“Fine, princess it is, then. May I?”
Except, there was nothing even remotely improper in his eyes; instead, he again gestured for her sketchpad…
I speak as though what you do is safe. You’d call me out, and yet, bold and spirited and proud as you are, you’ve hidden yourself away. In empty rooms of your sister’s hotel, away from Polite Society. On your sketchpad… Where no one will ever see your work or know what you do…
Her husband…he’d been correct about so much. It was why even now she found herself handing over her work to the unlikeliest of people: the rude stranger before her.
He flipped through quickly, with a methodical turn of the pages, not so much as pausing as he turned. Snapping the book closed, he held it over.
And said nothing.
Which was fine. His opinion didn’t matter. He was a boorish, strangish man.
It was also why, as he turned to leave, she should be nothing but relieved. “Well?” she called after him. For his opinion did matter. She did wish to know what the world believed of her work, even as nausea roiled in her belly at the same time for fear of it.
“It’s all safe.”
There it was again. That word.
Poppy’s toes curled in her boots, digging into the leather soles. “You barely looked.”
And the nameless stranger took that as invitation to return…which may have been what he’d intended.
“Your skies are all perfectly blue. They conjure summer. The grass is crisp, a sharp emerald that depicts that same season. There’s no contrast. There’s no thought in it.”
There’s no… And Tristan proved correct once more…she had been hiding herself away. From this. From this criticism that shouldn’t matter because it came from a stranger, and yet, was all the more agonizing, because it did. “Oh,” she said, deflated because she had to say something. She’d not let herself say nothing.
“Not all of them.”
Poppy lifted her chin at a defiant angle. “I’m not looking for false compliments.”
“Pfft, princess, I don’t hand out any compliments, false or otherwise. Tenth page.” His was a dare.
Hefting her book open, Poppy licked the tip of her index finger and flipped through the sketchpad—and stopped.
Her eyes slid closed.
The sketch she’d created for Tristan’s mural.
“Those dogs, poised to strike, the birds in flight; you’ve captured your loathing for hunting, and yet, also the excitement men find in the sport.”
He’d seen that. Speechless, Poppy hugged her book protectively close.
“I saw that. Whatever emotion compelled you to create that, princess? Find it again.”
“…and introducing Mr. Caleb Gray.”
“Excuse me, princess,” he drawled.
And with a slow-growing horror, Poppy followed his march, praying, pleading…please don’t let it be—the gentleman approached the dais and was met with another series of applause as Caleb Gray took up a spot at the front, and looking out through the crowd, his gaze found her.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered.
He winked. It was him. The lead artist whose work was on display. And she’d stood there beside him, the whole while rude and—
“You were speaking to Mr. Gray!”
Poppy gasped. “Pru, you startled me,” she said lamely.
“What did he say to you?” her sister demanded, catching her by the shoulder. “Or dear God”—horror stamped her features—“what did you say to him?”
“I…nothing,” she lied as mortification crept up several degrees. After all, her sister suspected that Poppy had insulted the gentleman…which she had. She’d only questioned his painting and skill. “He…looked at my work.”
Prudence’s eyes threatened to bulge from her face. “And what did he say?”
“He was…unimpressed.” Not wholly. There’d been one work he’d seen promise in.
“Unimpressed.” A scowl replaced her sister’s earlier reverence, as they looked to the front where Caleb Gray was just making remarks to the crowd. Brief remarks. No more than a handful of curt sentences, without so much as a “thank you” for his work being displayed, and then he was striding swiftly from the dais. “The boor,” Pru muttered. “Your work is magnificent.”
Yes, Poppy had been of a like mindset until the gentleman had rightly called her out for it. Safe. Tristan and Gray were both correct. For all the ways Poppy had believed herself bold and adventurous, in her work and in her life, she’d never challenged herself to see more…nay, to want more and expect it of the world. “He wasn’t wrong, Pru.” He was…
Cutting a path through the crowd, pointedly ignoring the men and women attempting to gain his attention.
