His Reluctant Lady

by Aydra Richards

  “I can’t do this.” How humiliating it was to hear the quaver in her own voice! She felt like a great, gangly thing—how dared he press her into such an activity!

  His voice was placating, soothing. “It’s not you, Poppy. It’s your skirts; they’re much too heavy. They’re weighing you down and hindering your movement. I’ll ask Jilly to take you to her modiste—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” She wrenched herself free of his hold. “I don’t require new gowns.”

  His brows drew together, his blue eyes concerned. “Poppy, I can well afford the expense—”

  But she was already retreating, shuffling past a wide-eyed Isobel, toward Victoria, who had let the tune die once more. “I don’t require new gowns,” Poppy snapped again. “I don’t require anything of you, my lord. I don’t want anything.”

  Victoria protested as Poppy passed the piano. “Poppy, wait—”

  “It’s quite all right, Victoria.” Westwood’s voice followed her as she fled the room, taunting her with its bland, even cadence. “Your sister just needs a bit of time to herself.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Poppy had declined, as he had expected, to come down to dinner. The twins, who had begun to shake off the polite reserve they had initially shown him, had withdrawn once more and had been subdued and quiet throughout the meal, picking at their food like little birds.

  He knew the burden of guilt weighed heavily upon their shoulders, knew they felt themselves responsible for Poppy’s distress. But it hadn’t truly been their fault—they’d only called attention to his own abominable behavior, after all. Had he not lured Poppy into an indiscretion, there would have been nothing to expose. Of a certainty, girls of their age would make more of such a thing than there’d been.

  The fact of the matter was that he had not been trapped into marriage—Poppy had been. For all that polite society would sling the blame upon her, he had been the experienced one, he had known better than to coerce an innocent young woman into an illicit liaison. And Rushton had been correct, there, too—it was the sort of mistake that demanded satisfaction. Poppy had had no one to champion her, and Rushton had taken up the responsibility of it. And David had paid for his error with his name and his title.

  He’d done his best to ease the twins into the transition to his household. Any anger that he might’ve felt toward them had dissolved as he had swiftly realized that they clearly regretted their scheme. It would have served no purpose to offer them further remonstrations, and they would be his responsibility until such a time as they married—it would be best, for all of them, to facilitate a harmonious household. At least as harmonious a household as could be achieved with a pair of marriageable young ladies and their incensed sister living within it.

  Damnation. He’d let Poppy have a good sulk, but she could not be permitted to mope forever. She’d had a week already, and he’d thought she’d recovered herself enough to govern her temper when she’d finally emerged from her room this afternoon. Her sisters were settling in nicely enough; it was time that she learn to do so as well.

  His decision made, he stomped up the stairs and down the hallway, just in time to pass Mrs. Sedgwick in the hall, removing Poppy’s dinner tray. At least she’d eaten, he thought, as he caught the doorknob in his hand and gave it a vicious twist.

  Poppy was seated at her desk, bent over a sheaf of papers, pen in hand, scribbling furiously. Though it was not quite ten, she’d already prepared for bed. Her hair was down, draped over her left shoulder, and her thin white nightgown swathed her from neck to toes.

  She did not so much as glance up as he entered, but after a moment she set down her pen just long enough to scoop up a crumpled-up ball of paper and lob it in his direction. It lacked the weight necessary to injure, but somehow, without even looking, she had still managed to hit his left shoulder.

  It occurred to him that the twins had been correct; if she could strike him at such a distance without even glancing at him, she had made a conscious choice not to hit him in their previous confrontation. Likely this had been all it had ever taken to remove intruders from her room before—she had picked up her pen again and resumed her writing within seconds of launching her missile, dismissing the intrusion from her mind.

  He doubted she’d even seen him, not really—she was absorbed in her writing. Her attack had been a reflex; an unconscious rejection of a disturbance. He bent to retrieve the ball of paper, unfurling it and smoothing it out in his hands to read it.

  Julia clutched her cape about her, shivering in the winter chill. There had been many times that she had been cold and alone, but never before had she felt quite so helpless hopeless. All her life she had labored, striven for just a small slice of comfort, of security, and always it had dangled just beyond her reach. But she had rejected the lessons she had learned in her youth in favor of grasping for the unattainable yet again, and this time fate had dealt her the cruelest of blows. Would she never learn? She bent her head, pressing onward through the sleet and snow. Though the wind howled through the trees, she could yet hear the echo of the viscount’s bitter recriminations singing in her ears.

  The parallel did not escape him. “Oh, Poppy,” he sighed as he folded up the paper and tucked it into his pocket.

  She jerked in her chair, her entire body going rigid, her knuckles whitening as they clutched the pen. With no small amount of effort she uncurled her fingers from it, setting it down once again. Her dark eyes assessed him, a muscle ticking in her jaw.

  “I suppose you will now forbid me to write,” she said caustically, her hands settling in her lap.

  “Have I said as much?” he inquired.

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “I would say you’ve made your opinion of my writing quite clear, sir.”

