy began, and checked herself. “Catherine. What is the association between you and he? How is it that you know all this about him?”

  A curious series of expressions crossed Catherine’s face . . . anxiety, sorrow, pleading. She began to tremble visibly, until the ferret in her lap awoke and hiccupped.

  As the silence drew out, Poppy threw a questioning glance at Amelia, who gave her a subtle nod as if to say, Be patient.

  Catherine removed her spectacles and polished the perspiration-misted edges of the lenses. Her entire face had gone damp with nervousness, the fine skin gleaming with the luster of a pearl. “A few years after Nicolette came to England with her paramour,” she said, “she had another child. A daughter.”

  Poppy was left to make the connection on her own. She found herself pressing her knuckles gently against her mouth. “You?” she eventually managed to get out.

  Catherine lifted her face, the spectacles still in her hand. A poetic, fine-boned face, but there was something direct and decisive in the lovely symmetry of her features. Yes, there was something of Harry in that face. And a quality in her reserve that spoke of deep-trammeled emotions.

  “Why have you never mentioned it?” Poppy asked, bewildered. “Why hasn’t my husband? Why is your existence a secret?”

  “It’s for my protection. I took a new name. No one can ever know why.”

  There was much more Poppy wanted to ask, but it seemed Catherine Marks had reached the limits of her tolerance. Murmuring another apology beneath her breath, and another, she stood and set the sleepy ferret onto the rug. Snatching up her discarded shoe, she left the room. Dodger shook himself awake and followed her instantly.

  Left alone with her sister, Poppy contemplated the little pile of tarts on the nearby table. A long silence passed.

  “Tea?” she heard Amelia ask.

  Poppy responded with a distracted nod.

  After the tea was poured, they both reached for tarts, using their fingers to cradle the heavy strips of pastry, biting carefully. Tart lemon, sugar syrup, the pie crust velvety and crumbly. It was one of the tastes of their childhood. Poppy washed it down with a sip of hot milky tea.

  “Things that remind me of our parents,” Poppy said absently, “and that lovely cottage in Primrose Place . . . they always make me feel better. Like eating these tarts. And flower-print curtains. And reading Aesop’s fables.”

  “The smell of Apothecary’s Roses,” Amelia reminisced. “Watching the rain fall from the thatched eaves. And remember when Leo caught fireflies in jars, and we tried to use them as candlelight for supper?”

  Poppy smiled. “I remember never being able to find the cake pan, because Beatrix was forever making it into a bed for her pets.”

  Amelia gave an unladylike snort of laughter. “What about the time one of the chickens was so frightened by the neighbor’s dog, it lost all its feathers? And Bea got Mother to knit a little sweater for it.”

  Poppy spluttered in her tea. “I was mortified. Everyone in the village came to see our bald chicken strutting around in a sweater.”

  “As far as I know,” Amelia said with a grin, “Leo’s neve
r eaten poultry since. He says he can’t have something for dinner if there’s a chance it once wore clothes.”

  Poppy sighed. “I never realized how wonderful our childhood was. I wanted us to be ordinary, so people wouldn’t refer to us as ‘those peculiar Hathaways.” She licked a tacky spot of syrup from a fingertip, and glanced ruefully at Amelia. “We’re never going to be ordinary, are we?”

  “No, dear. Although, I must confess, I’ve never fully understood your desire for an ordinary life. To me, the word implies dullness.”

  “To me, it means safety. Knowing what to expect. There have been so many terrible surprises for us, Amelia . . . Mother and Father dying, and the scarlet fever, and the house burning . . .”

  “And you believe you would have been safe with Mr. Bayning?” Amelia asked gently.

  “I thought so.” Poppy shook her head in bemusement. “I was so certain that I would be content with him. But in retrospect, I can’t help thinking . . . Michael didn’t fight for me, did he? Harry said something to him on the morning of our wedding, right in front of me . . . ‘She was yours, if you’d wanted her, but I wanted her more.’ And even though I hated what Harry had done . . . part of me liked it that Harry didn’t think of me as being beneath him.”