“He knows nothing.”
While her sister let off on an impressive tirade about artists with inflated opinions of themselves and their works, Poppy followed Mr. Gray’s purposeful strides. Her stomach sank as the path he’d set became clear. Oh, drat.
“Stop, Pru,” Poppy warned between compressed lips. “He—”
“I will not stop. I’ll not let an uncouth American, or any man for that matter, diminish your skill.”
“In fairness, one could make the argument I’m only slightly uncouth, as my parents were English born.”
Pru ceased mid-sentence, her mouth agape. All the color leeched from her already pale cheeks. “Is he here?” she mouthed.
Poppy managed her first real smile since Tristan’s leaving. “I fear so,” she returned on a whisper that brought her sister’s eyes sliding closed.
“Oh, God in heaven.” Then with her usual Tidemore spirit, Prudence brought her shoulders back and squarely faced the artist. “I am sorry you heard all that but I should say, it is unpardonably rude to eavesdrop.” Never mind that the Tidemores had perfected and used that skill since they were old enough to toddle.
His heavy features, slightly too broad to ever paint him as handsome, perfectly conveyed his boredom.
Warming to her argument, Prudence’s nostrils flared. “Furthermore, I’ll have you know Poppy is the most skilled artist of all those in our family.”
Stifling a groan, Poppy slapped a hand over her eyes, but it was too late; she’d already caught the flash of Mr. Gray’s cynical half smile.
“And I’ll not have you or anyone else disparage her so.” With that curt diatribe, Pru marched off.
“Rather impressive defense,” the artist drawled after Prudence had gone.
“Yes,” she muttered. “All except the part where she forgot me here with you.”
He laughed, the sound emerging rusty and slightly graveled.
So very different from Tristan’s laugh, which came easily and had always made her heart accelerate several beats.
“She’s wrong, you know,” Mr. Gray said after his amusement died down.
“About my skill? Oh, I know that, now.”
His lips quirked in that jaded grin. “All it took was me insulting your work for you to see the light.”
“No,” she said slowly. “It was a matter of setting aside my pride to see that you were correct.”
Did she imagine the spark of approval that glinted in his dark gaze? Either way… Poppy cleared her throat. “I thank you for considering my work and offering your opinion.”
He lifted his chin in an acknowledgement that bordered on rude.
But then, she suspected rude was as much a part of his skin as the furrowed lines of his deep brow.
Poppy dipped a curtsy and started to leave.
“I’m disappointed in you, princess.”
She froze and forced herself back. “I beg your pardon.”
“I expected you’d ask for lessons. Want to hire me.”
“Are you for hire?” she asked curiously.
He snorted. “No.”
She shrugged. “I suspected as much.”
“I don’t get paid for lessons. I don’t even give them.”
Poppy leaned in
and whispered, “Then, it is a good thing I didn’t waste my time asking.” Once more, she made to go.
“I’m making an exception. I’m giving you lessons, princess.”
He was…
Poppy wheeled back. “I don’t… Are you jesting…”
“No. But don’t ask me why or I’ll change my mind.”
She opened her mouth and closed it several times. “Very well.”
“I’m going to need a name, princess.”
“Lady Poppy Tide…” No, that was no longer correct. “Poppy Poplar,” she softly corrected. “Lady Bolingbroke.”
Another bark of laughter escaped him. “Good God. I hope that’s not a married name.”
“It is,” she said defensively. Even as she herself had lamented the ridiculous pairing of Poppy and Poplar since she’d dreamed of marriage to Tristan as a girl.
“You should have picked a husband with a different name.”
Giving him a look, Poppy snapped her skirts, and swept off.
“We start tomorrow, Poppy Poplar,” he called after her.
Chapter 20
Three Months later
London, England
Dearest Tristan,
I’ve greatly come to appreciate each of your sisters. The question remains: how have we not been friends before this? As for your mother…as I have vowed to speak with candor in all, I shall merely say, I hope you are endlessly well.
