Tristan tossed his head back and laughed. Another debutante might be filled with tears at how the stain had come to be there. Never Poppy. She’d go toe-to-toe with the king himself if she felt one she’d loved had been wronged.
Poppy joined in laughing; and hers was a full, colorful expression of mirth that compelled another to join. The sound of it honest and so different from any lady of his acquaintance. He dusted amusement from the corners of his eyes. “God, you’re refreshing, Poppy Tidemore,” he said, after his hilarity had abated.
Her eyes softened. It was not an unfamiliar look he’d received from other women…but never from this woman.
Tristan hurriedly straightened. “You should return,” he croaked. “We should both return.” He grimaced. “Not together.” He swiped his palms down toward the ground. Not unless he wished to face her brother at dawn. She furrowed her brow. “You should take yourself off.” Now. As it was, society would dearly love to feast upon a scandal involving another Tidemore girl.
And just like that, the dangerous warmth that had been in her eyes was replaced by a keen sharpness. “Why, you’re trying to be rid of me.”
“Not at all,” he said smoothly. Not technically. He was trying to rid both of them of one another’s company before scandal came raining down.
“Listen here,” she said, stabbing a finger in his direction. “And listen well.” She proceeded to march in his direction, and Tristan, who’d earned a reputation of only ever advancing into the fieriest battle, did something he’d never done before—he retreated. “I found this hiding place in our host’s home first, Tristan Poplar.” Oh, hell, not even his own mother dragged out his full name when displeased. The backs of his legs knocked into a stool, and he toppled into the seat. Even in partial repose, he was several inches taller than the petite spitfire, and yet, she still somehow managed to stare down the length of her pert nose at him. “There are infinitely more locations a gentleman can steal for himself.”
He knew ending this exchange and being on his way, and seeing that she was on hers, was the wisest course. The safest one. Only, in all the years he’d known the lady, she’d always managed to stir his damned curiosity. “And what places are those?”
Without missing a beat, Poppy proceeded to tick off a list on her gloveless fingers. “The billiards room. Lord Smith’s offices. The stables. Lord Smith’s dungeons.”
He sat up straighter. “Dungeons? Surely you jest?”
“They were part of an original structure that he kept and—” She eyed him suspiciously. “Are you funning me?”
Tristan marked an X over his chest. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” It was another lie. Over the years, Poppy had proven more fun to tease than even his own mother and sisters. Granted, they didn’t have quite the same…zest for life that Poppy Tidemore—or any Tidemore, for that matter—did.
Poppy gave a toss of her dark curls. “Either way, there are countless places you can safely seek out for your tryst where no one would dare look for you, thus you shouldn’t go about taking mine. Now, shoo.” Like she was trying to be rid of a bothersome cat, she gave a little flick of her fingers.
And it was precisely then that he knew he’d no intention of abandoning this exchange.
Tristan stretched his feet out, and crossed them at the ankles; the movement forced the minx back several steps. “And what makes you believe I’m here for…for…?” God help him. Even with his bid to tease, he couldn’t manage to utter that word. Not in front of this woman.
“A tryst?” she supplied with a mischievous grin.
His ears went hot. “That,” he settled for.
“For your roguish reputation, you’re shockingly prudish.”
Prudish? That charge was certainly…a first. “I don’t have a reputation.” At least not one that she should know about, anyway.
Switching to her opposite hand, Poppy went on to tick off another list. “There’s been the widow at the Opera House.”
“Gossip,” he scoffed. Accurate gossip, but he’d sooner lop off his own arm than concede to those indiscretions to a young lady. “I’d trust a Tidemore wouldn’t take everything written in the scandal sheets as fact.”
“I saw you,” she said flatly.
Tristan coughed into his hand. “Ah…I see.” Checkmate.
“Shall I go on?” she drawled, lifting a thin black brow.
“No.” He’d rather wandered himself down a path he’d no business walking. “I’d rather you didn’—”
“There was the serving girl at the Hell and Sin Club,” she continued over him.
