“Absolutely not.” David gave a sardonic laugh. “No one would believe you to be eligible for one, anyway, and divorce would ruin both of us. No, you’ve made my bed for me and now you must lie in it.” The hot color that rushed to her cheeks infused him with a sense of shame. She made herself so easy to wound, her vulnerability swimming in her dark eyes. His own cruelty surprised him, but he did not know how to restrain his own impulse to strike out at her. It wasn’t fair of him. It wouldn’t have been fair even if she had trapped him—the damage had already been done, and they would have to work out a way to go on in a marriage that neither of them had wanted.
She had made no reply to his taunt. Somehow it was worse that she had simply accepted it as her due. He scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed. “Let’s be reasonable, Poppy. You are my wife. If you do not live beneath my roof, the gossip will be all the worse for it.” The gossip was vicious enough already. He wondered if she had any idea what people were saying of her.
“There are worse things than gossip, my lord.” Unspoken in the steady little voice was the fact that she thought each of those things would come to pass within his household.
Lady Winifred looked down her exceptionally long nose at Poppy. “My dear, you forget yourself. You ought to thank your lucky stars that the earl deigned to save you from disgrace.” With each word that passed from the woman’s mouth, Poppy grew paler. “You have a responsibility now,” Lady Winifred continued, her voice sharp and condemning. “To the earl and to your sisters, who might have been utterly ruined along with you. Why, you might have—”
“Lady Winifred, that is quite enough,” he said, sickened by the diatribe. Small wonder that Poppy had evinced so visceral a reaction to the suggestion that he might favor her with his attention, when Lady Winifred so clearly thought her beneath his notice—perhaps anyone’s notice. Again, his gut twisted in sympathy. “I won’t have my wife reprimanded in such a fashion. I would suggest you acclimate yourself to speaking to her with the respect to which she is entitled. Failing that, you may find yourself a new situation.”
As Lady Winifred stammered through a half-hearted apology, Poppy slanted him an odd little glance. He read the suspicion in it, the surprise that he would come to her defense, when he had availed himself of every opportunity to condemn her. He rose to his feet, unable to bear the terrible fragility of her face.
“I would suggest you begin packing,” he said. “I’ll send some of my staff to assist you, but I will expect you to be at Kittridge house by nightfall.”
“My lord—”
She couldn’t even bring herself to say his name, and she was his damned wife. “My wife lives in my house,” he said tersely. “I will retrieve you myself if I must. I do have that right.”
And that, as far as he was concerned, was that.
Chapter Twenty-One
He hadn’t seen her, but he knew she had arrived as instructed. Or ordered, as it were. The house had been overrun with servants running to and fro, delivering the items that had arrived, packed into trunks on carriages. Between them, Poppy’s sisters had had ten trunks full of gowns, accessories, and other such nonsense.
Poppy had had but one. Something would have to be done about that, he supposed. She was a countess now; she ought to be attired as one.
If she hadn’t been avoiding him before, she certainly was now. Though her sisters had come down to dinner, along with Lady Winifred, Poppy had not put in an appearance. It had been an awkward, subdued meal. Though he had attempted to broach the heavy silence, each question he had posed to the girls had resulted in stilted, monotone answers, as if he had been a demanding instructor pressing them at drills rather than their newly-appointed brother-in-law.
The moment the meal had concluded, the girls had taken their leave of him with perfectly correct but somehow impudent curtseys. He had not missed the sparkle of contempt glinting in their identical green eyes. But he had earned it, he supposed, and so he had given a brief inclination of his head and dismissed them.
Mrs. Sedgwick had reported that Poppy had taken a tray in her room, but that it had returned to the kitchen more or less untouched. She had worried that the fare had displeased her new mistress, but David doubted that it was anything other than anxiety which had resulted in Poppy’s diminished appetite.
He had given Mrs. Sedgwick instructions to place Poppy in the bedchamber adjoining his own, as was only proper, but the thought of her so close to his own bedchamber—just through the connecting door—was unbearable. Would he hear her within it? Would he have the fortitude to resist the temptation she presented?
