by Poppy
"In a few days you will have all that is proper," Delphine apologized soothingly. "For this evening, better these than the blue wool." She did not quite shudder.
Poppy blinked sleepily. "This evening?"
"Monsieur de Roqueville has ordered dinner for nine."
Of course Dex had said they would have dinner here. But de Roqueville? Roqueville? Roack. In Germany and Austria, was he von Roackmann, she wondered?
"A small dinner," Delphine promised. "Five courses only and three wines. He has set a kitchen boy to assistme."
Suddenly Poppy felt wonderful. She jumped to her feet. "Water," she said, then laughed at Delphine's shocked face. "No, just enough for the basin."
Delphine looked relieved. "Perhaps if five courses are not enough, I could manage two soups as in England," she said as a peace offering.
"I am sure everything will be perfect." Poppy went into the dressing room and searched through the carved, gilded dressing table until she found the perfumed soap and oils. She explored the cupboards, discovered the stole, and stroked it over and over. She felt completely revived. "A lovely day," she sighed happily as Delphine poured the hot water.
She was dissatisfied with the yellow slippers after she was dressed and in the drawing room, so she went back to debate between a pair of creamy kid and one of dark blue satin with iridescent beading. Thus, she was not waiting when he arrived. She heard his voice speaking to Delphine and completely forgot what slippers she was wearing. She flew.
"Now, now," he laughed as she flung herself into his arms and lifted her face in anticipation. He kissed her long and thoroughly before he held her off at arm's length and looked critically at the ice-blue satin and shook his head. "Too cold a color, too severe tailoring, too old for you." He frowned.
"It's the most beautiful thing I ever owned," Poppy stammered.
"I understand you had to take what you could get today. By next week, you will be a lady I will be proud to show off in my carriage."
Poppy's eyes flashed purple sparks. "I am sorry I do not satisfy."
He threw back his head and guffawed. "I did not say that," he chuckled at last. "I merely suggested the garment is not perfect. A matter that can be remedied."
Poppy turned away with a swish of satin skirts and went to sit in front of the fire, profile averted. "Won't you be seated? Would you like some wine?"
"So it's compliments you want." Still smiling, he took a chair close to her. "Delphine reports you have a skin like silk and a head like a rock. I fear she measured our wine consumption last night."
Poppy blushed. "I didn't know I was supposed to have a headache."
"You obviously have the magnificent constitution of the English," he said, eyes twinkling. "A valuable asset. I congratulate you."
Poppy was grateful Delphine came in then with a tray holding a bottle of sherry and delicate glasses. He poured, gave her a glass, then sipped appreciatively. Poppy forced herself not to gulp. She felt sick with disappointment and must not let it show. All day without letting the thought rise to the surface of her mind but keeping it comfortably just beneath the talk of silks and colors, like a warm brick hidden under the covers of a bed, she had been counting off each hour as bringing her closer to the time she would be in his arms again. Hugging that hidden anticipation had made every minute of the day brighter, every hour sweeter, even ,when exhausted from following the Countess from one shop to another. Yet here he was, indolently sipping sherry, obviously looking forward with mild pleasure to a good dinner, and he had been quite satisfied with those few kisses.
He must not know she was quivering inwardly, so disheartened she could have wept. That would be the ultimate humiliation, for him to know she wanted him when he did not want her. She steadied her hand and lips and searched desperately for some impersonal remark.
"Madame la Comtesse knows the shops of Paris extraordinarily well," she said and felt she sounded like a schoolgirl reciting a French exercise.
"She should. She loves them all so well she can meet her bills with them only by rendering services such as she did today."
"But she's almost shabby," Poppy burst out.
"Perhaps she takes her percentage in cash then," he shrugged.
That finished that subject. "Is it snowing again?" Poppy groped desperately.
"In many parts of the country." Amused, his eyes took on a greenish glint. "We must try to get Jack and Andy back here for the eleventh of November."
She had lost track of the date. "The eleventh of November?"
"Almost two weeks. They shouldn't miss the great performance. A would be august personage is going to stage with great magnificence and impressive flourishes one of the most amusing farces of the century. Some say it will draw a crowd of fifty thousand."
Poppy's lips rounded. She could not imagine what he was talking about. Before she could ask, Delphine opened the doors at the far end of the room and announced dinner was served.
The stiff, shining linen, the glittering glasses, the heavy silver were fine enough to serve royalty. Dex merely nodded, as if the best were only what he expected, and seated her in a slender gilt chair. Delphine had risen to two soups, a thick and a thin, followed by salmon, a game bird, a roast with vegetables, and then an array of small cakes, cheeses, and fruits. Poppy thought of that dubious rabbit cooked over a primitive stove and tried to match his aplomb as if she often ate meals like this.
Daisy often dined well in company, but family meals were plain.
They sipped wine in the drawing room, and Dex made idle comments about entertainments she might enjoy. The theater? Ballet? Concerts? He would see if anything worth an evening had escaped the censors and get tickets.