  “For God’s sake, Poppy,” he said, shoving away from the door and snapping it shut behind him. “I tendered my opinion not of your writing, but of undertaking such a career while in so precarious a position. Young, unmarried women do not pen Gothic novels.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “However, you’ll find that a good number of things repudiated in an unmarried lady are accepted in a married one—most especially one that comes equipped with a title. Being a celebrated novelist might well be among them.”

  He had surprised her; he saw it in the flicker of her eyes, the way her hands twisted the skirt of her nightgown in her lap.

  Canting her head, she offered idly, “Then I suppose you would have no objections to my publishing under my married name?” The emphasis of the word carried the weight of her derision.

  “None at all, though I imagine it would shock Jilly to the tips of her toes. She’s quite a devotee of yours. As is Lady Ravenhurst.” He considered this a moment. “You’d probably be drowned beneath an influx of invitations. You are quite popular.”

  “Rebecca Waring is popular. I’m—” she hesitated, her gaze dropping to her clenched hands, a flicker of vulnerability winning out over her anger. “Reviled would probably be the appropriate word.”

  He stifled a wince. “Gossip is the Ton’s raison d’être. They attack because at the moment you’re an easy target—and as long as you hide yourself away, you will remain an easy target. It’s a bit of a scandal, yes, but if we present a united front, it will blow over quickly.”

  She turned away from him, her jaw set in stubborn defiance. “I have no interest in further humiliating myself, thank you.”

  He dragged a hand through his hair, heaving a sigh. “Victoria and Isobel need you,” he said. “My support might hold weight with the Ton, but the girls have known me only a week. They need you.”

  Her sudden indrawn breath suggested he had hit her in a sensitive spot. “Lady Winifred—”

  “Lady Winifred is no longer with us,” he ground out. “She was given a generous severance, along with the remaining term of the lease on your residence, and summarily dismissed. If you had elected to join us at any point in the last week, you would have known. She lasted less than a fu
ll day before I was moved to dismiss her.” His fists clenched at his sides, and he shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the telling gesture. “I don’t know how you tolerated her. I wanted to strangle her just an hour into our acquaintance.”

  “You had no right,” Poppy hissed, jerking out of her chair. “Lady Winifred was my employee—”

  “I had every right! She said—” He broke off abruptly, a feral sound climbing in his throat. “Suffice it to say, she voiced some opinions to which I took exception.” Unspoken, but understood between them, was that those opinions had concerned Poppy.

  A bitter little laugh escaped her, and she swept her hair over her shoulder. It caught the lamplight within it, a rippling waterfall of sable silk. “I fail to see why that should signify. It’s not as if you haven’t made your own opinions perfectly clear.” Her shoulders drew up tight as she folded her arms over her chest as if to shield her heart from an expected blow. “She’s never said anything that wasn’t true.”

  He paused in his leisurely path across the floor, his boots sticking to the floor as if the soles had been coated in paste. “You don’t believe that,” he said, almost hesitantly. But her face revealed nothing, not embarrassment, not hurt, nor even anger.

  She had been wounded by the implication that she had schemed her way into obtaining a title, because it hadn’t been true. But the thoughtless criticism that had been heaped upon her shoulders by Lady Winifred, by the Ton, by himself—these things she had accepted as fact, incontrovertible. A week ago, she hadn’t been so much offended by his own carelessly rendered criticism as horrified by the thought that he had found it necessary to fortify himself with liquor in order to bring himself to come to her bed.

  “Poppy, you can’t believe those things.” His hands had clenched again within his pockets, and he felt his nails bite into his palms, felt the strain climbing up his arms.

  She rolled her eyes—not in anger, but in aggravation. She had lost patience with the conversation, sidling closer to her abandoned chair. “If you don’t mind,” she said, her voice measured, carefully modulated, “I would like to return to my work.”

  Of course. How could he have expected her to be swayed? He had only reinforced those hateful thoughts himself. That she had taken his disparagement at face value should not have been surprising, but the thought that he had contributed to her battered self-esteem shamed him.

  Had he not reacted so poorly, had he not slung such spiteful invectives at her some weeks ago, he might not have found himself in this position now. Though they might now be separated physically by just a few feet, the metaphorical distance stretched between them like a great yawning abyss, an insurmountable obstacle forged of his cruel words and Poppy’s corresponding hurt. He had misplaced his bride only an hour into their marriage—and she had all but declared her intention for them to live separate lives, sharing only a household between them.

  He had not the tools to dismantle the barriers she had erected. There was only one front on which he could attack, one weakness she had revealed to him.

  “Jilly is respected enough to secure invitations for your sisters,” he said. “But the gossip still surrounds them. If you wish them to make good matches, we must make an effort to quell the gossip ourselves.”

  A queer expression flickered across her face, a blend of shame and reticence. It was cruel, perhaps, to use her sisters against her, to prey on her love for them. Above all things, she wanted only to withdraw from the society that had so scorned her.

  But at last she blew out a frustrated breath and allowed, through gritted teeth, “I will put in an appearance. A brief one.”

  “And you will dance.”

  A low flutter of derisive laughter. “My lord, I believe we have established that I do not dance.”

  “We’ve established only that you cannot dance in a gown so ill-suited for it.” He withdrew his hands from his pockets, flexing his fingers to ease the stiffness of them. “Do you know what I thought when first I saw you?”

