Courting Poppy Tidemore (Lords of Honor Book 5)

by Christi Caldwell

  “A wife,” she spat. She wasn’t a wife. Not in the ways that mattered. Such, however, had not been the way of her new marriage. Collecting Penelope’s arm, she moved her away from the fresh paint.

  “You will regret not going,” her sister persisted.

  She shrugged. “He chose to leave.” He’d chosen his commission and his honor over a future with her. And in fairness, she could not resent him for that decision. He’d only ever been honest in what he was able to offer, and she’d not asked him for more. In that, she’d lied…to the both of them—Tristan and herself. Nay, she’d not resent the future he craved. She would only ever regret that she hadn’t been enough for him. But because of that, she could not go and simply blow a kiss to his departing carriage.

  His departing carriage.

  Oh, God. Her shoulders slumped. She could not take this.

  Penelope slipped the brush from Poppy’s loose grip. “Would you care to know what I suspect?”

  “No,” she whispered. She wanted to work on her mural and pretend this day was any other day of painting in her sister’s hotel.

  Why do you paint…?

  Which had always been enough. Until Tristan had made her question why she painted and she was still left these fourteen days later trying to determine an answer to that.

  “That you are hiding away here during the day because you didn’t quite think out this thing with Tristan.”

  Drawing in a shuddery breath, Poppy sank to the floor, and drew her knees close.

  “I know what this is like. Precisely.” Doing a sweep of the nursery, Penelope grabbed the child’s rocker, and perched herself in front of Poppy, forcing her sister to meet her eyes.

  “It is not the same.” Poppy bit the inside of her cheek. Even though they were both sisters who’d married for convenience, it wasn’t at all the same: Penelope’s marriage was now filled with love…and a babe. And Poppy had a husband who didn’t even know how to share his worries with her. “We fought about his leaving.” By God, it wasn’t your place to go through my things, Poppy… “On our wedding night, no less. A rather ignominious start, no?”

  “And you’ve not talked since?”

  “Oh, no…we…have. Well, mayhap not talking-talking, per se. But uh…some talk and then, other things…” she finished lamely. Her cheeks pinkened.

  Understanding filled Penelope’s eyes. “Ahh.” She dusted a hand over her mouth, ineffectually hiding a smile.

  “What was your argument about?”

  Poppy recalled that disastrous night. The panic in his eyes. And desperation. And worse, the anger. “I went through his things and learned of the commission.” But his outrage had seemed to come more from what she’d discovered. Tristan, in all his honor and pride, had chafed at her knowing the exact state he found himself in. “I implored him to stay. I offered him my dowry.”

  Penelope winced. “Husbands tend to not like that. In fairness, neither men nor women would.”

  Poppy picked her head up. “Do you know something of it?”

  “Of course. I uncovered secrets my husband didn’t wish for me to know.”

  And in the end, despite that, her sister and Ryker had worked through that. Poppy lay her cheek along her skirts.

  “You have always been one to take charge of your circumstances, Poppy. Why should this moment be any different?”

  Penelope’s marriage had been one of convenience, too, but her husband had also been there for them to try and build a future…which they had. Poppy and Tristan? They couldn’t very well have anything if they were worlds apart. She toyed with her apron pocket. “He’s gone,” she whispered. “There is nothing to take charge of,” she said, borrowing her sister’s phrase. There could be no “taking” when there was “nothing”.

  “No,” Penelope concurred. “He’s not gone. He’s leaving.” She glanced pointedly at the long-case clock. “Unless he’s left early. Then, he’s already gone. In which case, all I know is that if it were my husband, regardless of the details of how we came to be married, I’d want to say goodbye.”

  Tears pricked Poppy’s lashes, and she blinked them back. “I can’t.”

  “We have no promise for the future. Will you be all right living the rest of your life having sent Tristan on his way without even a parting?”

  A single tear slid down her cheek, and she swiped angrily at the moisture. “I-I managed to c-convince myself that it w-was not r-really happening. Th-that he wasn’t leaving.”

