His Reluctant Lady

by Aydra Richards

  The hallway dead-ended into another corridor, and she paused as a giddy giggle reached her ears. She shrank back into the shadows that clung to the walls and swallowed hard. Had she found a likely couple? It could just as easily be a couple of ladies who had gotten themselves lost.

  And then a man’s throaty chuckle burned her ears. There was a corresponding flutter of delighted laughter that rose and faded abruptly into a satisfied, if smothered, sound.

  Summoning her nerve, she risked a peek around the corner. They were perhaps twenty feet away, the couple she had stumbled upon—locked in an undeniably torrid embrace. The window beside them let in a milky stream of moonlight, painting the couple in a silver glow.

  The woman was a lady, of that Poppy was reasonably certain, but she could not summon up her name. She had wrapped her arms around the gentleman’s neck for stability and she had craned her whole body backwards, it seemed, the better to invite the man’s lips to traverse down her neck. Goodness, it looked to be such an uncomfortable position—but Poppy supposed she seemed to be enjoying herself well enough. And the man’s left hand—it had caught a fistful of the woman’s skirts, lifting them up, up, up, until he could thrust his hand beneath them and slide his palm along the woman’s upper thigh, toward her—toward her—

  Dear God, where did he intend to put his fingers?

  The woman made a low, soft sound of pleasure, and she arched into his hand. And Poppy could not contain her gasp at the sight of them locked in that intimate embrace. At once the man’s head lifted, his eyes scanning the corridor. Poppy eased back into the shadows and prayed he had not seen her, listening intently for the footsteps that would warn her to take flight back to the safety of the ballroom.

  She had not recognized him until he had turned. How could she have, when his face had been all but buried in the woman’s rather impressive bosom? But she had seen him only yesterday at the Duchess of Rushton’s garden party—he had been one of the gentlemen standing with her on the terrace, cooing over what had certainly been her young daughter.

  They had not been introduced, a fact for which she was profoundly thankful at the moment. It was so much easier to spy upon people with whom she was not personally acquainted.

  A tense moment of silence passed, without so much as a single footfall. Perhaps she had evaded notice after all.

  “Not here.” The words were a gritty demand, issued from the man, and clearly still some distance away. Shortly thereafter there was the creak of hinges and the soft click of a door closing. So they had elected to find privacy after all. But—they were still close. And simply because she could not see didn’t mean she could not hear.

  Her feet acted before she was aware of having made the decision. They took her straight around the corner. Whichever room they had chosen, it was close enough for her to have heard it open and close again. So she quietly approached the closest door, the one directly opposite the window that had cast them in moonlight. She pressed her ear to the door, listened—gaped in astonishment and blushed like one of those silly young debutantes currently populating the ballroom.

  And then she fumbled for her notebook and her pencil, and she began to write feverishly.

  Chapter Four

  After the ball had concluded and she and her sisters had once more returned to their rented house, Poppy had retired to her room and spent the remainder of the night scratching out page after page. The resulting chapters were very nearly sordid, comprised of what she had seen and what she had only heard—but they had flown from the nib of her pen as if they had wings. The past few weeks that she had spent plodding through her work might as well have never been.

  She had only stopped when her lamp had guttered out, and though she had gone to bed, she had slept restlessly, too eager to get the story trapped in her head out on paper at last. She hadn’t bothered to go down to breakfast, and she had pleaded a headache rather than go with Lady Winifred and the girls to their afternoon engagement.

  When at last she had set down her pen and tapped the sheaf of pages into order, it had been nearing four in the afternoon. There was time, still, to take her manuscript over to Mr. Plessing, her publisher. He had been hounding her, albeit politely, for another installment, and she had despaired of having anything to provide him with. Time had been swiftly running out for both of them—if she had not had another chapter for him, the printing of the next serialized issue would have been delayed, and readers were fickle.