Alas, the bloodthirsty minx was determined to stomp all over him in this battle. “Your sister talks too much,” he mumbled, glancing up at the ceiling. Past Poppy’s shoulder. Anywhere but at her.
“And there was your mistress at Madame Archambault’s.” Poppy drifted forward, stalking around his chair so that she circled him. “You do recall our meeting—?”
“I recall,” he croaked. Tristan adjusted his previously flawless cravat.
“Where I was being fitted for my trousseau and you were accompanying your mistress?”
The most out of the way modiste would have been the place Poppy had found herself. “Very well.” He eyed the exit covetously. “You were…are…indeed entitled to your suspicions. This time, however, was not one of those times.”
Poppy leaned in, peering at his face as if searching for his every truth. She sank back on her heels. “Then what are you doing here?” she asked quietly, all earlier teasing gone.
“I despise balls.” There it was…the truth.
Poppy rocked back on her heels. “You?” she shot back, incredulously.
Abandoning his negligent pose, Tristan pushed to his feet. “Yes, me.” Because given his reputation, the world would only expect him to be in the midst of the crowd. Loving every moment of the noisy, thrilling crush of a ballroom.
“You, the adored, charming, always-sought-after Earl of Maxwell?”
Flashing a grin, he drifted over to her. “Is that what I am? Adored? Charming?”
The minx swatted him on the chest. “Oh, hush. Save your rogue’s smile for another, Maxwell.”
Except, with the pale moon’s glow slashing through the conservatory windows, it didn’t escape his notice that a blush bloomed on Poppy’s cheeks. He opened his mouth to tease her once more…but when their eyes met, the very somber and very un-Poppy-like glint froze the levity on his lips.
Shoving his hands behind his back, he wandered over to the little work station she’d set herself up by the fountain. “The balls and soirees eventually grow tiring.”
“They do,” she murmured, gliding toward him.
“The noise. The inanity. It was once—”
“Thrilling?” she ventured, speaking as one who knew.
He nodded, and stared down at the fountaining water. “Thrilling,” he murmured, his gaze on his visage in the pond. Upon his return from Waterloo years earlier, he’d welcomed the inanity. For it had proved a distraction. A desperately needed one. He’d relished each dalliance, for those very reasons. At thirty, time had aged him, and reminded him how…empty it all was.
“I…never knew you felt that way,” she ventured, hesitantly…as if she believed he might still be feeding her a line.
“I didn’t always,” he confessed. How easy it had always been to talk to Poppy. There’d been no messy entanglement. No fawning. Just…an unfettered honesty that only a girl was capable of. Only, that bluntness had followed her into womanhood.
“What changed?”
Life. Him. Everything.
Tristan sank onto the step leading into the watering fountain. “Here,” he urged, motioning her back to her seat.
She hesitated, and then in further un-Poppy like fashion, complied without complaint. Tristan took one of Lord Smith’s work rags.
“What are you…?” Her words trailed off as he brought that cloth toward the front of her dress.
He hesitated. Though t
here were years of friendship and history between them, Poppy Tidemore was still a lady. “May I?”
With her eyes wide in her face, Poppy nodded.
“Now, the first step to cleaning a stain is blot the area. Like so.” He dabbed at the mark. Tristan continued to dip the fabric in the fountain and then blot. “The secret is to remove the excess moisture from the fabric.”
“I was attempting to rinse it.”
He paused, eyeing the wide splotch on the waist of her gown. “Uh…I see that. One needs to remove the stain first.” Gathering up another cloth, he dipped it into the fountain, and soaked it. “Next,” he explained, as he rang out the excess water, “one rinses.”
“You’ve experience with laundering your own garments?” She directed that question to his bent head.
He may as well have hung a star for the awe coating her voice.
His lips twitched.
Only Poppy Tidemore. Any other lady would long for baubles and pretty compliments. Poppy would admire and appreciate a person who could clean a garment.
