Of course she did. She might not want to, but she did. She was hurt each time a cutting remark passed someone’s lips in her hearing. No one wanted to be laughed at, and he’d been the cruelest of all. If she didn’t care, she would have been indifferent, not furious. If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t have lobbed a dozen things at him, wouldn’t have screeched her rage.
“I won’t even think them,” he insisted. Finally she had commandeered enough space between them to force herself away, and he let her go as she strained to break the circle of his arms.
“Everyone else does. Why shouldn’t you?” She stumbled backward as he freed her, her shove carrying her back toward the bed. The edge hit her thighs, and her knees buckled beneath her, her bottom landing with a muffled thump. “Please leave,” she ground out, snatching up a fistful of the thick counterpane and dragging it around her.
“Poppy—”
“I won’t make a good wife. You should consider an annulment, my lord, because you’ll never get an heir from me. I have no intention of bowing to your dictatorial decrees, and I won’t be biddable or accommodating.” Her fingers had curled into claws, scraping across the material of the counterpane.
He had done more damage than he’d thought. David sighed, raking his hand through his hair. He had always known that the day would come where he’d have to seek a wife, but for a very long time, that place had been reserved for a nameless, faceless lady. Once, not too very long ago, he’d thought Elaine would have filled it nicely enough. She would have made a charming addition to his household. She’d been raised to the position, knew what would be expected of her, was a consummate lady—elegant, attractive, and pleasant. She would have caused him no strife, and they would likely have done quite well together. She would have made no demands of him, and he would have made none of her in return. It would have been a peaceful life, with each of them continuing on in their own fashion, perhaps meeting every so often at the dinner table, or in her bedchamber for the begetting of children.
It would have been interminably boring.
His breath caught in his throat. Rushton, that damned meddling bastard, had been right all along. He had never loved Elaine. He had been infatuated with the idea of her, with being the subject of much envy with her on his arm. He’d been taken with her perfect golden beauty, but he’d never had even the slightest interest in discovering the woman beneath it.
Not as with Poppy, whose layers confounded him, captivated him. With her, he would always want more. More of her sharp tongue, her secrets, her soft hair in his fingers, her softer lips beneath his. He wanted her vexing attitude, her vulnerability…her long, sleek legs wrapped around his hips.
For all of the things she showed to no one else, he wanted her.
But she did not want him. It was in every tense line of her face, every acid word that had spilled from her lips. She had buried herself beneath crisp layers of frost, girded herself with righteous fury and condemnation. He had earned those things and more.
Drawing the counterpane about her shoulders, she ducked down to scoop something up—an object that had fallen from the table earlier, one she’d knocked off by accident in her rage.
She drew her arm back, a small, bronze clock clenched in her fist. “I won’t miss,” she warned, her voice an icy snarl.
He believed her this time; her gaze burned a hole in the center of his forehead. She’d brain him with it, and happily.
“I’ll go,” he said, cramming his hands in his pockets. “I only wanted—” But she didn’t want to hear it. “I’ll go,” he repeated.
And the relieved sigh she heaved as he at last retreated through the connecting door haunted him for the remainder of the night.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Poppy had managed to avoid her inconvenient husband for a solid week. This was accomplished by the clever and cunning tactic of having not once stepped foot outside of her room. Although she now had time and more to devote to writing, every page had turned out excessively, depressingly maudlin. Mr. Plessing would have cast them into the fire or dismissed them as unsellable.
She would have to pay a call upon him soon to deliver what installments she had managed to finish thus far. She wondered if he had heard of her marriage. Just as easily she dismissed the thought—of course he had. All of London would have heard of it. There had been too many people at the duchess’ dinner party for the news not to have spread like a wildfire.
A week confined to her room—of her own accord, yes, but still confined—had left her feeling out of sorts and restless. She would have dearly loved to explore the house in which she now resided, but had judged the chance of encountering her husband a price too high.