  “He is leaving, Poppy,” Penelope spoke the words aloud, saying them when Poppy had prevented herself from doing so.

  “I-I know.” Poppy found the clock.

  Forty minutes. He was to leave in forty minutes and then she’d not see him again.

  An agonizing pressure squeezed at her chest. Of course she needed to say goodbye to him. She’d never forgive herself if he left without at least a goodbye.

  Poppy struggled to her feet. “I have to go,” she rasped, and set off running.

  “I know,” Penelope called after her. “The carriage has been sitting out front all morn.”

  Of course her sister would have had the foresight to prepare that. Shouting her thanks, Poppy continued sprinting through the hotel, and didn’t break stride until the front doors of the lobby were thrown open by the pair of butlers there.

  Tripping at the top step, Poppy grabbed the rail and kept herself upright, before rushing on to the carriage. “M-my home,” she rasped. “Quickly, please.”

  A moment later the door was shut behind her. The carriage dipped as the driver climbed atop his perch, and then they were moving through the streets of London—the crowded streets.

  Restless, Poppy whipped the gold velvet curtain back and stared out at the clogged streets. “Hurry,” she whispered.

  Only, the conveyance moved with an infernal, agonizing slowness.

  Tristan was leaving.

  In fact, he should have left ten, nearly eleven, minutes ago. The carriage was readied. His trunks and military satchel had all long been loaded.

  And yet, Tristan hadn’t been able to bring himself to go.

  Not yet. Soon, he would.

  Shortly.

  He paced the marble foyer, no longer dusty, and the white stone shining since the touch left by Poppy.

  She’d not come. Of course, that fact shouldn’t have come as any form of surprise. Poppy had only ever been honest; and in a world where nearly all the women he’d had dealings with—his own mother, included—prevaricated or lied, Tristan had never ceased to be refreshed and in awe of her candor.

  She’d disapproved of his leaving, and as a result, had insisted that she’d not give him that goodbye he’d sought.

  Though in fairness, did she disapprove of his leaving…or his reasons for doing so…?

  He ignored that jeering voice.

  For ultimately, it didn’t matter. He’d been unable to make her see reason, that this commission, to restore the Poplar name was now no longer just about him. That it was, as much for her and their someday babes.

  A babe she might even now be carrying.

  He briefly closed his eyes, that intangible imagining so very real he could almost touch it. And if there was a son or daughter, they’d be sullied by the legacy of crimes and sin left by their late grandfather.

  At least when he departed, Tristan would know that the roof had been repaired and the rodent problem handled, leaving the residence habitable for Poppy and any babe that might have been conceived. Both situations addressed through your wife’s funds.

  It was all the reminder he needed of why he’d set the course he had.

  Tristan abruptly ceased pacing. It was time.

  St. Cyr and his wife, Poppy’s sister, hovered at the bottom stair rail, along with Blackthorne and his wife, Lily, and their two children.

  The group who’d come to bid him goodbye had been silent, until now. “I’m certain she wanted to be here,” Lady Prudence murmured, the first to speak. “I suspect she must h
ave been…caught up in whatever renovations Penny and Ryker were having her see to today.”

  “Of course,” he said automatically, unable to meet the pitying expressions of his friends and their wives. Tristan tugged on his crisp white gloves, a flawless match to the immaculate trousers.

  “Can we go play now?” Krisander whispered to his parents.

  St. Cyr gave his son a look.

  “What?” the boy mumbled.

  Tristan had delayed long enough.

  The marquess came forward and stuck a hand out.

  Tristan clasped his friend’s palm, and shook. “Thank you.”

  “That is what friends do.”

  Joining them, Blackthorne limped over. Using the head of his cane to balance his weight, he freed his right hand, and shook Tristan’s. “Don’t get killed,” he said flatly, with a command only a duke could manage.

  “It is my intention to return.” Tristan glanced between his friends. How similar this moment was to one years earlier, back when they’d been young boys, resplendent in their military apparel. Then, as they’d prepared to head off and face Boney, they’d had stars in their eyes and excitement in their hearts about what was to come.