  She gave a disdainful sniff. “I’m certain nothing complimentary.”

  “I thought that if you’d worn something other than one of those wretched gowns, you’d probably turn out quite elegant.” He extended his hand to her. “There’s no one to see if you stumble, Poppy. Come attempt a waltz once more, and I’ll leave you in peace.”

  The lure of his absence vied with her reluctance to place herself once more in an embarrassing position, to reveal what she considered to be yet another inadequacy to be mocked. The air slipped from her lungs like a last dying breath, but she reached for his hand at last, her fingers cool and soft within the clasp of his own.

  “This is foolish,” she said, her lips flattened into firm disapproval. “There’s no music, and I’m in my nightgown.” The light of the lamp that glowed on the desk behind her shone straight through the thin linen of her nightgown, silhouetting her body through it. He could see the long, slim lines of her legs, her narrow hips, the dip of her waist—the soft, rounded contours of her breasts. She had to be unaware of it—if she had known, she would never have risked moving closer. Not when his mouth had gone unaccountably dry, when his gaze was riveted to the thrust of those lovely breasts beneath the worn fabric. His former lovers had been elegant, fashionable ladies, given to sporting slinky silk peignoirs and form-hugging negligees. Not a one of them would have been caught dead in something as practical and innocent as Poppy’s voluminous nightgown, and yet he could not call to mind another woman in another garment that had aroused him more.

  “I would prefer to get it over with, my lord.” The bite in her voice scored him, but at least it dragged him back to the matter at hand, to her small hand wrapped in his.

  “I believe I’ve already said you may call me David,” he said, drawing her away from her desk, toward the large, empty space in the center of the room. “You are my wife.”

  “That would imply an intimacy between us which does not exist.” Her breath hitched in as he settled his hand on her side, and her bare toes curled into the carpet. As if he’d made some sort of egregiously inappropriate advance, she narrowed her eyes and tipped up her chin. “Which will not exist.”

  The heat of her skin beneath her gown seared his palm. It took effort to keep his grip light and loose, to prevent himself from drawing her closer. She held herself stiffly, as if braced for an attack. And perhaps she was; she had come to expect condemnation, even from him, and thus would require careful handling. Courting his wife was going to be a damn sight more difficult than he’d expected—here was a woman who would not come at the crook of his finger or a meaningful smile.

  He shook free of the thought. Such things did not merit consideration at present.

  “We’ll practice the turn,” he said. “You’ve got the beginning steps down already. Just remember to let me lead you through the turn.” He employed a gentle pressure, and she managed the first step ably enough, but the second brought with it a minor stumble as it had earlier in the music room. She’d tried to look over her shoulder to gauge their distance from anything that might’ve barred the path and could not recover herself in time.

  She gave a little frustrated sigh, but he pulled her back into their starting position before she could protest, easing her into another turn.

  “Relax,” he said, as she attempted once again to look over her shoulder. “I won’t let you run into anything.”

  “I told you, I can’t dance.”

  “And I told you that you can.” She was thinking too hard, trying to cast her mind in all directions, expecting to fail before she’d even really tried. “Give it an honest effort,” he said.

  “I am,” she snapped, and this time, with her mind otherwise engaged, she made the turn she’d missed before, her body unconsciously obeying the signal he’d given. “I never had a dancing master, and it’s years too late for me to learn.”

  “I think it’s simply easier for you to give up before you must begin. That it’s safer that way. There’s no r
isk of failure if you never try.” He was goading her into an argument, but it was satisfying the way her face flushed with temper. “Poppy, if you can waltz, you will waltz with me at tomorrow’s ball.” And every ball thereafter, if he had anything to say of it.

  “As I can’t, it’s a pointless request.” Her dainty nose tilted in the air, a charming show of spirit.

  “But if you can.” His hand squeezed her waist, guided her seamlessly through another turn. “If you can, you will.”

  She made an irritated sound in her throat, a noise that certainly would have been stamped out of her if she’d ever had a proper governess in her youth. “Fine. But as I can’t—”

  “You already are.” He rather enjoyed her expression of astonishment as she realized abruptly that he’d carried her halfway across the room without a single misstep.

  “I am?”

  The surprise in the words made him laugh. “Yes, you are—no, don’t look away; you’ll distract yourself again. Or worse, grow dizzy.” The room rushed by in a blur, but her eyes were focused solely on him, wide and unblinking, as though she realized she had made a critical error at some point but could not determine precisely where it had been.

  “But I can’t dance.” The bewildered statement was, of course, belied by the fact that he swept her through a series of turns that made her hair fan out in silk ribbons.

  “Well, for someone who can’t dance, you’re doing a rather marvelous job of it.” And she was; she had only needed to be taken out of her own head, to shift aside the conviction that she couldn’t. Perhaps she had smothered her desire for the opportunities that she believed had passed her by beneath the conviction that she hadn’t wanted them anyway, or that they would have served her no purpose. Perhaps she had held herself back from them.

  But she was now his countess. There was very little she could not have, very few opportunities closed off to her. If only she could work up the nerve to pursue them.