Poppy stopped dead in her tracks, staring at him with scornful astonishment. “Oh! How a man whom everyone considers so intelligent can be such an imbecile—” Shaking her head, she continued to storm along the drive.
Bewildered, Harry followed at her heels.
“Does it not occur to you,” her words came winging over her shoulder like angry bats, “that I might not like the idea of someone making threats against your life? That I might be just the least little bit bothered by someone coming to our home waving a gun about with the intention of shooting you?”
It took Harry a long time to answer. In fact, they had nearly reached the house by the time he replied, his voice thick and odd. “You’re concerned for my safety? For . . . me?”
“Someone has to be,” she muttered, stomping to the front door. “I’m sure I don’t know why it’s me.”
Poppy reached for the handle, but Harry stunned her by flinging it open, whisking her inside, and slamming it shut. Before she could even draw breath, he had pushed her back up against the door, a bit rough in his eagerness.
She had never seen him look quite this way, incredulous, anxious, yearning.
His body crowded hers, his breath falling in swift strikes against her cheek. She saw a visible pulse in the strong plane of his throat. “Poppy . . . Are you . . .” He was forced to pause, as if he were fumbling to speak in a foreign language.
Which he was, in a way.
Poppy knew what Harry wanted to ask, and yet she didn’t want him to. He was forcing the issue—it was too soon—she wanted to beg him to be patient, for both their sakes.
He managed to get the words out. “Are you starting to care for me, Poppy?”
“No,” she said firmly, but that didn’t seem to put him off at all.
Harry leaned his face against hers, his lips parting against her cheek in a nuzzling half kiss. “Not even a little?” he whispered.
“Not the slightest bit.”
He pressed the side of his cheek to hers, his lips playing with the wisps of hair at her ear. “Why won’t you say it?”
He was so large and warm, and everything in her wanted to surrender to him. A fine trembling started inside her, radiating outward from her bones to her skin. “Because if I did, you wouldn’t be able to run from me fast enough.”
“I would never run from you.”
“Yes, you would. You’d turn distant and push me away, because you’re not nearly ready to take such a risk yet.”
Harry pressed the front of his body all along hers, his forearms braced on either side of her head. “Say it,” he urged, tender and predatory. “I want to hear what it sounds like.”
Poppy had never thought it was possible to be amused and aroused at the same time. “No, you don’t.” Slowly, her arms went around his lean waist.
If only Harry knew the extent of what she felt for him. The very second she judged that he was ready, the moment she was certain it wouldn’t cause their marriage to lose ground, she would tell him how dearly she loved him. She could hardly wait.
“I’ll make you say it,” Harry said, his sensuous mouth covering hers, his hands going to the fastenings of her bodice.
Poppy couldn’t control a shiver of anticipation. No, he wouldn’t . . . but for the next few hours, she would certainly enjoy letting him try.
Chapter Twenty-five
To the Hathaways’ general surprise, Leo elected to return to London the same day as the Rutledges. His original intention had been to stay in Hampshire the remainder of the summer, but he had decided instead to take on a small commission to design a conservatory addition to a Mayfair mansion. Poppy wondered privately if his change of plan had anything to do with Miss Marks. She suspected they had quarreled, because it seemed they were going to great extremes to avoid each other now. Even more than usual.
“You can’t go,” Merripen had said in outrage when Leo told him he was heading back to London. “We’re preparing to sow the turnip crop. There is much to be decided, including the composition of the manure, and how best to approach the harrowing and plowing, and—”
“Merripen,” Leo had interrupted sarcastically, “I know you consider my help to be invaluable in these matters, but I believe that somehow you’ll all manage to drill turnip seed competently without my involvement. As for the manure composition, I can’t help you there. I have a very democratic view of excrement—it’s all shit to me.”
Merripen had responded with a volley of Romany that no one except Cam could understand. And Cam refused to translate a word of it, claiming there were no English equivalents and that was a good thing.
After making his farewells, Leo left for London in his carriage. Harry and Poppy were slower to depart, having a last cup of tea, a last lingering glimpse of the green summer-dressed estate.
“I’m almost surprised you’re letting me take her,” Harry said to Cam after handing his wife into the carriage.
“Oh, we voted this morning, and it was a unanimous decision,” his brother-in-law replied in a matter-of-fact tone.