  Only…everything had also changed. Now, Tristan was the only one riding out, while his friends remained behind with wives who loved them and children. There was no longer a thrill. There was no war. It should be the greatest of consolations, a commissioned captainship in the middle of peace time.

  And yet…Tristan was hollow inside, gaping from the loss of…something he’d never truly had. But something he’d almost had.

  Mindful of Poppy’s sister, and Blackthorne’s wife, who hovered in the background with their children and nursemaids close, Tristan spoke in a hushed tone reserved for his friends’ ears. “I’d ask if something were to happen to me that you look after Poppy.”

  “Of course,” St. Cyr and Blackthorne spoke in unison.

  “She would require some guidance in navigating the mess left by my finances. And if you could see that there are no ‘Rochfords’ who’d impugn her honor.”

  St. Cyr clasped his shoulder. “You needn’t worry. You’ll return, but even if the worst were to happen, Blackthorne and I, along with every other sibling or in-law that Poppy has, will see she’s cared for.”

  And it was a certainty; there was a sea of Tidemores who’d be there in the event she required it. Tristan balled his hands into reflexive fists. For he didn’t want her to fall to others as a responsibility.

  He wanted to stay here with her. Because…

  His mind shied away from the “because”…

  Nothing good could come from analyzing what was or what might have been. Not until he returned, and in that time, his scandal would have faded and his name and honor hopefully restored.

  That would have to be enough.

  It had to be.

  Bringing his shoulders back, Tristan dropped a bow. “Thank you,” he directed that appreciation at his friends who’d come.

  St. Cyr’s son Krisander skipped over. “Are you going to fight a war?” he asked, excitement in his eyes. His younger brother joined them.

  “What is war?” Charlie piped in.

  “I…no,” Tristan said with a forced grin, ignoring the latter question, leaving it for the boy’s father to one day answer. Even so, this leaving Poppy felt far worse than any battle he’d fought.

  Krisander’s shoulders sagged with disappointment. “Oh.”

  “I heard that.” Blackthorne’s young daughter, Grace, stomped over. “War isn’t a good thing, Krisander,” the little girl chided.

  “I think it sounds like great fun.” The boy held his arms aloft like he wielded a bayonet and bolted down the nearest corridor. Calling to him, Grace followed along. Charlie struggled to keep up with the pair.

  “I’ll see to them,” the Duchess of Blackthorne assured, and handing the babe in her arms over to her waiting nursemaid, Her Grace set out after the quarreling children.

  Tristan’s sister-in-law came forward with her daughter in her arms. Prudence leaned up and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Be safe.” Emotion filled her eyes. “And please come home to Poppy.”

  Unable to squeeze a suitable word out, he glanced down…and his gaze landed on the small girl she held. A babe smiling up at him. An impish Tidemore grin that was so very much his wife’s. It was too much. Tristan forced his gaze away from a glimpse of the future he wanted. “You have my word,” he made himself promise, and then headed for the door.

  Florence, also cleaned up since Poppy’s influence on the townhouse, drew the door open. “Yar Lordship,” he said, clicking his heels together.

  “Florence.”

  Hurrying down the steps, Tristan started for the carriage. With one leg inside the carriage, Tristan paused and did a sweep of the bustling streets.

  And then he heard it. “Trissstan!”

  So faint, so distant, he might have imagined it.

  “Tristan!”

  There it was again.

  Stepping down, he doffed his hat, and used the article to shield his eyes from the bright afternoon sun.

  Then he spied her.

  Weaving and racing down the pavement, she might have been confused for a fleet-of-foot pickpocket…if it hadn’t been for the paint-splattered apron and muslin skirts whipping at her ankles.

  His heart lifted.

  She’d come.

  Tristan hurried to meet her, quickening his strides, lengthening them, until he and Poppy skidded to a halt before one another.

  Gasping and out of breath, his wife leaned forward and rested her hands on her knees. “Th-there was traffic.”

