Nothing. Except that watching his wife eating breakfast was the most erotic act he had ever seen. “Nothing at all,” Harry said scratchily. “Tea’s hot.”
When he dared to look at Poppy again, she was consuming a fresh strawberry, holding it by the green stem. Her lips rounded in a luscious pucker as she bit neatly into the ripe flesh of the fruit. Christ. He moved uncomfortably in his chair, while all the unsatisfied desire of the previous night reawakened with a vengeance. Poppy ate two more strawberries, nibbling slowly, while Harry tried to ignore her. Heat collected beneath his clothing, and he used a napkin to blot his forehead.
Poppy lifted a bite of honey-soaked crumpet to her mouth, and gave him a perplexed glance. “Are you feeling well?”
“It’s too warm in here,” Harry said irritably, while lurid thoughts went through his mind. Thoughts involving honey, and soft feminine skin, and moist pink—
A knock came at the door.
“Come in,” Harry said curtly, eager for any kind of distraction.
Jake Valentine entered the apartments more cautiously than usual, looking a bit surprised as he saw Poppy sitting at the breakfast table. Harry supposed the novelty of the situation would take a little getting used to on all sides.
“Good morning,” Valentine said, uncertain whether to address only Harry or include Poppy.
She solved the dilemma by giving him an artless smile. “Good morning, Mr. Valentine. I hope there are no fugitive monkeys in the hotel today?”
Valentine grinned. “Not that I’m aware of, Mrs. Rutledge. But the day’s still young.”
Harry experienced a new sensation, a poisonous resentment that crept all through his body. Was it . . . jealousy? It had to be. He tried to suppress the feeling, but it lingered in the pit of his stomach. He wanted Poppy to smile at him like that. He wanted her playfulness, her charm, her attention.
Stirring a lump of sugar into his tea, Harry said coolly, “Tell me about the staff meeting.”
“Nothing to report, really.” Valentine handed him the sheaf of paper. “The sommelier asked that you approve a list of wines. And Mrs. Pennywhistle raised the problem of cutlery and flatware disappearing from trays when guests request food in their room.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not an issue in the dining room?”
“No, sir. It seems that few guests are inclined to take the flatware straight from the dining room. But in the privacy of their own rooms . . . well, the other morning, an entire breakfast service went missing. As a result, Mrs. Pennywhistle proposed that we purchase a set of tinware to be used strictly for private dining.”
“My guests, using tin knives and forks?” Harry shook his head emphatically. “No, we’ll have to find some other way of discouraging petty thievery. We’re not a damned coaching inn.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say.” Valentine watched Harry leaf through the top few pages. “Mrs. Pennywhistle said that whenever Mrs. Rutledge prefers, she would be honored to escort her around the hotel offices and kitchens, and introduce her to the staff.”
“I don’t think—” Harry began.
“That would be lovely,” Poppy interrupted. “Please tell her that I will be ready after breakfast.”
“There’s no need,” Harry said. “It’s not as if you’ll have a hand in running the place.”
Poppy turned to him with a polite smile. “I would never dream of interfering. But since this is my new home, I would like to become more familiar with it.”
“It’s not a home,” Harry said.
Their gazes met.
“Of course it is,” Poppy said. “People live here. Don’t you consider it your home?”
Jake Valentine shifted his weight uncomfortably. “If you’ll give me my morning list, Mr. Rutledge . . .”
Harry barely heard him. He continued to stare at his wife, wondering why the question seemed important to her. He tried to explain his reasoning. “The mere fact of people living here doesn’t make it a home.”
“You have no feelings of domestic affection for this place?” Poppy asked.
“Well,” Valentine said awkwardly, “I’ll go now.”
Neither of them took notice of his hasty departure.
“It’s a place I happen to own,” Harry said. “I value it for practical reasons. But I attach no sentiment to it.”
Her blue eyes searched his, curious and perceptive, oddly compassionate. No one had ever looked at him that way before. It made his nerves prickle defensively. “You’ve spent all your life in hotels, haven’t you?” she murmured. “Never a house with a yard and a tree.”
Harry was unable to fathom why any of that should signify. He brushed away the subject and tried to reassert his control. “Let me be clear, Poppy . . . this is a business. And my employees are not to be treated as relations, or even as friends, or you’ll create a management problem. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said, still staring at him. “I’m beginning to.”
