But what had happened when he was fourteen? For a strange and indescribable reason, Poppy desperately wished to know. Instead she traced the whirling pattern embroidered onto the tablecloth with her fingertip. “It’s clear you have a great deal of affection for one another,” she said. “I think it’s lovely. There’s eight years between myself and the twins. Sometimes I feel I’ve been more a mother to them than a sister.”
“We didn’t always,” Jilly said. “For a very long time, we might as well have been strangers. When our parents died, I was just twelve, and he didn’t come home for me.” At Poppy’s shocked glance, she hastened to add, “I don’t wish you to think poorly of him—although I resented it at the time, much later I came to understand it. He was still a very young man, just eighteen, away at university, and grieving himself. But there came a time years later when I had need of him, and he was there for me.” Her lips curled into a small smile. “For all his faults and foibles, I do love him. I suspect he’d like to think of himself as a heartless rake, but he’s not.”
Poppy opened her mouth to decry that supposition, given what she knew of his illicit liaisons, realized she could hardly admit such a thing to the man’s sister, and abruptly snapped her mouth closed once again. “I’m sure you’re correct,” she mumbled. Though she couldn’t imagine why the duchess had wanted her to know such a thing.
Nora gave a sigh, leaning back in her chair. “And here I thought I was going to hear something truly salacious,” she said.
Jilly laughed. “It was nothing, truly—just a bit of boyish mischief that ended with Papa taking a switch to David’s backside. Still, it would have embarrassed him, I think, to have you hear of it.” That, she had directed at Poppy instead of to the table at large; another troubling thing. “Have you had the chance to start the books I lent you?” Jilly asked.
“Oh, well—I suppose I haven’t had the time for much of anything,” Poppy said. “And it’s been just a day.” Not quite a lie; she hadn’t begun the books—the duchess didn’t need to know that it was because she’d written them and thus had no particular need to read them.
Jilly fluttered her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I know how it is, with the Season in full swing. But when you’ve a free evening, you simply must read them. Here; I’ve got the latest installment with me somewhere, so long as you don’t mind the creases.” She wrestled her reticule off of her wrist, tugging at the strings which had somehow become tangled.
Just as she had picked apart the knot and thrust her hand inside the bag, Lord Westwood returned, carrying a tray which he had clearly pilfered from some distracted servant. It contained several glasses of lemonade and a haphazardly arranged feast of finger foods, as if he’d simply scraped whatever he could find nearest to hand onto it.
“Here,” he said, his voice sulky. “I’ve procured your refreshments. I hope I have earned a reprieve.”
“Of course,” Jilly said with an absent smile. “At least until the next time I don’t wish to bestir myself to fetch something. Oh, here it is at last!” She withdrew a folded packet of papers and proffered it to Poppy, who accepted it with a bland smile.
Suspicion coloring his voice, Westwood asked, “Is that…one of those Gothic serial novels?”
“Yes,” Jilly said. “It’s really quite riveting. Mrs. Waring—”
Westwood snatched the sheaf of paper straight from Poppy’s fingertips, a feral growl climbing in his throat. Shocked into silence, Poppy could only watch as he seized the papers in both hands and tore through them with brisk urgency.
“David!” Jilly gasped. “What in the world are you doing?”
Westwood ignored her, ripping the papers again and again until they were reduced to nothing more than a pile of shreds, whipping about in the light breeze. He cast the bits onto the table with something very like disgust, and one by one they were caught up and floated away on the wind like a handful of confetti.
“Mrs. Waring,” he said, his voice a snarl of fury, “is a charlatan and a spy. I am going to find her, and when I do, I will destroy her.”
Poppy felt her face go utterly white. A queer sense of impending doom splashed over her with all the accompanying shock of a bucket of water dashed into her face. Dizziness assailed her, and her stomach lurched, beset by a sudden nausea.
Somehow he had found out. She wouldn’t have taken him for the sort to read Gothic novels, but somehow, someway, he had discovered that she had taken her inspiration from him. The rage that burned in his eyes scored her, and she knew at once that she had trifled with the wrong man. She had pulled the lion’s tail, and if he ever discovered that it was she who had penned those words he so reviled, there would be nothing to save her from his wrath.