If only her room had windows facing the front of the house, she could have kept watch for his comings and goings and slipped out of the room in his absence. Surely he did not spend the bulk of his days within the residence—but she could not bring herself to ask of the housekeeper, who delivered her meals to her room, whether or not his lordship was at home.
Poppy sighed, tapping her pen upon the page before her, knowing she’d rendered this sheet, too, unusable, so it mattered little whether or not ink splotches marred it. Miss Julia Ainsworth, her current heroine, had devolved into a helpless waif, given to wandering the moors and brooding over the ruins of her life. Her plight echoed Poppy’s own miserable situation too closely for comfort, and since Poppy could see no way out of her own conundrum, how could she be expected, then, to rescue poor Miss Ainsworth?
A burst of feminine laughter from somewhere down the hall startled her from her dilemma, and Poppy’s brows furrowed at the sound. Victoria and Isobel had both made themselves scarce over the past week. While Poppy had not taken them to task for the mischief that had resulted in her immediate and unwanted marriage, for there could be no purpose served by it, both girls had understood even without such recriminations that their scheming had gone a bridge too far. The consequences thereof had hurt them as well. The invitations they might have otherwise received had ceased; for the first time the girls who had so recently been the toast of London had instead found themselves shunned.
The twins had been so subdued since her marriage that to hear them laughing now was surprising in the extreme. Abandoning her writing desk, she laid down her pen and crept to the door. It had gone past tea time, and Mrs. Sedgwick had delivered a tea tray some time ago—but she had made no mention of Westwood. Surely gentlemen had interests that kept them out of their homes for a good portion of the day.
Gathering her nerve, Poppy cracked the door open and popped her head out into the hall. No one was lurking in it, and for that she was thankful. As of yet, Mrs. Sedgwick was the only member of the household staff to whom she had been introduced. The housekeeper was pleasant enough, but reserved. Poppy did not doubt that she’d heard a fair amount of gossip—the woman probably viewed her with no small amount of suspicion and scorn, though she was polite enough to keep her opinions to herself. Still, she did not doubt that the entirety of the staff would have formed their own judgments over the circumstances surrounding their employer’s marriage.
Another ripple of laughter tripped down the hall, and above it, the sweet strains of a lilting melody rendered on a piano. Victoria—it had to be Victoria. Isobel was all thumbs when it came to instruments. She’d managed only a smattering of beginner’s exercises, plonked out along with many, many discordant notes, before she had declared herself hopeless and refused to subject herself to any further musical torture.
There must be a music room on this floor, though how a piano had been carried up quite so many stairs, Poppy couldn’t imagine. The music grew more distinct as she crept down the hall toward the source of the sound—Victoria was picking out the delicate melody of an Irish ballad she’d favored recently. It was soft and faintly melancholic, and did nothing to cover the voices from within the room toward the end of the hall, through the open door which spilled sunlight out across the hall.
Voices. One
of them masculine.
“So tell me, Victoria, what sorts of things does your sister like?” Westwood’s voice, clear as day.
Over the trickling melody, Victoria inquired archly, “Isobel?”
“Poppy, you obnoxious minx,” came the reply. Two girls tittered in response—both girls were in the music room? With Westwood? Why?
The music came to a trembling halt, the last chord singing out sweetly as Victoria’s fingers paused on the keys. “I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice dropping in sullen contemplation.
“You don’t know?” There was strange note in Westwood’s voice, as if he were aghast at the reply.
Isobel’s voice answered. “I don’t think that Poppy’s ever had time to…to develop many interests,” she said carefully. “Of course, she wri—”
“Isobel.” Victoria’s voice had turned sharp, and Poppy was suddenly and furiously glad of the defense.
“It’s quite all right,” Westwood soothed. “I’m aware of your sister’s career.” His voice expressed neither approval nor disapproval.
