by Jane Porter
And did it matter that he knew her secret?
On one hand it was incredibly uncomfortable that Randall—Dal—knew, but on the other, so what?
She had feelings for him. Why should that make her feel ashamed? Why were feelings even considered shameful? She’d been emotional in her entire life. From the time she was a little girl, she’d felt things intensely. Her sensitive nature had made her a target for the girls at Haskell’s. They’d enjoyed teasing her about being a charity case. They’d enjoyed mocking her lack of coordination and athletic ability. They’d enjoyed her discomfort at being forced to remain at school for holidays because her parents couldn’t afford to bring her home.
And then wonderful, lovely, courageous Sophie stepped in and made the teasing and bullying stop. But she didn’t just make the teasing stop; Sophie changed Poppy’s life when she confessed that she respected Poppy’s kindness and good heart. Suddenly, Poppy wasn’t embarrassing but someone that Sophie Carmichael-Jones admired.
So of course Poppy had never acted on her feelings for Randall. She would never, ever be disloyal to Sophie. At the same time, what harm had there been secretly caring for Randall? Her devotion made her a better assistant. Her dedication making her more sensitive and attuned to his needs.
But now her secret was in the open. Did it have to change everything? Did she want it to change anything?
Did she want to say goodbye to Randall?
Poppy didn’t know the answer to the first two questions but she knew the answer to the third. She didn’t want to leave Randall. And the way she felt about him, she’d never want to leave him, but how could she continue working for him like this?
It wouldn’t be the same. She’d feel self-conscious and he’d be awkward. Better to end things while she still cared about him. Better to say goodbye while she wanted the best for him.
But just admitting that she had to go broke her heart.
* * *
Dal closed his computer, rose from his desk and put away the computer in his briefcase. The jet had just begun the final descent for Gila and he’d not only canceled the essential pieces of the honeymoon but had also created a short list of possible countess candidates to share with Poppy when he returned to the main cabin.
The list was for show. There was only one woman he was considering to be his wife, and that was his secretary, but if he told Poppy she was the one and only name, she’d be terrified. Far better to ease her into her new reality, and it would be her reality because Dal had to be married by the time he turned thirty-five, and his birthday was just sixteen days away.
Which meant he had sixteen days to find a new bride and marry her as he wasn’t going to lose Langston House, or the earldom, or any of the other Grant estates, because he’d failed his father.
He’d grown up with enough abuse. He wasn’t going to let his father win, even if he was in the grave.
So he’d marry Poppy and prove his father wrong and then Dal would finally be free of this burden he’d carried that he wasn’t his brother Andrew, and that he wasn’t fit to be the Earl of Langston, and he didn’t deserve the Langston House and estates.
Now he just needed to convince her that she was the perfect future countess.
Dal left the back office and returned to his seat in the main cabin. As he took his seat, Poppy stirred sleepily in her chair. Her lashes fluttered open for a moment before closing again. “You,” she murmured crossly.
“Yes, me,” he answered, his gaze sweeping her, studying her for the first time in an entirely different light.
She wasn’t his secretary anymore, but his future wife, which meant not just overseeing Langston House and the thousand different domestic tasks that encompassed, but also bearing him the necessary Grant heirs.
It wouldn’t be difficult taking her to his bed. She was pretty and tidy and wholesome, although at the moment she looked flushed and rumpled from sleep, her brown hair down tumbling to her shoulders while a rebellious tendril clung to her pink cheek.
His dress shirt overwhelmed her small frame, but it was refreshing seeing her in something other than her conservative navy and brown skirts, which she paired with equally conservative cardigans. In warm weather she swapped the jumpers for trim white blouses with oval collars and half sleeves. Her work wardrobe was neither well cut nor flattering, and while the pinstripe shirt wasn’t flattering, it revealed her curves. Poppy Marr was voluptuous with hourglass curves. Full breasts, tiny waist, rounded hips. He suddenly wished she wasn’t wearing jeans so he could see her legs. He’d very much like to see her in nothing but his shirt, and then without the shirt altogether.
“What do you want now?” she demanded, stretching and covering a yawn.
“We should be landing soon.”
“Good.”
He’d never noticed how firm her chin was until now. It matched her new backbone. He liked the spirit. Spirit was sexy and strong and his future countess would need to be strong.
“I’m not sending you back to England,” he said casually. “You owe me two weeks after giving notice. It’s in your employment agreement. You can’t just quit and walk away.”
Her dark lashes slowly lifted and she stared at him, clearly unhappy. “You’re going on holiday. You don’t need me.”
“I’m not on holiday, and I do need you.”
“For what?”
“To help find your replacement. I can’t possibly interview for a new secretary and a new wife at the same time.”
She stared at him blankly. “You’re already trying to replace Sophie?”
“She’s gone, isn’t she?”
“Isn’t that rather...callous?”
“Did you expect me to mourn her?”
“She was loyal to you for five and a half years!”
“But she decamped at the last possible second, and the fact is, I need a wife, quickly.”