  She had developed a following of sorts, and after her three prior novels had been released in relatively quick succession, the public had been clamoring for more. But with the fourth giving her such trouble, and with no finished manuscript anywhere on the horizon, Mr. Plessing had suggested publishing it first as a serial—new chapters issued in weekly installments—which would, upon completion, be compiled into a triple-decker. It had provided her time to work without losing readers, and had even gained her a following among the lower classes—those that could not afford the exorbitant price of bound novels, and those without memberships to lending libraries.

  It had, quite frankly, been the most lucrative move of her career. But her progress had still been slow, and printing had quite outpaced her meager advancement.

  She had written what would doubtless comprise two installments between last evening and this morning. She had bought herself some much-needed time, and if she could just acquire a bit more inspiration, a bit more vicarious experience, she could fly through the rest of the novel and perhaps even take a bit of a break before she had to begin it all again. Perhaps a trip to Bath with the twins, or even a holiday in Brighton.

  How lovely it would be for once simply to be able to relax.

  ∞∞∞

  Poppy took a hack to Mr. Plessing’s residence in Cheapside. Despite their long-standing relationship, she had never visited his business, as to do so could compromise her identity. All of her novels had been published under her pseudonym, Rebecca Waring. No unmarried lady of Poppy’s tenuous social position published literature under her given name if she wanted to maintain her reputation, and most certainly they did not make a career of it. Gothic novels themselves had a horrendous reputation for all that the Ton snatched them up like hotcakes. They might want to be entertained, but they certainly didn’t want to consider that a woman in their midst had done it.

  Mr. Plessing arrived promptly upon receipt of the note she’d had couriered to him at his office. He was a jovial man in his late fifties, almost grandfatherly in his manner and appearance, but he had the brash, cutthroat attitude of a businessman half his age. Despite his enthusiasm for her work, he had never failed to inform her when a part needed to be cut, when she had phrased something poorly or failed to capture something as it deserved. He was her harshest critic and also her closest friend in London, aside from her sisters.

  He was grinning as he strode through the door and glimpsed her in the sitting room, her small leather satchel at her side.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got something for me at last,” he said, removing his hat and smoothing his thinning grey hair. “I had all but given up hope!”

  So had she. But she cleared her throat. “I think I’ve got enough for two installments,” she said. “If…if they’re acceptable.” She drew back the satchel when he would have reached for it. “I must warn you,” she said, “they’re a bit more…sensational than my usual work.”

  Mr. Plessing’s brows lifted in acute interest. “Hand them over and I’ll take a look,” he said. “Would you mind finding out where my damned butler has gone off to and sending him for some tea?”

  Poppy was thrilled to be anywhere but the drawing room at the moment, while Mr. Plessing thumbed through pages that were quite possibly the most scandalous she had ever penned. She thrust the satchel at him and scurried off down the hall.

  It took nearly ten minutes for the tea to be prepared, and she waited in the kitchen, drumming her fingers upon the countertop, dreading the idea of returning. But the cook pla
ted up a dozen sugar biscuits, arranged the teapot and a couple of cups upon the tray, and handed the whole thing off to her.

  She plodded slowly back toward the drawing room, anxious and uneasy. Mr. Plessing was absorbed in the pages, and behind his spectacles, his eyes flicked over the page with a curious intensity. Mechanically she set down the tray and began to prepare two cups of tea, settling back into her seat with a sense of impending doom. With every twitch of his mustache, every lift of his brows, she began to wonder if she’d not made a grand mistake.

  At last he reached the end, and she released a great sigh of relief—the ordeal of watching him read it had been nearly as bad as the judgment she anticipated.

  He laid the sheaf of papers over his knee, reaching for the cup that had sat, untouched, for the last fifteen minutes or so. She could practically see him mulling his thoughts over in his head, as if he were searching for some sort of remark he could make that would not completely dispirit her.

  “It’s too scandalous,” she said, disappointed.

  “My dear, it is too scandalous by half,” he said, taking a sip of his tea. But when he looked up at her at last his eyes danced with glee. “It’s going to sell like mad.”

  ∞∞∞

  Poppy’s heart pounded in her chest as exhilaration thrummed through her veins. She had done it—and it was all thanks to…well, whatever his name was. The blond gentleman who seduced women in deserted corridors. The inspiration that he had unwittingly provided had been beyond invaluable.