Chapter Twelve
David regretted the impulse to shred the offending papers the moment he caught a glimpse of Poppy’s face, which had bleached white with shock and fear. Probably she had never experienced such an intense display of emotion from a nobleman before now; fashionable boredom was the standard, and any sort of strong emotion was most definitely discouraged. He was supposed to be above such things, beyond reacting on instinct.
“Well, really, David,” Jilly sniffed.
Nora patted her hand sympathetically. “It’s quite all right,” she said. “It only cost a shilling. And you know you’ll just buy the bound copy when it comes out.”
“But now Poppy shall have to wait to read it!” Jilly protested. “It’s sold out all over London!”
If anything, Poppy went whiter still. Somehow even her lips had paled from their natural dusky rose to a bleached pale pink, and she pressed them together in that strained way she had when uncertainty weighed upon her shoulders. Had he glanced beneath the table, he suspected he would find her hands knotted together on her lap, knuckles as white as her face.
He had put that terrified expression on her face with his intemperate emotions. The knowledge disturbed him.
“Forgive me,” he said to Poppy, bracing one palm on the table. She flinched as if she had expected him to lash out at her instead, but recovered herself swiftly enough, her eyes darting toward him. He had never seen them so clearly before—huge and dark, with gold-colored flecks in them that glowed in the light like stars. “I am not generally so ill-tempered,” he added.
She averted her gaze, reaching for a glass of lemonade—and her fingers shook with a fine tremor. “You need not explain yourself to me, my lord,” she said, though her voice emerged somewhat less than steady, as if a vise had squeezed her throat.
Of course he owed her no such explanations, but somehow it didn’t change the fact that he wanted to offer them. The possibility that she might think him an ill-mannered, volatile beast concerned him.
“Jilly knows me,” he said. “As does Nora, albeit to a lesser extent. You do not.”
She took a sip of lemonade and her lashes shaded her eyes, long and thick, striking against the pallor of her cheeks. “I can’t think why you should want me to,” she said.
God alone knew why. David certainly did not. He ground his teeth together in impotent frustration. “Take a turn about the garden with me.”
She choked on her lemonade, her eyes flying wide. “I beg your pardon?”
He was aware that both Jilly and Nora were staring at him with rapt interest, and doubted that Jilly would be able to contain her glee. For some reason she had decided she approved of Poppy, and would doubtless be engineering all sorts of schemes to throw them together.
“A walk,” he said. “Surely you’re familiar with the concept.” Frustration had injected a bite of sarcasm into his voice; her horror was hardly flattering.
“David, don’t be an ass,” Jilly interjected. “Miss Fairchild has done nothing to merit it—and you have behaved abominably.”
“I am trying to apologize,” he snapped.
“Well, you’re doing a terrible job of it,” Nora said, her eyes narrowed to slits. “But I suppose apologizing is something a man like you has little famili
arity with.”
“A man like me?” David echoed, offended. “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”
Nora snorted. “You wear your consequence like a cloak,” she said. “I suppose it never occurred to you that perhaps Miss Fairchild has no desire to walk with you. For God’s sake, Westwood, you didn’t even ask her—you ordered her.”
Had he? He hadn’t noticed. He rounded on Poppy, whose horror had faded to a sort of bewilderment, as if she had lost the thread of the conversation entirely.
“Would you care to take a turn about the garden with me?” Probably it would have been better received had he not growled it at her. He didn’t even know why he wanted it so badly. He could just as easily toss out an apology to her here and now, and she would be polite enough to accept it.
But she’d thwarted his hopes at the last event they’d both attended. He had wanted to get her alone, wanted her to come to him—and she hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction all evening. Still, no woman could kiss like she had and remain unmoved. She had been affected, more so than he would ever have thought a woman like her, starched and pressed and buttoned up tight, could be. It was a fluke, that kiss—a moment of madness, born of the darkness and morbid curiosity.