Censors and tickets. As when he had censured her conduct and arranged that railroad ticket to Cornwall. "Did you send me to Sutcliffe Manor as a carrot?" Poppy burst out.
Dex smiled. "Let's say I thought a lovely young girl would not make it less attractive if a young man happened to be tempted to travel that way."
She could not help it. "You threw me at him," Poppy cried bitterly.
"An invitation he did not accept." Dex said. eyes twinkling. "As I discovered last night."
Poppy felt herself blush scarlet. "He is an English gentleman." she said stiffly,
"And I am not," Dex said.
He stood up and pulled her from the chair and into the circle of his arms. Then he took her into the bedroom. When the door closed behind them, he crushed her against him until she felt she could not breathe, kissing her, over and over, without restraint. He ripped the offending ice-blue satin robe from her. lifted her, and carried her over to the bed. Then he threw his clothing on the floor, tumbled on top of her. and removed her delicate nightgown with one savage gesture that left it in tatters.
After those leisurely too civilized hours together, he took her as if they had been parted for years and he were unable to wait. Poppy gasped, feeling bruised and violated, as he plunged into her without preparation or gentleness. When at last he had finished and lay back on the pillows, she raised herself on one elbow and stared at him with disbelief. One minute he had been discussing the theater with delicate cynicism, and the next he had been an animal thinking only of gratification.
He turned his head lazily and put out an arm, drawing her down against his shoulder and holding her there without pressure. "You are so beautiful I lost control for a moment. Did I frighten you?"
Now again he was the warm and wonderful lover he had been last night. "You surprised me," she said slowly.
He drew one hand down her body from forehead to neck to shoulder to waist to hip. "So lovely, so perfect," he murmured. "So completely beautiful. Kiss me, sweetling, and I will not be so impatient this time."
Held close against his flat, muscular body, she felt again that sweet inward stirring. His slow, deep kisses, his hands lightly caressing her, went on and on until the sweetness deepened to a sharp, imperative demand. She drew him closer to her, pulled his head down for he
r fiery kisses, parted her legs, and offered herself to him. He prolonged the ecstasy until she felt that she could not endure it, that she would scream and die there in his arms. When at last it was over, she could only fall back, limp and satiated, and yet knowing that ardor still worked in her on a deeper, unsatisfied level.
"We'll sleep a little now," he murmured. "Later, sweetling, later. Again."
When he left her in the morning, she had no thought except to calculate mistily the hours that must pass before he would return to her here.
Chapter Fourteen
SHOPPING was indeed a passion with the Countess. In her still smart carriage, she arrived every day with a list of places they must go for fittings, new necessities that must be procured, or simply places to explore to see what they offered. She fingered the elaborately decorated garters, exquisite laces, ribbons, and fine veilings, the silk flowers" and gossamer fine scarves, and murmured that if one of her tickets won a golden ingot on the eleventh of November; she would have this or that. Poppy remembered then that she had heard of the lottery even in England.
To her, shopping was a pleasure but not a passion, and she insisted they finish each afternoon with a drive when the weather was fine. She had forgotten the islands of Paris, the bridges lacing the city together. She remembered the parks, and they were as charming as she recalled. She searched in vain, her memory of wide avenues and narrow streets confused, for the rooms where they had lived with Daisy. One afternoon they drove to see the building of Les Halles, great markets for the food wholesalers being erected in central Paris, the whole structure with steel girders and glass roofing copied from the Crystal Palace. Louis Napoleon was reported to be so impressed with those features that he would consider no plans for public buildings that did not utilize them.
She lived for the time when she would finally be back in her suite, selecting a dress from her crowded cupboards to wear that evening. The rose satin, the cream brocade, the green silk, or perhaps the blue with the fine embroidery. She chose a different one each evening, and all were admired.
They did not go out. The theater was so heavily censored Dex could find nothing worth an evening. He asked if she liked the pictures in the suite. When she approved enthusiastically, he lifted an eyebrow and said she would hardly enjoy the paintings of Courbet and the other realists who were exhibiting in spite of criticism.
Poppy fluttered her eyelashes at him and did not pout to be taken out. This was not like Mr. Hammett sitting at home evening after evening with Daisy. Daisy would have adored going out. For herself, the evenings and the nights in Dex's arms were all too short. Morning came too soon, for then she had to let him leave, and she could only dream of the night to come.
She arrived at the apartment one afternoon with a delicious new bonnet, row after row of delicate velvet ribbons in rose, blue, and mauve with a haze of blue veiling over it. It would be perfect with her blue walking costume with the rose velvet braid. She dropped the box with a shriek when she saw the two figures sitting one each side of the fireplace.
"Andy. Jack. Where did you come from?"
Andy flung himself across the room and wrapped himself around her. "Oh, Poppy, Poppy, you should have been with us. It was glorious. Only it did get very cold. Then they came one evening when we were tied up for the night and made us leave, with hardly a chance to say goodbye to the cap'n."