“In war, a soldier learns all manner of skills that he wouldn’t have otherwise acquired,” he murmured. They fell into an easy silence as he tended her gown. When he’d finished with the cloth, he set it aside. He leaned forward to blow on the damp article…
The air crackled and hissed, thrumming with tension.
And he, who’d been previously absorbed in helping little Poppy Tidemore right her gown, noted a sea of details that had failed to escape him: the lace trim of her neckline. The rise and fall of her chest. The gentle swell of her breasts; cream swells that would fit perfectly in his palms.
He struggled to swallow.
Did he imagine the slight increase in her breathing, a faint rasp?
Or mayhap that was his own.
Look away. Run. Run as far and as fast as your damned legs might carry you.
“Are you all right?” she asked, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. And the concern in her voice sent reality rushing back.
Cad. I am an utterly depraved cad.
“Fine,” he managed gruffly. He gave his head a slight, disgusted shake. What momentary madness had overtaken him? “You should return,” he said, coming to his feet. “There’s a sea of suitors, I trust, awaiting you.”
With a snort, Poppy lifted her dance card.
He frowned.
Why…why…? “It’s empty.”
“You always did have a tendency for stating the obvious, Maxwell,” she said dryly. “There are no suitors. Zero of them.” She formed a small circle with her long fingers. “Nulla. Aucun.”
Another lady might have been in tears. Poppy, however, was all matter-of-fact about her circumstances.
“You’re better off without them.” Which were not simply words to make the lady feel better. Most lords of London were self-important, pompous bastards who’d never appreciate a spirited woman like Poppy Tidemore.
“Perhaps,” she agreed. “But that does not take away from the fact that there are things a lady requires a husband for.”
He dissolved into a fit.
“I meant freedom, Maxwell,” she said, her tones rich with exasperation. “I meant my freedoms.” She wrinkled her nose. “Is there anything you men think of other than sexual relations?”
Rarely. And as he couldn’t sort out whether hers was a rhetorical question or one she expected an answer to, he swiftly diverted the topic along safer courses. “You’ll find the right gentleman, Poppy.”
Poppy folded her arms at her chest. “Will I, Tristan? Will I?” she repeated, placing a slight emphasis on those echoed syllables.
He opened his mouth to deliver the expected, and requisite, reply…and yet, the answer remained lodged there.
She sensed that hesitation. “And what of you?”
Tristan angled his head. “What about me?”
“Where’s your bride?”
His brows went up. “Egads. I don’t have a bride.” He wasn’t the marrying sort. Eventually he’d see to those responsibilities. Soon. One day.
“You’re struggling, too, then.”
“I’m not…struggling. Mine—”
“Is a choice?” she asked, without inflection.
Tristan searched for a slight tremble to her lips or tears in her eyes. Instead, there was only a curiosity in her clear gaze. “Because I, too, have not found the right person yet,” he said smoothly. Nor was he in any manner of rush to do so.
Poppy sighed. “There’s only one thing that makes sense.” She gave him a look.
Something was expected of Tristan. And God help him, for all his effortless reads on discourse and women, any and every answer eluded him here. Tristan shook his head.
She nodded.
“Why are you nodding like that?” he asked, befuddled.
“A Marriage Pact, Tristan. A marriage pact.”
He recoiled. “What in blazes is that?”
“A man and woman agree that should they not find a better match they shall settle on one another.”
A laugh burst from him. “That sounds both positively horrific and pathetic all at the same time.”
She glared at him, that look harder and sterner than that of any tutor or instructor he’d had in the whole of his life, and it effectively quelled his amusement.
“Very well, we agree…if I’m unwed by twenty-six, we shall marry one another.”
At what point did the minx believe they’d come to that agreement? “Bah, when you’re twenty-six, I’ll be fast approaching forty.”
“Not so much fast-approaching as gracefully sliding into it,” she allowed, holding her index finger and thumb up a smidge.