A tense silence drew out, until Isobel spoke again. “Papa gambled,” she said at last. “There wasn’t money for shopping or for entertainment, or even for a governess. And then when Papa died—”
“When Papa died, Cousin Rupert threw us out.” Victoria punctuated this with a sharp strike of the keys, and the corresponding sound burned Poppy’s ears. “Poppy spent all her time writing. So that she could hire a dancing master, and tutors, and purchase us gowns and stockings and parasols and ribbons—” Another strike of the keys, the deep bass tones rolling out like a funeral dirge. “But for the ball gown the duchess made her buy, she’s not had a new gown in eight years.”
“That will change,” Westwood said. And then, “Isobel, will you pour?” The clink of china followed, and Poppy guessed that they had been taking tea.
“The truth is—” Isobel began, her voice wobbling just a little. “The truth is that Poppy has spent all her time in taking care of us. Because if she did not, there would be no one to do it. And it has left her precious little time for herself.”
Poppy closed her eyes against the press of tears, sinking back against the wall and pressing her hand over her mouth. She had never wanted to make her sisters feel like burdens. She had never wanted them to feel as she had felt, when their father had been alive.
Victoria’s fingers wandered over the keys again in an idle scale. “We thought you liked her,” she said, her voice mildly reproachful. “We thought you would take care of her—so she wouldn’t have to work so hard.”
“I do like her,” Westwood said, and Poppy very nearly snorted. “And I will take care of her. Just as I’ll take care of you imps.” There was a ruffling sound, followed by a screech of indignation. Victoria muttered something beneath her breath about her hair having been ruined.
Isobel said, “I don’t think she cares much for you.” Another pause. “Or for us, probably.”
“She’s said as much?” Westwood’s question was sharply inquisitive.
“No, but—she never locks herself up for so long, even when she’s writing. I think she doesn’t want to be around us. Any of us.” Isobel’s voice was dejected, remorseful.
“Don’t take it personally,” Westwood said. “Some women are just shrewish by nature.”
Poppy’s back stiffened to steel rigidity, and she heard Victoria and Isobel drew twin offended breaths. But Westwood continued blithely.
“You know the sort—difficult, surly, cantankerous, given to sulking, pouting, and hearing unpleasant things of themselves when they linger unseen in hallways.”
It took a moment for the tail end of his comment to break over her rising fury and penetrate her brain. She froze, her face heating in embarrassment.
“I really thought we’d cured you of this proclivity for spying, Poppy.” Westwood heaved a sigh. “You might as well come in.”
She should simply turn and walk away—it would be easy enough. He couldn’t chase her down without making a fool of himself.
But there was the skittering of feet, and before she knew it, both Victoria and Isobel had tumbled into the corridor.
“Poppy!” they cried in unison, and then suddenly she was surrounded by clinging arms and rustling skirts as both girls threw their arms about her, vying for space.
Westwood cleared his throat, and Poppy glanced up to see him leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. “Girls,” he said. “Do let your sister breathe, won’t you?” His face was calm and collected, and his mouth tilted up just at the corner in the barest hint of a smile.
Obediently, Victoria and Isobel withdrew. But Isobel seized her hand and dragged her toward the music room. “Oh, Poppy—everything’s turned out all right! We’ve got invitations again, and David’s going to give us a ball of our own, and—”
“David?” Poppy echoed incredulously.
Her husband lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “They are my sisters by marriage,” he said. “There’s no reason they shouldn’t address me by name.” He stepped back into the music room to allow the twins and Poppy to enter. “Victoria, pour some tea for your sister, please.”
“Oh, but—”
“There’s an extra cup, Poppy. Mrs. Sedgwick has brought a spare every day, just in case you elected to join us.” He claimed a seat on the low couch, and Victoria passed Poppy a cup of tea on her way back to the piano bench. Isobel had taken up the one chair beside the harp, and that left only one seat remaining. On the couch. Beside her husband.
She would rather stand.
“We’ve got an invitation to the Throckmorton ball tomorrow evening,” Isobel blurted out. “That’s one we never would have gotten without David.”