"Reportedly a family emergency," Jack drawled. "Our mother's illness was the story, I believe."
Poppy understood perfectly. Some anonymous gentleman had arrived and spirited them swiftly away and into Paris with no excess flurries to arouse comment. "I arrived after a most unfortunate accident to our yacht," she murmured.
"Most capable people," Jack agreed.
"Why are you living here?" Andy demanded. "We're living in a wonderful hotel. Artists and sculptors and an kinds of people."
"Into which we merge inconspicuously," Jack said. "Perfect, for us. But you know, Andy, not for Poppy."
"She isn't a model or anything," Andy admitted reluctantly. "But this is so-" His forehead wrinkled and he looked around, struggling for words. "Aren't you afraid to walk on these carpets with wet feet?"
"I go out in a carriage with the Countess, and my feet don't get wet," Poppy laughed. "Didn't Delphine offer you wine? Or hot chocolate?"
"We aren't accustomed to such elegance," Jack said. One glance from his blue eyes told her he comprehended the situation perfectly. "We understood Dexter Roack would be here."
Poppy blushed and looked down. Then, looking at the clock on the mantel, she exclaimed in dismay, "Oh, it's late. I didn't know it was so late. Let Delphine give you something, anything, while I change." She scooped up the hatbox, lifted her skirts, and fled to the bedroom.
There she stood, pressing her hands to her hot cheeks. Jack's look of mingled comprehension and reproach still seemed to burn. He realized she was Dexter Roack's mistress, his kept woman, though kept in silken luxury. Then she raised her head defiantly. Did he think Dex had the same English reserve and scruples he had? Or that she would fight to the death to preserve her virtue?
Jack did not understand. She had been frightened and alone, terrified and lost, and Dex had rescued her. Though that was the least part of it. This was not a case of like mother, like daughter. She was not another Daisy, forced into this life through circumstances and making the most advantageous arrangements possible. In all honesty, only one thing mattered. She was mad about the man. She only felt alive when she was with him.
Looking back, it seemed to her this had been inevitable from the moment they met. She had resented Dex, hated him, rebelled against everything he did, was, and suggested. Yet she had been aware of him every instant aware as she never had been of any other man. If an extra glass of wine had not tom away the superficial vexations she had counted against him, something else would have, perhaps only a special touch of his hand or a look in his eyes or a tone in his voice. All of those could wrench her heart now and leave her weak with desire.
If Jack had an affection for her, he had let the time in the Vendee slip away without a word or gesture. So now he could hardly quarrel if she had chosen another man. Defiantly Poppy put on a dress she had not worn before, a severely plain green velvet cut so low at the neck, with only three slender bands to mask her shoulders and arms, that she had hesitated to wear it even alone with Dex. Now she put it on, to display that she was a sophisticated adult, and for the first time realized something.
The dress was designed as a background and setting for jewels, magnificent jewels, and she had not even a modest string of pearls. Dex had smiled approvingly and indulgently at the boxes of extravagant luxuries that had flooded into the apartment, but he had not given her even one small jewel as a token of his affection and delight in her beauty. She lifted her bright head high and smiled defiance at her image in the mirror. She had never looked more beautiful. She would let Jack assume she chose to appear in this austere simplicity as her own conception of elegance.
Dex was in the drawing room. She had heard his voice while she dressed, but she often thought she would be aware of him by the tingling of her blood, the quickening of her pulse, even if she had no sight or sound to tell her he was near. Her body would sense and know.
When she swept in, Dex and Jack were standing by the fire, deep in conversation, and Andy was contentedly gobbling cakes and hot chocolate. Dex nodded and poured a glass of wine for her and went on talking.
''The lottery will of course put seven million francs in their pockets, above the cost of the bars that are to be the prizes," he was saying. "But Napoleon and his fellow insolvents are not content with that."
"They haven't needed to go to the California gold mines to make a fortune from them," Jack agreed. "Yet the people consider the lottery one of the most magnificent achievements of any government. Let no man call him Napoleon the Little to a hopeful ticket holder."
They were talking about the Lottery of the Golden Ingots. The Countess had expla
ined it in breathless detail to Poppy. A one franc ticket could win one of the 214 bars of solid gold. The first prize was a 400,000 franc bar, with other lesser prizes down to 200 bars valued at 1,000 francs. Of course the government would take millions of francs of profits from the lottery.
Proceeds would be used to ship 5,000 poor French citizens with useful skills to California where they were needed and could easily make a new start in a successful life. The money also was understood to be available to help the many poor in France and to replenish the empty treasury that could not even afford to support public schools. But the California feature was the popular one. Many thousands of unemployed had signed up for passage, and the newspapers gave people to understand there were still places available.
"Of course the press prints what it is told," Dex said. "And does not dare print what it knows. Places are not still available, nor are people being selected on the basis of useful skills and need."