Yours,
Poppy
It was a universal truth long accepted by Polite Society that married ladies were permitted endless freedoms.
Poppy’s mother-in-law, however, appeared to be the one woman in all of England wholly unfamiliar with the rules surrounding marriage.
Sir Faithful and Tristan’s two dogs, Valor and Honor, bounded ahead, noisily announcing Poppy’s arrival in the breakfast room. “Good morning,” she called, plastering on her widest, most cheerful smile for the other occupants.
Head buried in the morning gossip column, the dowager baroness peeked over the top, and glanced down her aristocratic nose before reverting her attention back to her paper. Soon after her husband’s departure for Ireland, when she hadn’t been weeping copiously at his absence, she’d been cursing him for saddling her with the shrewish dowager baroness. And for everything that had changed in his absence, that annoyance with his mother had held steadfast. “Breeches,” she spat like the vilest epithet. Though in fairness, to the ever proper matron, it no doubt was.
“Actually…” Claire, who’d become Poppy’s greatest champion to the dowager baroness, smoothed butter on a piece of crusted bread. “They are trousers. Breeches would fall just below Poppy’s knee.” She paused mid-smear, and considered Poppy over at the buffet. “Though I do believe Poppy would look smashing with her legs exposed.”
“Her legs? Her legs?” Over the top of the squawking dowager baroness, Poppy held her sister-in-law’s gaze. “Thank you,” she mouthed.
Claire winked once, and then discreetly dropped a sausage link over the side of her chair and the three dogs abandoned Poppy at the sideboard and raced over.
Faye, the more reserved, and sadly downtrodden of Tristan’s sisters might have smiled. All hint, however, was effectively hidden behind the rim of her teacup.
“…Absolutely unseemly it is, prancing about as you are…” Her mother-in-law turned a page in the scandal sheet hard enough to tear the corner. “A public spectacle is what she is.” She directed that criticism to her morning reading.
In the two months since she’d come to reside with Poppy, not a day had passed that she hadn’t wanted to toss the miserable harpy out on her arse…and, in fact, respect for one’s in-laws be-damned, she would have done that very thing if it hadn’t been for her pity for Tristan’s sisters.
“Might I point out—” Claire, Tristan’s youngest sister piped in.
“No, you may not, Claire.”
“That Poppy has not worn them in public.” She fed a portion of her bread to Valor. “Only here.”
“And at that hotel she is—”
“Decorating,” Poppy supplied, carrying her plate of eggs and bread closest to Claire.
“Nor does she prance. She paints.” Though, in fairness, it wasn’t solely pity. Poppy genuinely liked the two women; near in age to her own sisters, and delightfully spirited, they’d become much needed friends in Tristan’s absence.
“With that…with that…?”
“Artist?” Poppy dryly supplied, taking a bite of eggs.
“American.” The dowager baroness slammed her paper down and exchanged it for her cup of coffee. “Americans are not artists. They are provincial. They are common.”
“I’d hardly call Mr. Gray common,” Claire said with a gleeful relish in her smile.
“Mr. Gray. Bah. Mr. Gray.” Grimacing, Poppy’s mother-in-law took a drink of that bitter tasting brew perfectly suited for her.
“His reputation quite precedes him,” Poppy intoned. Although she appreciated her sister-in-law’s defense of the famed artist, neither could she sit silent while he, or anyone, was disparaged by the shrew across from her. “His work is being praised throughout Europe for its originality of design and the manner in which it provokes thought.”
“Art isn’t supposed to provoke thought, dear.” The other woman stretched out that chastisement with such patronization that Poppy gritted her teeth. “It is intended to be a thing of beauty. Like a woman.”
Oh, good God.
Poppy shoveled in another mouthful of eggs to keep from saying something she’d regret. And the only reason she’d regret it was because she was forced to abide under the same roof until either the end of the Season or until her sisters-in-law made matches.