“Ah,” he said. “You may thank my sister, Jilly, for that one. She’s been busy on your behalf. Your sister and I will escort you.”
Poppy choked on her tea. “No—no, thank you, I would rather not attend. Lady Winifred—”
“Poppy, the longer you wait, the harder it will be.” He spoke with the weariness of someone who knew. “To retreat is to give rise to gossip, for they’ll think you have something to be ashamed of. The only way out is through.”
Intimately aware that both Victoria and Isobel were watching intently, Poppy stared down into her teacup. “I’ve never attended a ball,” she said fiercely. “I don’t intend to start now.”
“But you’ve got a gown—”
“I don’t dance.” Now he was looking at her intently, as if she were some kind of strange creature he had never before encountered. “Well, really,” she huffed, “why should I have learned? What need could I have had for dancing?”
“Amusement,” he said. “Pleasure. Things I suspect you’ve little familiarity with.” He set down his own cup and said, “Victoria, can you play a waltz?”
Tittering with glee, Victoria turned her attention to the pages of various musical scores sitting atop the piano. “Yes, of course. I’m certain I saw sheet music for one in here somewhere. Ah, here it is.” She withdrew the sheets from the stack, arranging them on the stand.
And then Westwood was collecting the cup from Poppy’s hand to lay it aside and pull her to her feet. “Oh, no,” she said. “Oh, no—no. I can’t.”
“Of course you can. It’s not difficult.” Suddenly he was uncomfortably close, close enough that she could smell his shaving soap, spicy and clean.
“There’s not enough room. We’ll knock something over.” She heard the high, panicky inflection of her voice, heard Isobel’s giggle.
Westwood pried her free hand from its grip on her skirts. “Then we’ll knock something over.” He squeezed her hand in his. “Relax, Poppy,” he said, as Victoria launched into the music.
Poppy’s blood roared in her ears; her heart pounded out an unsteady rhythm, drowning out Victoria’s playing. Westwood, standing beside her, took her left hand in his and placed his right hand at the small of her back, as she’d seen other co
uples do on countless ballroom floors.
She felt frozen, uncertain, but his hand at the small of her back urged her into movement. “Step with me, Poppy—there, that’s perfect. Can you hear the rhythm of the music?”
With his hand guiding her, she moved through the small steps. “I feel remarkably foolish,” she muttered.
“Everyone’s got to start somewhere. I promise not to rap your knuckles if you miss a step.” His hand squeezed hers in what she supposed was meant to be a comforting gesture, but instead only made her pulse jump. “No,” he said, laughing when she took a step forward without him. “Let me lead, darling. I’ll direct you. Like this.” Darling. She had only half a moment to ponder that bit of nonsense before there was a slight tug on her hand, and she deduced that he intended her to turn toward him.
“A turn, now,” he said, as his hand slipped from her back to her side. He stepped toward her, and the hand at her side exerted a subtle pressure. Reflexively she stepped back—too far. She hit the table, heard the groan of its wooden legs. Isobel gasped, and from her peripheral vision, Poppy saw her lunge forward, narrowly saving a teacup from certain destruction on its plunge toward the floor. Victoria’s fingers paused on the piano keys, the music drawing to an awkward halt.
Her cheeks stinging with mortification, Poppy turned to assess the damage.
“No, Poppy, look at me,” Westwood said. “Take small steps, and trust me to guide you.”
He had some nerve, demanding her trust. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but he was already rearranging them, drawing her away from the table to the open area beyond it.
“Victoria, you may begin again,” Westwood said. There was the rustling of pages, and then Victoria commenced from the beginning of the piece once again. “Small steps, Poppy. Feel the turn,” Westwood said. A light pressure at her waist; this time when he stepped forward, she stepped back into the turn as directed. “Again,” he said, and she nearly stumbled—but his hold on her waist supported her, and she righted herself.
His Reluctant Lady Page 17