  All around them passersby streamed.

  “I thought you weren’t coming,” he said hoarsely, his voice ragged.

  His wife straightened, her narrow shoulders coming back, elongating her spine, and marking her the queen she was. “I almost didn’t.” She sailed over, so that the tips of their boots brushed. “But then, I knew if I didn’t come”—her eyes held his—“I would regret it, and I’m not so proud that I’d put my pride before all.”

  And he was not so obtuse that he didn’t know precisely what she was saying.

  Tristan palmed her cheek. “I am so very glad you came.” In the past, he’d earned himself a reputation as a consummate charmer only to find himself so inept with the one woman who mattered.

  Poppy’s throat bobbed up and down and that display of her hurt was enough to rip a hole inside his heart. “But not glad enough to stay.”

  “Poppy,” he whispered, dropping his brow to hers. I want a life with you. I want our future together. And yet, he wanted it to be a future she was deserving of…a man who deserved her. Tristan brushed the pad of his thumb along her cheekbone. Before he left, however, he’d say what he meant to say to her in his offices; before he’d made an absolute mess of it all. “Regarding our…argument—”

  “It is fine,” she said quickly.

  “It is not, though,” he insisted, needing her to understand. “I spoke in anger but my words, what I intended to convey is true. I’d have you know, your talent, the art you create…it is a thing of beauty and wonder. Don’t hide that. Not anymore. Let the world see…” Her lips parted. Uncaring about the crowd that watched, he leaned down and brushed his mouth over hers, in a kiss that would never be enough. He forced himself to draw back, and when her eyes fluttered open, he held her gaze once more. “Let the world see all of you.”

  “Tristan,” she whispered. “I…”

  Tristan strained, waited for the remainder of that.

  She smoothed her palms along the lapels of his cloak. “Be well.”

  And as she rushed off to join her sister’s side, Tristan had never wanted more in his life to choose a path of dishonor so that he could remain here with Poppy.

  Chapter 19

  Dearest Tristan,

  I never noted how quiet London can be. Even…lonely. Or perhaps it is simply that I’ve never live
d alone before. Mayhap having only known a noisy household filled with my mother and siblings, this is all just foreign. It reminds me, even more, with your being gone, how little I’ve seen of the world. Or experienced. I wonder what it must be like where you are. And I hope your days are full.

  Ever Yours,

  Poppy

  Until Tristan’s carriage had pulled away and disappeared completely from sight, Poppy had convinced herself he’d return.

  Nay, she’d convinced herself he wouldn’t leave.

  And that evening, when she’d been, for the first time in the whole of her twenty-one years, alone, she’d filled her new townhouse with the sounds of her agonized tears. And she’d cried those same tears since he’d gone. The only thing that brought a surcease from those pathetic drops was her steady stream of visitors since Tristan’s departure a week earlier—from Jonathan and Juliet to Christian and Prudence. Why hell, even her brother-in-law Ryker had abandoned his establishment during the busy daytime hours to accompany Penelope.

  No one spoke of Tristan or her marriage. But what was worse was…how they looked at her.

  Precisely how Prudence was staring at her even now. Within a few short days of his leaving, Poppy had found herself something she’d never wished to be—something no person ever wished to be—an object of pity.

  Drawing back the red velvet curtain draped over the carriage window, Poppy made a show of studying the passing scenery.

  “Stop,” she gritted out.

  Her sister’s carriage lurched and swayed along the quiet London roads. “I’ve not said anything,” Prudence said defensively.

  “You didn’t need to. I feel you staring.”

  “I’m not staring, per se. I…” When Poppy released the curtain, and glanced pointedly at her, Prudence sighed. “Very well, I was staring. But only because I’m worried about you.”

  She stiffened, willing her not to say it. “Please don’t say,” she pleaded.

  Her sister’s brow dipped. “Say what?”

  “That you told me so.” That Prudence, along with every last Tidemore, had both warned and predicted that the only thing awaiting Poppy at the end of the marital aisle with Tristan was, in fact, heartbreak.