All these years Poppy had lamented having a mother who was so painfully staid and proper.
Only to find out how unfairly she’d judged the Dowager Countess of Sinclair.
Tristan’s mother made Poppy’s look like a tamer Elizabeth Chudleigh. Yes, Poppy’s mother had sought matches for her children, but she’d always supported them and their choice in spouses: be it a former governess or widower with a past or, in Penelope’s case, a gaming hell owner.
Whereas the dowager countess? The woman had a mercenary ruthlessness that terrified even Poppy. How could her husband have thought to take any blame or responsibility for the machinations surrounding the Maxwell title? There could be no doubting that the key orchestrator of that crime sipped on her coffee at that very moment.
“Poppy,” the dowager baroness began, employing that affected tone she adopted when she sought to sway Poppy. “I know several perfectly acceptable French tutors who might provide you art lessons. Why, Claire’s previous tutor, I’ve heard, even this late in the Season is accepting students.”
“Because no one wants his services,” Claire muttered, earning a sharp scowl from her mother.
Poppy took a sip of tea to keep from smiling. “Although I am grateful for that generous offer, I’m quite content with how my lessons are proceeding with Mr. Gray.” Gathering up the remainder of her bread, Poppy hopped up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?” She started from the room, having learned early on the art of a swift exit where her mother-in-law was concerned.
She was halfway to the ballroom when the quick footfalls sounded behind her, along with the noisy parade of dogs following after. “Poppy!”
Poppy slowed her steps and waited until Claire had reached her side. The three dogs kept close, as the young woman had become a sort of defacto mother to the group.
Poppy stared wistfully at Sir Faithful, who could not go without being with the other woman.
Claire stopped before her, and thumped her side once. All the dogs, now trained in whatever skilled language the young lady had managed to speak to them, promptly sat in a line. “I wanted to—”
“Don’t.” She already anticipated the familiar exchange.
“Apologize. She’s horrid and unappreciative and I’d have you know that she does not speak for
me or Faye and that Tristan would be equally, nay, even more horrified, were he to learn of how she treated you.”
Poppy took Claire’s hands. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Claire,” she said softly, in an echo of that guidance given her by Juliet almost ten years ago. “You mustn’t hold yourself responsible for the actions of others. And I am so very happy you are here. You and Faye.”
Before their arrival, she’d dodged her family because she couldn’t stand to see the pity or the know-it-all looks in their eyes. As miserable as the dowager baroness had been, her daughters had helped bring Poppy out of the misery she’d mired herself in with Tristan’s leaving.
Tristan…
Pain returned; still present, but less sharp than in those earliest days.
“He misses you,” Claire said softly, unerringly following Poppy’s thoughts.
“Perhaps.” Poppy was too mindful of her sister-in-law’s sensibilities to ever provide the cynical truth: their marriage hadn’t been a real one, and he’d left for something of much more importance than that hasty union. His honor.
“No, he…does. He asks of you often in his letters.”
“I know,” she said gently. He wrote, and on those pages proved his usual charming, Tristan self.
Sir Faithful hopped up; and crouching low, he faced the opposite end of the hall, and growled, announcing the visitor before he even turned the corner.
“Be nice,” Poppy scolded as Caleb Gray started down the hall.
In fairness to Faithful, a few inches shy of seven feet, broad as he was tall, and in possession of long, black locks that he drew back, there was a rather primitively threatening aura to the gentleman…which would have inspired fear in creatures of two legs or four.
That was, if Poppy herself hadn’t known the man.
He stopped before them, and earned a sharp bark from Sir Faithful. “Morning,” he greeted, with that peculiarly flat tonality to his speech, marking him American. And without all the usual pomp of bowing and proper greetings.
“Caleb,” she greeted warmly, eyeing the heavy leather bag in his fingers with a covetous longing. Caleb had been the other one to pull her from her misery.
Sir Faithful yapped loudly.
Lords of Honor-The Collection Page 120