This time it was Harry’s turn to lift the newspaper, avoiding her gaze. Uneasiness stirred within him. He did not want any form of understanding from her. He merely wanted to enjoy her, browse over her as he did his room of treasures. Poppy would have to comply with the limits he set. And in return he would be a lenient husband—as long as she understood that he would always have the upper hand.
“Everyone—” Mrs. Pennywhistle, the head housekeeper said emphatically, “From myself down to the laundry maids, is so very delighted that Mr. Rutledge has finally found a bride. And on behalf of the entire staff, we hope you will feel welcome here. You have three hundred people available to serve your every need.”
Poppy was touched by the woman’s obvious sincerity. The housekeeper was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a ruddy complexion and an air of barely suppressed liveliness.
“I promise you,” Poppy said with a smile, “I won’t require the assistance of three hundred people. Although I will need your help in finding a lady’s maid. I’ve never needed one before, but now without my sisters and my companion . . .”
“Certainly. We have a few girls among the staff who could be easily trained for such a purpose. You may interview them, and if none seems suitable, we will advertise.”
“Thank you.”
“I expect that from time to time you may wish to view the housekeeping accounts and ledgers, and the supply lists and inventory. I am at your disposal, of course.”
“You are very kind,” Poppy said. “I’m glad of the chance to meet some of the hotel staff. And to see some of the places I was never able to visit as a guest. The kitchens, especially.”
“Our chef, Monsieur Broussard, will be in raptures to show you his kitchen and boast of his achievements.” She paused and added sotto voce, “Fortunately for us, his vanity is matched by his talent.”
They began to descend the grand staircase. “How long have you been employed here, Mrs. Pennywhistle?” Poppy asked.
“Well nigh ten years . . . since the beginning.” The housekeeper smiled at a distant memory. “Mr. Rutledge was so very young, lanky as a beanpole, with a sharp American accent and a habit of talking so fast, one could scarcely follow him. I worked in my father’s tea shop in the Strand—I managed it for him—and Mr. Rutledge was a frequent customer. One day he came in and offered me the position I currently hold, although the hotel was still only a row of private houses. Nothing compared to what it is now. Of course I said yes.”
“Why ‘of course’? Didn’t your father want you to stay at his shop?”
“Yes, but he had my sisters to help him. And there was something about Mr. Rutledge that I’ve never seen in any man before or since . . . an extraordinary force of character. He is very persuasive.”
“I’ve noticed,” Poppy said dryly.
“People want to follow him, or to be part of whatever it is he’s involved in. It’s why he was able to accomplish all this—” Mrs. Pennywhistle gestured at their surroundings, “—at such an early age.”
It occurred to Poppy that she could learn much about her husband from those who worked for him. She hoped at least a few of them would be as willing to talk as Mrs. Pennywhistle. “Is he a demanding master?”
The housekeeper chuckled. “Oh, yes. But fair, and always reasonable.”
They went to the front office, where two men, one elderly, one in his middle years, were conferring over an enormous ledger, which lay open across an oak desk. “Gentlemen,” the housekeeper said, “I am touring Mrs. Rutledge around the hotel. Mrs. Rutledge, may I present Mr. Myles, our general manager, and Mr. Lufton, the concierge.”
They bowed respectfully, regarding Poppy as if she were a visiting monarch. The younger of the two, Mr. Myles, beamed and blushed until the top of his balding head was pink. “Mrs. Rutledge, it is a very great honor indeed! May we offer our sincere congratulations on your marriage—”
“Most sincere,” Mr. Lufton chimed in. “You are the answer to our prayers. We wish you and Mr. Rutledge every happiness.”
Slightly taken aback by their enthusiasm, Poppy smiled and nodded to each of them in turn. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
They proceeded to show her the office, which housed a long row of arrival ledgers, managers’ logs, books containing histories and customs of foreign countries, dictionaries for various languages, maps of all kinds, and floor plans of the hotel. The plans, tacked on a wall, were marked in pencil to indicate which rooms were vacant or under repair.
Two leather-bound books had been set apart from the rest, one red, one black.
“What are these volumes?” Poppy asked.