“You’ve never needed anyone, and yet now you must have a wife, immediately.”
“It does sound ridiculous put like that, but that pretty much sums it up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a very convoluted story so I’ll give you the short version. I must be married by my thirty-fifth birthday or I lose the earldom, the house and everything attached.”
She was still for a moment before she sat upright in her chair. “Your birthday is July sixteenth.”
“Correct.”
“That’s just...a few weeks away.”
“Correct again.”
She impatiently shoved hair behind an ear, away from her flushed cheek. “This sounds like something from a novel.”
“I’m fully aware of the ridiculousness of my situation, but my father set up the trust that way. When he died just after my thirtieth birthday, I inherited the title, but there were provisions.”
Silence followed his words. Poppy looked absolutely appalled.
Dal shrugged, adding. “My father thought he was being clever. Exerting control from beyond the grave, and so forth.”
“When did you find out? At the reading of the will?”
“No, although wouldn’t that have been a shock? Surprised my father didn’t think of that. But no, I’ve known since my early twenties, and did my best not to think about it until I was nearly thirty.”
“Did Sophie know this?”
“Sophie was part of my father’s plan. He hand-selected her for me.”
“This just keeps getting worse.”
“She didn’t ever tell you?”
“Heavens, no. But probably because she knew I’d disapprove. No wonder she ran at the last second. I would run, too. Poor Sophie.”
“Sophie benefitted from the arrangement...until she didn’t.” He shrugged carelessly. “But now there is a serious time crunch. I have to be married in sixteen days. It’s hard enough closing a big deal
in two weeks, but to find a wife in the same amount of time? It’s not going to be easy.”
“And there is no way out of this?”
“No. But trust me, I tried. I’ve spent a fortune in legal fees and finally accepted that marriage really is the only solution.”
She bit her lip and looked away, a sheen of tears in her eyes. “I am so upset.”
In his shirt, with her thick hair loose and her slim legs curled up in the seat of her chair, she exuded youth and a sweet, innocent sensuality that teased his senses.
“Don’t be,” he answered her, forcing his attention from her lips to the sweep of her cheekbone and the strands of dark hair framing her pale oval face. “There is no point in both of us being upset.”
“I know I shouldn’t say it, but the more I learn about your father, the more I dislike him.”
“He was a very tortured man.”
“It sounds as if he did his best to torture you.”
This was not a comfortable conversation. Dal couldn’t even remember the last time he’d discussed his father with anyone. “I’d like to believe it wasn’t intentional. I’d like to think he just...couldn’t help himself.”
She rubbed her eyes and drew a deep breath and turned to look at him, focused now on the goal. “So you need a wife.”
“Yes.”
“Have you given thought to possible women you could see...proposing to?”
“Yes. I’ve thought about it carefully and made a short list.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the sheet of paper where he’d scrawled the names, handing it to her.
He sat back, studying her face as she skimmed the list. For a moment her expression was blank and then her head shot up, her rounded eyes matching her dropped jaw.
“I don’t appreciate the joke,” she said shortly, folding the sheet of paper in half and thrusting it back at him. “Take it.”
“I couldn’t be more serious.”
“Obviously you don’t really mean to marry in the next two weeks.”
“Why not? You don’t think any of the three could be suitable?”
“Perhaps the first two,” she said bitingly, “but not the third. She’s not rich or a Sloane Ranger.”
He unfolded the sheet of paper and glanced down at the three names.
Seraphina Woolton
Florrie Goodwin
Poppy Marr
“But number three is smart and generous and easy to like,” he answered, rereading the names.
“That would be very nice if you were a vicar, or a primary school teacher, but you’re not. You’re from one of the oldest, most prominent families in England and you need an appropriate wife, someone sophisticated, respected and connected.”
“I do?”
“Obviously. It’s what your father dictated, and it explains why you and Sophie had all those contracts and agreements.”
“Yes, but that was with Sophie, and exclusive to my engagement to her. There is nothing that stipulates who my replacement bride should be.”
“You started with a very small list, and it’s just grown shorter as we’re crossing number three off.”
“Are we?”
“Yes. Poppy Marr is not an option, which means we’ll need to focus on Seraphina and Florrie.”
“But Poppy Marr is an option. All three names on that list are options. I thought quite seriously about each possible candidate—”
“Please don’t use the word candidate. It’s dreadful. It’s as if you’re trying to hire a woman to fill a position.”
“Being the Countess of Langston is a job.”
“Then definitely take Poppy Marr off your list. She’s not interested in that position.”
“Why not? We work well together.”
“Because this new job requires skills that are outside my area of expertise.” Her cheeks flamed and her eyes glowed bright. “Nor have I any interest in acquiring the skills necessary to be the Countess of Langston.”
Heat surged through him, and he hardened as he pictured her fulfilling her marital duties. His trousers grew uncomfortably tight as he imagined introducing her to those duties. “I would teach you.”
“No.”
“I’d be patient.”