  Not that he had known he had been providing it. She shook off a brief attack of embarrassment—if he didn’t wish to be overheard, he oughtn’t to have chosen a ball for an illicit liaison. Surely she could be forgiven for a healthy curiosity, for seeking out a bit of motivation wherever she could.

  The man had a way with words that was positively indecent. She suspected that were she to stumble upon another couple in such a situation, it wouldn’t have proved nearly as elucidating.

  She supposed she was just going to have to hope that he was half as wicked as he had first appeared, because she had the wretched suspicion that she would never write half so well as she did without his unwitting assistance.

  Once, the threat of poverty had been her muse. Now she was just the tiniest bit afraid that he had usurped that role.

  Whoever he was.

  Chapter Five

  David was certain he was being watched. It was nothing overt—the few times he’d scanned the ballroom had availed him nothing. But every so often he could feel a sort of heat on the back of his head, a prickling awareness of eyes trained there.

  At first he had thought, hope in his heart, that it might’ve been Elaine. But she’d barely cast her gaze in his direction all evening, and the few times she had, it had been a cold, vaguely censorious glance.

  Of course, Lady Nettringham was one of her intimates, so it was possible that she’d shared the details of their liaison. Still, what right had Elaine to expect fidelity of him when she’d promised hers to another man? He hoped it piqued her jealousy, gave her the same sense of loss she’d given to him.

  The hairs at the back of his neck lifted, and he edged around slowly in an attempt not to give away the game too soon. Out of his peripheral vision he thought spotted his observer at last—a mousy little thing, sitting off to the side with the chaperones and the dowagers, at the ball, but not truly a guest. He turned his head fully, and of course her gaze flashed away from him, locked onto the ballroom floor as if it had been trained there all night. She wore a ghastly gown—a high-necked, puce green color that made her look rather sallow. Her hair was dark, tortured into a rather severe style that made her look like the most prim, disapproving governess he had ever imagined could exist.

  He could not recall having seen her before, but she clearly dressed to avoid such notice, and with all the other stylishly styled ladies scattered about the room she attracted no more notice that would a peahen amidst a company of swans.

  Still, she was rather taller than most, he suspected—her head rose a good few inches above all the other women sat with her, and certainly her legs would turn out to be just as long. If she had learned to dress a little better, she could probably even achieve elegance.

  He nudged Jilly, who stood beside him waiting for her husband to return with champagne. “That woman in the awful gown,” he said in a whisper. “Who is she?”

  Jilly glanced in the direction of his gaze. “Miss Poppy Fairchild,” she said. “She’s got two sisters out this year—twins. They’re perfectly lovely, but a bit young for you, I think.”

  “Poppy,” David repeated. “What a frivolous name.”

  Jilly pinned him with a disapproving look. “For heaven’s sake, David,” she said. “She didn’t choose it.”

  “She’s been staring at me all evening.” But for what reason he could not fathom.

  “Has she?” Jilly’s tone expressed no small amount of doubt. “I would never have guessed it of her. She’s quite a circumspect woman. Polite. Reserved.”

  “Do you know anything else of her?” he asked.

  “Well, I—” She frowned, consternation etched between her brows. “I’m afraid I don’t. I don’t believe she attends Ton events because she wants to,” she said. “I can’t recall having seen her engage in conversation, or dance, or anything remotely entertaining. I suppose she’s only here for her sisters.” She patted his arm. “I’ll ask around for you. Oh, there’s James!”

  And she was gone before he could correct her misapprehension that he was interested in the woman. What Jilly assumed he would want with an obvious spinster of no particular beauty was beyond him.

  Still, the woman’s—Poppy’s—penchant for staring at him whenever his back was turned was alarming, and any number of rumors could fly if she were caught at it. He would have to gently discourage her interest. Somehow.