  Drawing her feet up onto the settee, Amelia regarded her with fond concern. “I suppose you know already that the family can’t let you go back with Harry until we’re satisfied that he will be kind to you.”

  “But he has been,” Poppy said. And she told Amelia about the day when she had sprained her ankle, and Harry had taken care of her. “He was thoughtful and gentle and . . . well, loving. And if that was a glimpse of who Harry really is, I . . .” She stopped and traced the edge of her teacup, staring intently into the empty bowl of it. “Leo said something to me on the way here, that I had to decide whether or not to forgive Harry for the way our marriage started. I think I must, Amelia. For my own sake as well as Harry’s.”

  “To err is human,” Amelia said, “to forgive, absolutely galling. But yes, I think it’s a good idea.”

  “The problem is, that Harry—the one who took care of me that day—doesn’t surface nearly often enough. He keeps himself ridiculously busy, and he meddles with everyone and everything in that blasted hotel to avoid having to think about anything personal. If I could get him away from the Rutledge, to some quiet, peaceful place, and just . . .”

  “Keep him in bed for a week?” Amelia suggested, her eyes twinkling.

  Glancing at her sister in surprise, Poppy flushed and tried to stifle a laugh.

  “It might do wonders for your marriage,” Amelia continued. “It’s lovely to talk to your husband after you’ve been to bed together. They just lie there feeling grateful and say yes to everything.”

  “I wonder if I could convince Harry to stay here with me for a few days,” Poppy mused. “Is the gamekeeper’s cottage in the woods still empty?”

  “Yes, but the caretaker’s house is much nicer, and at a more convenient distance from the house.”

  “I wish . . .” Poppy hesitated. “But it would be impossible. Harry would never agree to stay away from the hotel so long.”

  “Make it a condition of your returning to London with him,” Amelia suggested. “Seduce him. For heaven’s sake, Poppy, it’s not that difficult.”

  “I don’t know anything about it,” Poppy protested.

  “Yes, you do. Seduction is merely encouraging a man to do something he already wants to do.”

  Poppy gave her a bemused glance. “I don’t understand why you’re giving me this advice now, when you were so against the marriage in the first place.”

  “Well, now that you’re married, there’s not much anyone can do except try to make the best of it.” A thoughtful pause. “Sometimes when you’re making the best of a situation, it turns out far better than you could have hoped for.”

  “Only you,” Poppy said, “could make seducing a man sound like the most pragmatic option.”

  Amelia grinned and reached for another tart. “What I mean to suggest is, why don’t you try making a headlong dash at him? Try to make a real go of it. Show him what kind of marriage you want.”

  “Charge at him,” Poppy murmured, “like a rabbit at a cat.”

  Amelia gave her a perplexed glance. “Hmmm?”

  Poppy smiled. “Something Beatrix advised me to do early on. Perhaps she’s wiser than the rest of us.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it.” Lifting her free hand, Amelia pushed aside the edge of a white lace curtain, sunlight falling over her shining sable hair, gilding her fine features. A laugh escaped her. “I see her now, coming back from her ramble in the wood. She’ll be thrilled to discover that you and Leo are here. And it appears she’s carrying something in her apron. Lord, it could be anything. Lovely, wild girl . . . Catherine has done wonders with her, but you know she’ll never be more than half tame.”

  Amelia said this without worry or censure, merely accepting Beatrix for what she was, trusting that fate would be kind. Undoubtedly that was Cam’s influence. He’d always had the good sense to give the Hathaways as much freedom as possible, making room for their eccentricities where someone else might have crushed them. The Ramsay estate was their safe harbor, their haven, where the rest of the world dared not intrude.