“We’re ending this discussion now. It’s not going to happen. It’s not even a remote possibility. I’m not interested in jumping from your office to your bedroom. I like the you in your office.”
“Randall,” he said dismissively.
“Yes, Randall. Polite, controlled, chivalrous. I don’t trust Dal at all.”
“That’s probably wise.”
“Excuse me. Who are you? I don’t even know you anymore!”
“I suspect it’s because you never did.”
“If that’s the case, does anyone know you?”
His wry smile faded. That was an excellent question, and he had to think about it for a minute before answering. “Probably not.”
More silence followed, and then Poppy broke it with a heavy sigh. “You have no idea how sad that makes me.”
“And you, my dear Poppy Marr, have just moved into melodrama.”
“Just because I feel things doesn’t mean I’m being melodramatic.”
“I have found that emotions unnecessarily complicate things.”
“Probably because you were taught that emotions were bad things.”
“No one has ever told me anything about emotions. My views are based on firsthand experience. Excessive emotion is toxic and damaging.”
“What about good emotions? What about love and joy and—”
“That’s Gila in the distance,” he said mildly, cutting off her impassioned stream of words. “You can see the skyline on the horizon.”
She shot him an indignant look, letting him know that she didn’t appreciate him interrupting her, before craning her head to see out the window.
He watched as the city loomed nearer, surprisingly eager to see how much he recognized of the Mehkar capital. He’d heard that elegant, historic Gila had become a new, modern, urban city, but the change hadn’t registered until now when he saw the dozens of new skyscrapers dotting the skyline.
As they approached the airport, they flew over lakes and glittering pools, and oases of green amidst the marble and glass. The captain turned just before they neared the historic neighborhoods, the ones Dal knew best as it was home to the royal palace, the place where his mother had grown up.
His mother loved to show off her hometown when they used to visit every year. They never went to Kasbah Jolie without first visiting their grandfather and family in Gila. One of their grandfather’s drivers would take them out in one of the classic cars he loved, and they’d travel the wide, pristine boulevards lined with stately palm trees, boulevards that led to museums and palaces as well as her favorite shopping district.
To a boy, Gila represented family and history and culture. It never crossed his mind that it was a playground to others—sensual, sexy, hedonistic. It wasn’t until he was at Cambridge that his friends talked about going to Mehkar on holiday, that Gila with its white marble and endless man-made lakes, was nonstop entertainment. His friends never understood why Dal wouldn’t want to go on holiday to an exotic desert country famous for its hotels, restaurants, shopping and nightlife.
“I had no idea Gila was so big,” Poppy said after a moment.
“There has been a lot of new development in the past twenty years. The people of Mehkar love their sports, and their toys.”
“Sophie’s friends used to come here for the polo tournaments.”
“But not Sophie?”
“No. She always said she wanted to visit. Mehkar was on her bucket list.” Poppy gave him one of her reproving looks. “But you should have known that, though. You were her fiancé, and engaged forever.”
�
�Not forever, just five and a half years.”
“Which is pretty much forever to a twenty-six-year-old.” She continued to frown at him. “If you didn’t discuss travel, and bucket lists, what did you discuss?”
He didn’t immediately reply. The jet was dropping lower, and faster, a rapid descent, which meant they’d be on the ground soon before making the quick transfer to his helicopter, and Poppy would be making the transfer with him, too.
“Sophie and I didn’t talk a lot. But I think you know that,” he said as the wheels touched down in an impossibly smooth landing. They were still streaking down the runway, but soon they’d begin to slow.
“You can’t blame her,” Poppy answered. “Sophie wanted to be closer to you. You just wouldn’t let her in.”
And that was also probably true, he thought, but he didn’t want to continue discussing Sophie. Sophie was part of the past. She’d chosen a different path, a different future, and it was time for him to focus on his future.
The jet turned at the end of the runway and began the slow taxi toward the small, sleek, glass and steel terminal.
“Women feel close through word and language. We bond through talking—”
“I’m not ready for another lecture on emotions,” he interrupted firmly in the authoritative voice he used when he needed to redirect Poppy, and he needed to redirect her now.
“I’m trying to help you.”
“That may be the case, but I’m not in the right frame of mind to be presented with my overwhelming failures as a man.”
“You’re not a failure. But you could work on your emotional intelligence—”
“Poppy!”
She pressed her lips together, her expression defiant, and he drew a deep breath, trying to hang on to his patience.
“I thought you said you had only sixteen days to find a wife,” she said in a small but still defiant voice.
Where had this new Poppy come from? She was beyond stubborn, and while he appreciated persistence, now was not the time. She had no idea how unsettled he felt. It was difficult returning to Mehkar. He was already dreading getting off the plane and transferring to the helicopter. Mehkar represented his mother and his carefree summer holidays with his brother at Jolie. He’d never truly dealt with their deaths. He’d just stopped thinking about them and now he was thinking about them and it wasn’t a good day to be feeling overwhelmed.