  ∞∞∞

  “I’ve torn the ribbon of my slipper,” Victoria announced sulkily as she approached Poppy and Lady Winifred. “Now I shall have to sit out the rest of my dances.” This was accompanied by a great sigh of such disappointment that even Poppy, who could not think of anywhere she would less rather be than at a ball, felt a twinge of sympathy.

  But only a very small one.

  “Darling, of course you shall not have to sit out,” she soothed. “I’m sure your slipper can be put to rights again with a quick visit to the retiring room. I can’t imagine there won’t be a maid on hand who’s quick with a needle and thread.”

  “I suppose so,” Victoria allowed. “But I shall still miss out on my very favorite waltz, and—Poppy, why are you staring at Lord Westwood?”

  Poppy felt a surge of color flood her face at the question. “I’m not,” she hissed. “And do keep your voice down!”

  “But you were.” Victoria’s lips twitched into a smile. “Are you harboring a tendre for him?”

  Poppy leapt up from her seat as if she had been scalded, aware that Lady Winifred and at least two other chaperones were staring at her.

  “To the retiring room. Now, Victoria.” She shooed her sister toward the exit. “I am not harboring anything for him,” she said fiercely. “I don’t even know the man!”

  “He’s very handsome,” Victoria said, grinning in the sort of way that set Poppy’s teeth on edge. “But everyone’s saying he’s heartbroken over Lady Elaine. She’s recently become engaged to the Marquess of Leighton.”

  Poppy snorted. Of course the man was not heartbroken—no heartbroken man would so readily engage in such licentious behavior.

  “Of course,” Victoria continued, “it’s also rumored that he’s been consoling himself with assorted light o’ loves.”

  “Victoria!” Poppy hissed. “You are not supposed to know such terms, and you are certainly not to speak them! If anyone had heard you—” At least the hall was deserted. Victoria might be somewhat tactless, but she’d said nothing truly ruinous. Yet.

  “You write them,” Victoria countered
blandly, her voice pitched low. “If you didn’t want me to know such terms, you ought not to have let me read your books.”

  “A decision I am now regretting,” Poppy said between clenched teeth. “You may be certain I will reconsider it in the future.”

  Victoria waved that away, every inch the unruffled young lady. “I can pick a lock with a hat pin. I shall simply steal them from out of your drawers.” And then, struck by inspiration, she added, “And I shall tell Lady Winifred that you let me read them!”

  “Why, you wretched little—” Ladies do not strangle their sisters in public, Poppy reminded herself rather severely. They waited until they were in private, when the body could more easily be disposed of. For a moment she regretted that she hadn’t included a murder scene in any of her books. The research involved would have come in handy.

  Thankfully they had at last reached the ladies’ retiring room, and Victoria had at least enough sense not to speak of anything uncomfortable in the presence of the other ladies inside. In the fleet fingers of the attending maid, it would only take a few minutes or so to stitch the broken ribbon back into place, and if it would not be as neat as it once had been, at least it would hold through the remainder of the ball.

  Poppy tapped her toes impatiently all the while. It was true that she had been staring at the man—Lord Westwood—all evening, but it had only been to monitor his presence. If he slipped away from the ballroom, she needed to know so that she could follow him at a discreet distance.

  But she hadn’t been nearly as subtle as she could have hoped, not if Victoria had noticed. And she thought that he might have noticed as well, though she hadn’t been foolish enough to have held his gaze when he had swung it toward her. Still, she had felt the weight of it upon her.

  It simply wasn’t fair that a man could be so handsome. He had the sort of beauty that was wasted on a man. There wasn’t an inch of him that was less than elegant. His cool blond hair was artfully disarrayed, and though the style appeared casual she didn’t doubt that the effect had been carefully contrived. His cheekbones were high and defined, and his jaw was firm and resolute, speaking to stubbornness and determination. He hadn’t the weak chin that so many of the noblemen she’d seen seemed to be afflicted with, nor the excess flesh that their lifestyles of relative indolence tended to result in. Despite the current style for garishly embroidered and embellished waistcoats, for coats done up in gold buttons and braids, tassels and other such fripperies, his evening wear was quite plain.