She was his wife. Their union had been sanctioned by God and church. He had every right to walk straight through the connecting door and go to her bed. Just the thought of slipping between cool white sheets and taking his new bride into his arms was enough to send him off to the library in search of a decanter of whisky—anything to blunt the unwanted intrusion of desire for the woman who would doubtless refuse him her bed, given the welcome he had offered her.
Which was none. Less than none.
Another inconvenient bubble of guilt burst inside him as he slumped upon the couch in the library. She had been trapped into marriage every bit as much as he had. Perhaps more so—she had had so much more to lose. Still it had taken both Jilly and Lady Ravenhurst to convince her. Still she had requested an annulment of him, even when such an action would be ruinous to the both of them. Did she hate him so terribly, then, that ruin was preferable to marriage? And could he blame her if she did? He had hardly played the role of the doting husband. Though they both knew he was not that, he ought to have managed at least a measure of equanimity, rather than casting unfair—and untrue—aspersions upon her character.
Another whisky. He likely owed Poppy an apology or several. Probably it wouldn’t hurt to establish some sort of truce, some kind of understanding between them. Probably it wouldn’t hurt to summon up some of his vaunted charm for her, to put in at least a token show of courtship.
Yes. It was a sound plan. Their marriage didn’t have to be a battlefield, with hurtful volleys slung at one another across the expanse of the dinner table, or whilst passing one another in the halls. At the very least they had passion—strong marriages had been built on less. And perhaps they might find a sort of friendship in one another. God knew that when Poppy hadn’t been honing the sharp edge of her tongue on his miserable hide, he had rather liked her, even admired her. If he could convince her to like him, just a little, then they might have a relationship worth salvaging.
The thought brought him to his feet, a trifle unsteadily. The hour had grown late, but the twins had been present for dinner, which meant that it was unlikely they’d had another engagement—if indeed their invitations to Ton events hadn’t dried up entirely in the wake of their sister’s scandalous marriage.
Good God. He was going to have to do something about that, too.
He set the decanter of whisky back upon the sideboard and headed for the stairs. The house had gone quiet, and darkness had long since settled in. Kittridge House was modest in comparison to many of the other homes in Mayfair, but it still boasted a good thirty rooms across two floors, and absent a lamp to guide his feet, the path toward the rear of the house where the master and mistress’ chambers were located could be treacherous. More so with the copious amounts of liquor he’d poured down his throat.
Somehow he arrived before her door uninjured, and rapped upon it. Surely she would be awake still; she had grown accustomed to keeping late hours after all, what with chaperoning her sisters to their various engagements. But if she was, no response was forthcoming from within.
It was his house. There was nothing improper about a husband entering his wife’s chamber. No one could castigate him for his presumption. No one could say there was anything inappropriate in the doing.
Except, perhaps, his wife.
But the doorknob gave easily beneath his hand, and he pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was dim with
in, the lamp on the bedside table burning quite low, and in the near-oppressive silence he thought he heard the faint sigh of Poppy’s breath. The drapes at the windows had not been pulled closed, but left open to admit a swath of moonlight which cut across the floor and the foot of the bed, giving a silvery cast to the plush carpeting.
The bed curtains had been only half-drawn, and in the shadowy depths revealed between them, he thought he might’ve seen a flicker of movement. But she must still be asleep—if she had awoken, surely she would demand that he absent himself from her room.
The countess’ bed was a grand, intricately-ornamented monstrosity of a piece of furniture. David’s mother, the late countess, had commissioned it many a year ago, having favored the rococo style well past its point of popularity, even as the Ton had turned its interests to all things Egyptian or Chinese. But the gilt-embellished lines and arches carved into the mahogany frame didn’t suit Poppy at all. She had a simpler style, a sort of quiet elegance that didn’t require such ornamentation.