“You voted on my marriage?”
“Yes, we decided you fit in with the family quite well.”
“Oh, God,” Harry said, just as Cam closed the carriage door.
After a pleasant and uneventful journey, the Rutledges arrived in London. To discerning outsiders, particularly the hotel employees, it was clear that Poppy and Harry had acquired the mysterious and intangible bond of two people who had made a promise to each other. They were a couple.
Although Poppy was happy to return to the Rutledge, she had a few private concerns about how her relationship with Harry would proceed—if perhaps he might slip back into his former habits. To her reassurance, Harry had firmly set a new course, and he seemed to have no intention of deviating from it.
The differences in him were observed with gratified wonder by the hotel staff the first full day of his return. Poppy had brought back gifts, including jars of honey for the managers and everyone in the front office, a length of bobbin lace for Mrs. Pennywhistle, cured Hampshire hams and sides of smoked bacon for Chef Broussard and Chef Rupert and the kitchen staff, and for Jake Valentine, a sheep hide that had been tanned and polished with smooth stones until the material had been worked into butter-soft glove leather.
After delivering the presents, Poppy sat in the kitchen and chattered animatedly about her visit to Hampshire. “. . . and we found a dozen truffles,” she told Chef Broussard, “each one nearly as large as my fist. All at the roots of a beech tree, and barely a half inch beneath the soil. And guess how we discovered them? My sister’s pet ferret! He ran over to them and started nibbling.”
Broussard sighed dreamily. “When I was a boy, I lived in Périgord for a time. The truffles there would make one weep. So delicious and dear, they were usually only eaten by nobles and their kept women.” He looked at Poppy expectantly. “How did you prepare them?”
“We chopped some leeks and sautéed them in butter and cream, and—” She paused as she noticed the staff in a sudden flurry of activity, scrubbing, chopping, stirring. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Harry had entered the kitchen.
“Sir,” Mrs. Pennywhistle said, while she and Jake stood to face him.
Harry motioned for them to stay seated. “Good morning,” he said with a slight smile. “Forgive me for interrupting.” He came to stand beside Poppy, who was perched on a stool. “Mrs. Rutledge,” he murmured, “I wonder if I might steal you away for just a few minutes? There’s a . . .” His voice faded as he stared into his wife’s face. She had looked up at him with a flirting little grin that had apparently disrupted his train of thought.
And who could blame him? Jake Valentine thought, both amused and similarly mesmerized. Although Poppy Rutledge had always been a beautiful woman, there was an extra glow about her now, a new brilliance in her blue eyes.
“The carriage maker,” Harry said, recollecting himself. “They’ve just delivered your carriage. I hoped you might come look at it, and make certain everything is to your satisfaction.”
“Yes, I’d love to.” Poppy took another bite of her brioche, a warm puff of glazed bread touched with butter and jam. She held the last bit up to Harry’s lips. “Help me finish?”
They all watched in astonishment as Harry took the tidbit obligingly into his mouth. And, holding her wrist in his hand, he nipped at her fingertip to remove a little spot of jam. “Delicious,” he said, helping her from the stool. He glanced at the three of them. “I’ll return her shortly. And Valentine . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s come to my attention that you haven’t gone on holiday in far too long. I want you to arrange something for yourself immediately.”
“I wouldn’t know what to do on holiday,” Jake protested, and Harry smiled.
“That, Valentine, is why you need one.”
After Harry had escorted his wife from the kitchen, Jake looked at the others with a dumbfounded expression. “He’s an entirely different man,” he said dazedly.
Mrs. Pennywhistle smiled. “No, he’ll always be Harry Rutledge. It’s just that now . . . he’s Harry Rutledge with a heart.”
As the hotel was a virtual clearinghouse of gossip, Poppy was privy to scandals and private disclosures concerning people from every part of London. To her dismay, there were persistent rumors about the continuing decline of Michael Bayning . . . his frequent public drunkenness, gambling, brawling, and all manner of behavior unbecoming to a man of his position. Some of the rumors were linked to Poppy, of course, and her precipitate wedding to Harry. It saddened Poppy profoundly to hear what a mess Michael was making of his life, and she wished there were something she could do about it.