And because he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t hear the whole of this out, he asked, “And what are the terms of said arrangement?”
“You won’t hunt.”
He paused.
“I’ll not agree otherwise, Maxwell.”
He blinked slowly. “Uh…were you not convincing me of the terms?”
“Your word, Maxwell.”
His lips twitched. “Very well. No hunting.”
“If it is any consolation, you shall be nearly forty at the fateful date, and entirely too old for hunting anyway.”
Another grin tugged at his lips; not the practiced one he’d affected for scandalous purposes. And how much better this smile felt…and was. “I thought I was sliding into my doddering years.”
Then with a remarkable aplomb for a lady whose gown was damp from lemonade and waters—she gave a toss of her curls. “I was being polite.”
He knew better than to point out that as long as he’d known her—now four years—the chit hadn’t ever opted for politeness over honesty. He again perched himself on the edge of the work table. “Carry on.”
“There’ll be no mistresses, Maxwell.”
He strangled on his cough.
Poppy sharpened her eyes on his face. “That fit had better not be because of an inability to commit to that vow.”
“N-not at all,” he managed to rasp between his great, heaving gasps for breath.
With a grunt, Poppy thumped him with an impressive strength between the shoulder blades.
And it occurred to him in that instant that had he provided a disagreeable answer, the minx would have happily left him choking. He didn’t know whether to be impressed or terrified. “It occurs to me, Lady Poppy, that your list is comprised largely of things you do not want, and not that which you desire.”
“Hmm.” She nibbled at the tip of her finger. “I do believe you’ve a good idea there.”
“Occasionally I manage that,” he said dryly.
“I’m to have the largest space in the residence for an art room.” There was a challenge in her eyes; one that indicated she expected him to rebuff that pretend clause.
She still sketched. The last time he’d seen her with a sketchpad in hand, she’d had a rough-looking outline of a dog on the page. “Any space you desire will be yours,” h
e said with a flourish of his hand.
“I’ll keep company with whomever I wish.” Her fingers balled into fists at her sides. “None of this disapproval society is so famous for.”
A little pang struck. The Tidemores had been riddled with scandal for more than a decade now. They’d been met with unkindness and disdain. It had become as casual a fact as the London streets fogged over. And yet…to her, to this young woman, it was her life. He bowed his head somberly. “You’ll have no complaints from my future self on that score.”
She nodded slowly, approvingly.
“Anything else, my lady?”
The lady settled into her seat, one wholly warming to her role of arbiter of her fate. “I’ll wear what I wish, without being made to feel guilty for choosing whichever garment I choose.”
“Absolutely,” he said automatically. Unbidden, his gaze took in the heavily ruffled satin skirts. He repressed a shudder. Poppy caught him in the shins with her foot. “Oopmh.” Scowling, he bent down and rubbed the wounded flesh. “What in blazes was that for?”
“For eyeing my skirts in that manner.”
Tristan tossed his arms up. “You hate white.” She’d said as much, no fewer than…well, at nearly every exchange they’d had.
Poppy gave another toss of her head. “That’s entirely different.”
“How so?” he asked, unable to help himself.
“I can be annoyed by my skirts. It’s altogether different when other people express their opinions over what I’m wearing. Do you understand?”
Nothing much made sense whenever he was around or with Poppy Tidemore. “Completely,” he lied.
“Now.” She hopped up and drifted over until their knees brushed. Nearly five inches shorter than him, she had to tip her head back to meet his gaze. “What do you want?”
In any other woman, there would have been a veiled suggestiveness to those four words, an invitation that welcomed sin and seduction…and God help him for the scoundrel he was, his blood thickened at the slightly sultry quality of her contralto. He slipped his gaze lower…
And by the tangle of white ruffles, was hit with the reminder that: one, he was chatting with his best friend’s sister-in-law, and two…the chit was…innocent. And three, being caught with her was no longer the same as it had been when she’d been a child of fifteen. Now, she’d be ruined, and he’d be trapped, and—
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