Nudging apart the curtains shrouding the bed, he peered within it, hoping to shed some light—literally—on the woman sleeping within. She lay on her back, her arms thrust beneath her pillow. A tiny frown had settled upon her face at the advent of the lamplight, but even as he watched, it faded from her lips. Her face was so much softer in sleep. Absent the disapproving stare and the pinched mouth, her features were compelling. She would never be a classic beauty; she hadn’t the delicacy of form and face necessary to achieve that kind of perfection, such as it was. But she was quite pretty, with her full lower lip and her dainty nose and elegant cheekbones. Those high, dark, arching brows that expressed so much emotion. If she had made the least concession to vanity, if she had not considered herself quite so on the shelf, his wife would likely have done quite well for herself.
By the rumpled covers about her, he surmised that she was not a placid sleeper. Her nightgown, plain linen, unadorned with any sort of ribbons or fripperies that the women he’d known had always seemed to prefer, was twisted about her waist. Even the blankets, heavy as they were, had drifted downward to cling to her hips instead.
Her hair had been left unbound, and the whole dark mass of it drifted across her pillow, rich and inviting, lustrous in the dim glow of the lamp. How long now had he wanted to sink his fingers into those thick, luxuriant tresses?
He had taken a seat at the edge of the bed before he had even been aware of it, reaching for a curling tendril. It slipped through his fingers, soft and silky as mink. He gathered up another skein, rubbing it between his fingers, but had only a moment to savor the sensation before she turned in her sleep, and he failed to release her hair quickly enough—the strands caught and pulled, and she came awake with a strangled gasp.
A flicker of confusion passed across her face as she glanced around her. It was, after all, the first time she had awakened in his household, and he supposed it must be disconcerting to find herself in a strange room, a strange bed.
The moment passed, and the softness that had settled on her face in sleep fled. At first there was a queer sort of blankness as she looked at him, as if he were a stranger on the street. And then, as she drew in a soft breath, anger lit her face, glowing like an ember in her eyes. “Get out,” she hissed, in a wrathful whisper.
Her vehemence was astonishing; he had thought to find the same meek, docile woman who had flinched beneath the lash of his own ire just a week ago. Instead he had found a Fury; an avenging angel who looked as if she would gladly skewer him, were there a sword convenient to hand. Perhaps he had pushed her a step too far just recently, beyond the bounds of that which she was inclined to bear.
“Poppy—”
“Get out, damn you!”
The curse shocked him as much as did the pillow that smacked him in the face on the heels of it. She was already reaching for another, scrambling across the wide expanse of the bed, and he caught a glimpse of her bare toes from beneath the hem of her nightgown. He caught the next missile she lobbed at him, tossed it aside. The one after that was trimmed in little gold tassels, and while he’d managed to catch it, too, he’d somehow gotten a mouthful of the tassels.
Probably because he’d just had to open his mouth to laugh. Which had only incensed her further, naturally.
Poppy, in a temper, was a sight to behold. Her hair streamed wildly about her as she dived for the opposite edge of the bed, having exhausted herself of pillows, casting her gaze about for something else to lob at his head.
“You smell like a goddamned brewery!” she shouted. “Did you think I would welcome you into my bed?” With a feral little laugh, her fingers closed around an antique hand mirror that had been in his family for several generations.
“No, I—”
The mirror whizzed by his ear, a narrow miss. It crashed against the opposite wall and the glass shattered. Blindly she reached behind her again, snatching up the next object her fingers touched.
“Did you have to stew yourself in liquor to work up the resolve to bed the dried up, prune-faced spinster?” The venomous question shocked him so much that he didn’t even register the object’s flight until it had passed just over his head and smacked the wall, landing on the carpet with a thud. Given the fact that it had not shattered, he guessed it had not been made of glass or china.
But the question she had posed had sobered his amusement immediately, like a glass of water dashed in his face. “Poppy, I came to apologize,” he said. “I was angry. I said things I didn’t mean.”