“It’s the one subject I can’t discuss with Harry,” she told Leo, visiting his terrace one afternoon. “It puts him in a dreadful temper—he gets very quiet and stern faced, and last night we actually quarreled about it.”
Taking a cup of tea from her, Leo arched a sardonic brow at the information. “Sis, as much as I would prefer to take your side in all things . . . why should you want to discuss Michael Bayning with your husband? And what the devil is there to argue about? That chapter in your life is closed. Were I married—and thank God I never will be—I wouldn’t welcome the subject of Bayning with any more enthusiasm than Harry apparently does.”
Poppy frowned into her own cup of tea, slowly stirring a sugar lump into the steaming amber liquid. She waited until it had thoroughly dissolved before replying. “I’m afraid Harry took exception to a request I made. I said I wanted to visit Michael, and that perhaps I might be able to talk some sense into him.” As she saw Leo’s expression, she added defensively, “Only for a few minutes! A supervised visit. I even told Harry he was welcome to accompany me. But he forbade me in a very overbearing manner, without even letting me explain why I—”
“He should have put you over his knee,” Leo informed her. As her mouth fell open, he set his tea down, made her do the same, and took both her hands in his. His expression was a comical mixture of reproof and sympathy. “Darling Poppy, you have a kind heart. And I’ve no doubt that for you, visiting Bayning is a mission of mercy comparable to Beatrix rescuing a rabbit from a snare. But this is where it becomes clear that you are still woefully ignorant of men. Since it falls to me to explain to you . . . we’re not nearly as civilized as you seem to think. In fact, we were much happier in the days when we could simply chase off a rival at spearpoint. Therefore, asking Harry to allow you—by all accounts, the only person on earth he actually gives a damn about—to visit Bayning and soothe his wounded feelings . . .” Leo shook his head.
“But Leo,” Poppy protested, “you remember the days when you were doing the same things that Michael is doing. I would have thought you’d have sympathy for him.”
Letting go of her hands, Leo smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The circumstances were a bit different. I had to watch a girl I loved die in my arms. And yes, afterward I behaved very badly. Even worse than Bayning. But a man on that path can’t be rescued, sweetheart. He has to follow it off a cliff. Perhaps Bayning will survive the fall, perhaps not. In either case . . . no, I have no sympathy for him.”
Poppy picked up her tea and took a hot, bracing swallow. Presented with Leo’s viewpoint, she felt uncertain and even a bit sheepish. “I’ll let the matter drop, then,” she said. “I may have been wrong to ask it of Harry. Perhaps I should apologize to him.”
“Now that,” Leo said softly, “is one of the things I’ve always adored about you, sis. The willingness to reconsider, and even change your mind.”
After her visit to her brother had concluded, Poppy went to the jeweler’s shop on Bond Street. She retrieved a gift that she’d had made for Harry, and returned to the hotel.
Thankfully, she and Harry had planned to have supper sent up to their apartment that night. It would allow her the time and privacy she needed to discuss their argument of the previous evening. And she would apologize. In her desire to help Michael Bayning, she hadn’t stopped to consider Harry’s feelings, and she wanted very much to atone.
The situation reminded her of something her mother had often said about marriage: “Never remember his mistakes, but always remember your own.”
After taking a perfumed bath, Poppy donned a light blue dressing gown and brushed out her hair, leaving it loose in the way he liked.
Harry entered the apartment as the clock struck seven. He looked more like the Harry she remembered from the beginning of their marriage, his face grim and tired, his gaze wintry.
“Hello,” she murmured, going to kiss him. Harry held still, not rebuffing her, but he was hardly warm or encouraging. “I’ll send for dinner,” she said. “And then we can—”
“None for me, thank you. I’m not hungry.”
Taken aback by his flat tone, Poppy regarded him with concern. “Did something happen today? You look all in.”
Harry shrugged out of his coat and laid it on a chair. “I’ve just returned from a meeting at the War Office, where I told Sir Gerald and Mr. Kinloch that I’ve decided not to work on the new gun design. They receive my decision as nothing short of treason. Kinloch even threatened to lock me in a room somewhere until I’d come up with a set of drawings.”
“I’m sorry.” Poppy grimaced in sympathy. “That must have been dreadful. Are you . . . are you disappointed that you won’t be doing the work for them?”