The men glanced at each other, and Mr. Lufton replied cautiously. “There are very rare occasions on which a guest has proved so . . . well, difficult—”
“Impossible,” Mr. Myles chimed in.
“That regrettably we must enter them in the black book, which means they are no longer precisely welcome—”
“Undesirable,” Mr. Myles added.
“And we are unable to allow them back.”
“Ever,” Mr. Myles said emphatically.
Amused, Poppy nodded. “I see. And the purpose of the red book?”
Mr. Lufton proceeded to explain. “That is for certain guests who are a bit more demanding than usual.”
“Problem guests,” Mr. Myles clarified.
“Those who have special requests,” Mr. Lufton continued, “or don’t like their rooms cleaned at certain times; those who insist on bringing pets, things of that sort. We don’t discourage them from staying, but we do make a note of their peculiarities.”
“Hmmm.” Poppy picked up the red book and cast a mischievous glance at the housekeeper. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Hathaways were mentioned a few times in this book.”
Silence greeted her comment.
Seeing the frozen looks on their faces, Poppy began to laugh. “I knew it. Where is my family mentioned?” She opened the book and glanced over a few pages at random.
The two men were instantly distressed, hovering as if searching for an opportunity to seize the book. “Mrs. Rutledge, please, you mustn’t—”
“I’m sure you’re not in there,” Mr. Myles said anxiously.
“I’m sure we are,” Poppy countered with a grin. “In fact, we probably have our own chapter.”
“Yes—I mean, no—Mrs. Rutledge, I beg of you—”
“Very well,” Poppy said, surrendering the red book. The men sighed with relief. “However,” she said, “I may borrow this book someday. I’m sure it would make excellent reading material.”
“If you are done teasing these poor gentlemen, Mrs. Rutledge,” the housekeeper said, her eyes twinkling, “I see that many of our employees have gathered outside the door to meet you.”
“Lovely!” Poppy went to the reception area, where she was introduced to housemaids, floor managers, maintenance staff, and hotel valets. She repeated everyone’s name, trying to memorize as many of them as possible, and she asked questions about their duties. They responded eagerly to her interest, volunteering information about the various parts of England they had come from and how long they had worked at the Rutledge.
Poppy reflected that despite the many occasions she had stayed at the hotel as a guest, she had never given much thought to the employees. They had always been nameless and faceless, moving in the background with quiet efficiency. Now she felt immediate kinship with them. She was part of the hotel just as they were . . . all of them existing in Harry Rutledge’s sphere.
After the first week of living with Harry, it was clear to Poppy that her husband kept a schedule that would have killed a normal man. The only time she was sure to see him was in the mornings at breakfast; he was busy the rest of the day, often missing supper, and seldom retiring before midnight.
Harry liked to occupy himself with two or more things at once, making lists and plans, arranging meetings, reconciling arguments, doing favors. He was constantly approached by people who wanted him to apply his brilliant mind to some problem or other. People visited him at all hours, and it seemed a quarter hour couldn’t pass without someone, usually Jake Valentine, tapping on the apartment door.
When Harry wasn’t busy with his various intrigues, he meddled with the hotel and its staff. His demands for perfection and the highest quality of service were relentless. The employees were paid generously and treated well, but in return they were expected to work hard and, above all, to be loyal. If one of them were injured or ill, Harry sent for a doctor and paid for their treatments. If someone suggested a way to improve the hotel or its service, the idea was sent directly to Harry, and if he approved, he gave a handsome bonus. As a result, Harry’s desk was always laden with piles of reports, letters and notes.
It didn’t seem to have occurred to Harry to suggest a honeymoon for himself and his new bride, and Poppy suspected he had no desire to leave the hotel. Certainly she had no desire for a honeymoon with a man who had betrayed her.
Since their wedding night, Poppy had been nervous around Harry, especially when they were alone. He made no secret of his desire for her, his interest in her, but so far there had been no more advances. In fact, he had gone out of his way to be polite and considerate. It seemed as if he were trying to get her accustomed to him, to the altered circumstances of her life. And she appreciated his patience, because it was all so very new. Ironically, however, his self-imposed restraint gave their occasional moments of contact—the touch of his hand on her arm, the press of his body when they stood close in a crowd—a charge of vibrant attraction.