When his mother’s precious pewter jewelry box came sailing toward him, missing him by little more than an inch, he decided his declaration had not mollified her.
“I don’t care where you go,” she seethed, breathing hard and fast. “By all means, continue your sordid habit of debauching women in deserted rooms. But it won’t ever be me.”
Christ, it would have to be her. It could only be her. His spirited, glorious wife. Upon whose tender feelings he had trampled, whose tentative trust he had betrayed with his callous disregard.
Behind him, the door creaked open. He should have expected it—she’d been shrieking loud enough to raise the dead. Though reluctant to take his eyes off her lest she lob something else at him while he was distracted, he turned to inform the intruder to leave.
Or, intruders. Victoria and Isobel both, peeking through the crack in the door. “Poppy?” one of them whispered. “Are…are you well?”
“Good evening, ladies,” he said cheerfully. “Your sister is having a bit of a tantrum. No cause for alarm.”
A powder box streaked past his line of sight, cracking against the wall in an explosion of fine, white dust. He coughed, waving the cloud away from his face, summoning a careless smile for the benefit of the two pairs of wide, wide green eyes staring at him.
“Has she hit you?” one of them asked. He was still not quite sure which was which. He supposed telling the chits apart from one another could only come of prolonged exposure.
“Not yet,” he said. “Though not for lack of trying.”
The pair of them tittered in that enchanting fashion exclusive to young and silly girls. “She never misses,” the other one said. “If she hasn’t hit you, it’s because she wasn’t trying to.”
His head swiveled back toward Poppy, whose face had shifted from fury to shock and back again so swiftly he almost missed it. Briefly, David considered that she’d hit him with every pillow she’d tossed—but not one of the most damaging objects. He’d considered them all close calls, and they had been that. But he had not considered that she actually had not been intending to inflict damage upon him—merely to drive him away.
“Good night, ladies,” he said.
A scuffling sound near the door. “But—”
“Good night, ladies,” he repeated firmly. With a grumble and a sigh, there was at last the sound of the door clicking shut once more, and the patter of footsteps retreating down the hallway.
He inclined his head. “Was that
true, Poppy?”
“I hate you!” The fierce statement was delivered along with a heavy hairbrush, which flew past his left shoulder.
“I—yes, I expect you do, right about now.” He took a step forward, then another. A few more objects sailed by him as he approached her; a silver figurine, a music box, a leather-bound book. Though her eyes remained mutinous, her lips quivered. She’d unwittingly backed herself into a corner, and she’d run out of things to throw at him. Still she tilted her chin up, proud and defiant.
“I hate you,” she reiterated tremulously.
“That’s all right,” he said. “I suppose you’re entitled.” He reached out across the space separating them and snagged her elbow, dragging her struggling body into his arms. She flailed her arms, but he managed to snare his around her, trapping her arms within the prison of his. Her chest heaved with each shuddering breath she drew, with the effort to stave off the tears that no doubt threatened.
She would not make herself vulnerable before him again. He knew it as instinctively as he knew the sun would rise in the east. He had set them on this path, created their conflict, and she would not give him another weapon to wield against her.
She was stiff and unyielding, every inch of her as rigid as steel. She wriggled her shoulders in a futile effort to dislodge herself, and stamped her heel upon the toe of his boot, the last bit of rebellion she could manage.
He let her have her petty outburst. She had, after all, elected not to brain him with the powder box while his head was turned. That had been an unexpected kindness, given the depths of her rage.
“I hate you,” she said again, but it was muffled against his shoulder.
“I know,” he said, dropping a kiss into her tousled hair. “I am sorry, Poppy. I was unkind, and there is no excuse for it. I won’t say such things of you again.”
She made an infuriated little sound in her throat, and he felt the muscles in her arms flex, her fists clenching. “How is it any better that you should be thinking them instead? At least saying them would be honest.” She wedged her hand between them, striving for leverage. “I don’t care what you say or do not say.”
His Reluctant Lady Page 16