One more kiss would prove it. Just one, and he would know that it had been nothing more than that.
“I would rather not,” Poppy said, avoiding the lot of them by staring down into her glass. Her voice had been steady and even, but he sensed something lurking beneath the clear syllables, a sort of undercurrent of annoyance.
“Why not?” The question slipped out before he was aware of having asked it. He heard the incredulity in his voice, the utter incomprehension that she had refused him. Women did not, as a general rule, refuse him. Just occasionally they were coy or perhaps even cautious, but they did not refuse him. Well, with the notable exception of Elaine—but she had been holding out for a grander title. Poppy could not claim any such expectation. She had no suitors, no prospects. She ought to have leapt at the chance he’d offered her.
Instead she slanted him one of those severe looks that he suspected had done a rather fantastic job of keeping her sisters in line. “My lord,” she began in that crisp, clear voice that even the sternest, most no-nonsense of governesses would have envied, “I know perfectly well my position. You need not make sport of me.”
“Make sport of you?” he repeated, dumbfounded. Somehow she had reached some bizarre conclusion, and for the life of him he could not understand how or why. “I asked you to take a turn about the garden. How in the world has that offended you?” And she was offended—against all reason, she was swiftly growing furious. He could see the rapid flutter of her pulse just above the ridiculously high neckline of her awful gown, the tightness of her jaw, the way her dark brows slashed down in mounting anger.
He glanced at Jilly in a silent plea for assistance, but even she was perplexed.
“Lady Winifred has warned me of men like you,” Poppy said, clutching her stiff skirts as she rose from her chair. Her voice was well-modulated; she was too prim and proper to have willfully caused a scene, but no one would have mistaken her for anything but a woman in a holy rage. “Men who find amusement in petty pranks, who place wagers on the most asinine of things. The betting books are filled with such nonsense, aren’t they? Tell me, how much is it worth to you to dance attendance upon a spinster? One pound? Five?”
Nora gasped, and Jilly sighed, “Oh, Poppy…”
Poppy saw neither of them. Instead she glared at David with all the wrath of an avenging angel. Lady Winifred had convinced her—or she had convinced herself—that she could not hope to garner anyone’s interest, and thus she had assumed that any show of it would, necessarily, be false. What had given her such a suspicious bent, such a grim outlook on life and of her own position within society?
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I wouldn’t be so crass as to accept such a wager, even if one existed, which I doubt.”
“Oh?” Her tone dripped with doubt, excoriating in its sarcasm. “To what end, then, do you invite me on a turn about the garden?”
What could he say? That he’d been aiming to lure her into a private corner, to determine if the harsh light of day diminished the unexpected passion between them? To see if he had merely imagined it after all? Of course he could not to admit to such a thing. He remained silent.
“As I thought.” She gave an ugly little laugh as she averted her eyes, and he knew she had assumed the worst, that he had been making sport of her after all, and he thought there might’ve even been a sheen of tears that she swiftly blinked away.
But her voice softened as she turned to Jilly and Nora. “Thank you,” she said, with a curtsey that, mercifully, did not cause her knees to pop this time. “You’ve been very kind. I’ve had a lovely time, but I find myself coming down with a touch of a headache.”
“But your sisters…” Jilly’s face was a study in sympathy as she sought a reason to keep Poppy from leaving.
“As you said, Lady Winifred will look after them.” Poppy brushed at her skirts and released a breath that gusted out like a sigh. “It was a mistake to accompany them,” she said. “I never should have come. Lady Winifred is chaperone enough. She knows the workings of London society, and I do not.” Her voice had gone dull, resigned, as if she had surrendered the life in it.
“Of course you should have come,” Nora said. “You have just as much right—”
“No. I haven’t. We all know I haven’t.” Poppy set her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Your Grace, I thank you for the loan of your books. I will see that they are returned to you.” And with a final, slightly choked and very nearly regretful, “Thank you,” she turned on her heel and walked away, pausing only briefly to whisper something to Lady Winifred, before she disappeared entirely.