  And Harry would be there soon.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Harry’s journey to Hampshire had been long, dull, and uncomfortable, with no companionship except his own smoldering thoughts. He had tried to rest, but as a man who found sleep difficult in even the best of circumstances, trying to doze in a jolting carriage in the daytime was impossible. He had occupied himself with making up extravagant threats to bully his wife into obedience. Then he had fantasized about what he would do to Poppy in her chastised state, until those thoughts had made him aroused and aggravated.

  Damn her, he would not be left.

  Harry had never been given to introspection, finding the territory of his own heart too treacherous and tricky to examine. But it was impossible to forget the earlier time in his life, when every bit of softness and pleasure and hope had disappeared, and he’d had to fend for himself. Survival had meant never allowing himself to need another person again.

  Harry tried to divert his thoughts by staring at the passing scenery, the summer sky still light as the hour approached nine. Of all the places in England he had visited, he had not yet gone to Hampshire. They were traveling south of the Downs, toward the thick wood and fertile grasslands near the New Forest and Southampton. The prosperous market town of Stony Cross was located in one of the most picturesque regions of England. But the town and its environs possessed something more than mere scenic appeal—a mystical quality, something difficult to put his finger on. It seemed they were traveling to a place out of time, the ancient woods harboring creatures that could only exist in myth. As evening deepened, mist collected in the valley and crept across the roads in an otherworldly haze.

  The carriage turned onto the private road of the Ramsay estate, past two sets of open gates and a caretaker’s house made of blue gray stone. The main house was a composite of architectural styles that shouldn’t have looked right together but somehow did.

  Poppy was there. The knowledge spurred him, made him desperate to reach her. It was more than desperation. Losing Poppy was the one thing he couldn’t recover from, and knowing that made him feel fearful and furious and caged. The feelings catalyzed into one impetus: He would not be kept apart from her.

  With all the patience of a baited badger, Harry strode to the front door, not waiting for a footman. He shoved his way into the entrance hall, two stories high with immaculate cream paneling and a curving stone staircase at the back.

  Cam Rohan was there to greet him, casually dressed in a collarless shirt, trousers, and an open leather jerkin. “Rutledge,” he said pleasantly. “We were just finishing supper. Will you have some?”

  Harry gave an impatient shake of his head. “How is Poppy?�
��

  “Come, let’s have some wine, and we’ll discuss a few things—”

  “Is she having supper as well?”

  “No.”

  “I want to see her. Now.”

  Cam’s pleasant expression didn’t change. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”

  “Let me rephrase—I’m going to see her, if I have to turn this place into matchsticks.”

  Cam received this imperturbably, his shoulders hitching in a shrug. “Outside, then.”

  This ready acceptance of a brawl both surprised and gratified Harry. His blood was teeming with violence, his temper on the brink of explosion.

  Some part of his mind recognized that he wasn’t quite himself, that the precise workings of his mind were off-kilter, his self-control dismantled. His usual cool logic had deserted him. All he knew was that he wanted Poppy, and if he had to fight for her, so be it. He would fight until he bloody well dropped.

  He followed Cam through the entrance, down a side hallway, and out to a small open conservatory and garden where a pair of torches burned.

  “I’ll say this for you,” the Rom remarked conversationally, “it’s in your favor that your first question was not ‘Where is Poppy’ but ‘How is Poppy.’ ”

  “Devil take you and your opinions,” Harry growled, stripping off his coat and tossing it aside. “I’m not asking for permission to take my wife back. She’s mine, and I’ll have her, and be damned to all of you.”

  Cam turned to face him, the torchlight gleaming in his eyes and over the black layers of his hair. “She’s part of my tribe,” he said, beginning to circle him. “You’ll go back without her, unless you can find a way to make her want you.”

  Harry circled as well, the chaos of his thoughts settling as he focused on his opponent. “No rules?” he asked gruffly.

  “No rules.”

  Harry threw the first punch, and Cam dodged easily. Adjusting, calculating, Harry retreated as Cam threw a right. A pivot, and then Harry connected with a left cross. Cam had reacted a fraction too late, deflecting some of the blow’s force, but not all.