Jilly heaved a sigh. “That’s that, I suppose,” she said, casting a glare at him.
That’s that? “What the devil is that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“My God, Westwood. Don’t you recognize a goodbye when you hear one?” Nora slanted Jilly a speaking look that David took to mean something along the lines of men are idiots. Or perhaps, given the circumstances, Westwood, in particular, is an idiot. Either seemed equally probable.
“That wasn’t…she didn’t mean forever.” Of course she hadn’t. That would be ridiculous. Wouldn’t it? No one eschewed polite society because of so minor a misunderstanding.
But perhaps overly-sensitive spinsters did indeed do so. Her sisters would not suffer for it, after all. She had Lady Winifred to cart them about.
“I’ll call upon her tomorrow,” Jilly was saying to Nora. “I doubt she’ll receive me, but I should try. Will you come?”
“Of course,” Nora said. Together they stood, and Nora linked her arm through Jilly’s. “Westwood,” she said, “you might consider sending Poppy something by way of apology. Flowers seem an inoffensive choice.”
“And what have I done, then, that merits an apology?” he snapped.
Nora tipped her dainty nose in the air as she and Jilly strode past him. “If you don’t know, I could never explain it to you.”
Damned bad-tempered women. He started after them, but paused as the toe of his boot nudged an object lying on the grass. A little leather-bound notebook. He nearly called for Nora and Jilly to wait before he realized that neither of them had passed near enough to him to have dropped it.
Only Poppy had. It had to be hers. He stooped to retrieve it.
It would be beyond all bounds of propriety to read it. It could contain anything—shopping lists, financial information, dinner menus.
Her deepest, most intimate thoughts.
Well, if she was careless enough to have dropped it, he wasn’t beyond taking a peek. Or several.
Claiming a chair and an untouched glass of lemonade for himself, he cracked the cover and settled into read.
An hour later, having devoured the entire plate of finger san
dwiches and two glasses of lemonade, neither of which had succeeded in the least in banking the fire of his fury, he snapped the notebook closed and shoved it into his pocket.
He’d decided to heed Nora’s advice after all. He would be sending flowers.
Along with an ultimatum.
Chapter Thirteen
Poppy struggled to breathe through the panic that gripped her. Her notebook had gone missing. She could not be certain exactly when it had happened, or where—there was always the possibility that it had slipped free of her pocket somewhere in the house, or in the hack she’d hired to return her to their rented house after she had left the garden party.
But if she had dropped it somewhere in the house, none of the servants had yet stumbled across it. And if Lady Winifred had found it, there would have been no end to the hue and cry she would have raised. Victoria and Isobel would both have immediately returned it to her—neither of them was unaware of the importance of her notes.
It had to be somewhere. But where? She sank onto the drawing room sofa and held her head in her hands, struggling to picture the contents of the notebook in her mind and recall whether or not she’d jotted down anything that could be incriminating, revealing.
She was certain—mostly certain, anyway—that she’d not been so foolish as to inscribe it with her name or address. Though she was generally most careful with it, it would have been infinitely better to lose it forever than to have anyone pick it up and understand its significance, and still worse, gain the ability to tie it back to her.
It would be fine. It would be fine. No one could prove anything—no one could know for certain. She would simply have to let it go and pretend she did not feel the loss of it.
The butler, Carroway, rapped his knuckles upon the door jamb, startling her out of her flustered reverie.
“Beg your pardon, miss,” he said. “But a courier’s come by with a bouquet.”
A bouquet? At this hour? She darted a glance to the grandfather clock against the wall. “But it’s nearly supper time,” she said inanely. Flowers were meant to be delivered in the morning, when they were at their freshest. But Victoria and Isobel had arrived home from the garden party not long ago—perhaps one of them had made the acquaintance of a gentleman who had been so taken that he had wanted to express his admiration as swiftly as possible. The girls had each received dozens of flower arrangements since they’d all arrived in London; it was not outside of the realm of possibility.
His Reluctant Lady Page 9
