by Lisa Kleypas
Harry’s blood quickened as lurid images filled his mind . . . her, against him, beneath him. That smiling mouth, his alone, her whispers curling into his ear. Her skin, soft and ivory pale in the darkness. Skin heated by skin, sensation emerging as he touched her.
She was worth anything, he thought, even giving up the last remnants of his soul.
“Good day,” he heard himself say, his voice husky but polite. And he forced himself to walk away.
For now.
Chapter Seven
“Now I understand what you meant earlier,” Beatrix said to Poppy, when Miss Marks had gone on some undisclosed errand. Poppy had settled in her bed, while Beatrix had washed Dodger and was now drying him with a towel before the hearth. “What you were trying to say about Mr. Rutledge,” she continued. “No wonder you found him unsettling.” She paused to grin at the happy ferret, who was wriggling on a warm towel. “Dodger, you do like to be clean, don’t you? You smell so lovely after a good washing.”
“You always say that, and he always smells the same.” Poppy raised herself on an elbow and watched them, her hair spilling around her shoulders. She felt too restless to nap. “Then you found Mr. Rutledge unsettling, too?”
“No, but I understand why you do. He watches you like one of those ambushing sort of predators. The kind that lie in wait before they spring.”
“How dramatic,” Poppy said with a dismissive laugh. “He’s not a predator, Bea. He’s only a man.”
Beatrix made no reply, only made a project of smoothing Dodger’s fur. As she leaned over him, he strained upward and kissed her nose affectionately. “Poppy,” she murmured, “no matter how Miss Marks tries to civilize me—and I do try to listen to her—I still have my own way of looking at the world. To me, people are scarcely different from animals. We’re all God’s creatures, aren’t we? When I meet someone, I know immediately what animal they would be. When we first met Cam, for example, I knew he was a fox.”
“I suppose Cam is somewhat fox-like,” Poppy said, amused. “What is Merripen? A bear?”
“No, unquestionably a horse. And Amelia is a hen.”
“I would say an owl.”
“Yes, but don’t you remember when one of our hens in Hampshire chased after a cow that had strayed too close to the nest? That’s Amelia.”
Poppy grinned. “You’re right.”
“And Win is a swan.”
“Am I also a bird? A lark? A robin?”
“No, you’re a rabbit.”
“A rabbit?” Poppy made a face. “I don’t like that. Why am I a rabbit?”
“Oh, rabbits are beautiful soft animals who love to be cuddled. They’re very sociable, but they’re happiest in pairs.”
“But they’re timid,” Poppy protested.
“Not always. They’re brave enough to be companions to many other creatures. Even cats and dogs.”
“Well,” Poppy said in resignation, “it’s better than being a hedgehog, I suppose.”
“Miss Marks is a hedgehog,” Beatrix said in a matter-of-fact tone that made Poppy grin.
“And you’re a ferret, aren’t you, Bea?”
“Yes. But I was leading to a point.”
“Sorry, go on.”
“I was going to say that Mr. Rutledge is a cat. A solitary hunter. With an apparent taste for rabbit.”
Poppy blinked in bewilderment. “You think he is interested in . . . Oh, but Bea, I’m not at all . . . and I don’t think I’ll ever see him again . . .”
“I hope you’re right.”
Settling on her side, Poppy watched her sister in the flickering glow of the hearth, while a chill of uneasiness penetrated the very marrow of her bones.
Not because she feared Harry Rutledge.
Because she liked him.
Catherine Marks knew that Harry was up to something. He was always up to something. He certainly had no intention of inquiring after her welfare—he didn’t give a damn about her. He considered most people, including Catherine, a waste of his time.
Whatever mysterious mechanism sent Harry Rutledge’s blood pumping through his veins, it wasn’t a heart.
In the years of their acquaintance, Catherine had never asked anything of him. Once Harry did someone a favor, it went into the invisible ledger he carried around in that infernally clever brain, and it was only a matter of time until he demanded repayment with interest. People feared him for good reason. Harry had powerful friends and powerful enemies, and it was doubtful that even they knew what category they fell in.
The valet, or assistant, whatever he was, showed her into Harry’s palatial apartment. Catherine thanked him with a frosty murmur. She sat in a receiving room with her hands resting in her lap. The receiving room had been designed to intimidate visitors, all of it done in slick, pale fabrics and cold marble and priceless Renaissance art.
Harry entered the room, large and breathtakingly self-assured. As always, he was elegantly dressed and meticulously groomed.
Stopping before her, he surveyed her with insolent green eyes. “Cat. You look well.”
“Go to the devil,” she said quietly.
His gaze dropped to the white plait of her fingers, and a lazy smile crossed his face. “I suppose to you, I am the devil.” He nodded toward the other side of the settee she occupied. “May I?”
Catherine gave a short nod and waited until he had seated himself. “Why did you send for me?” Her voice was brittle.
“It was an amusing scene this morning, wasn’t it? Your Hathaways were a delight. They’re certainly not your run-of-the-mill society misses.”
Slowly Catherine raised her gaze to his, trying not to flinch as she stared into the vivid depths of green. Harry excelled at hiding his thoughts . . . but this morning he had stared at Poppy with a hunger that he was usually too well disciplined to reveal. And Poppy had no idea of how to defend herself against a man like Harry.
Catherine strove to keep her voice even. “I will not discuss the Hathaways with you. And I warn you to stay away from them.”
“You warn me?” Harry repeated softly, his eyes bright with mocking amusement.
“I won’t let you hurt anyone in my family.”
“Your family?” One of his dark brows lifted. “You have no family.”
“I meant the family I work for,” Catherine said with icy dignity. “I meant my charges. Especially Poppy. I saw the way you looked at her this morning. If you try to harm her in any way—”
“I have no intention of harming anyone.”
“Regardless of your intentions, it happens, doesn’t it?” Catherine felt a stab of satisfaction as she saw his eyes narrow. “Poppy is far too good for you,” she continued, “and she is out of your reach.”
“Hardly anything is out of my reach, Cat.” He said it without arrogance. It happened to be the truth. Which made Catherine all the more fearful.
“Poppy is practically betrothed,” she replied sharply. “She is in love with someone.”
“Michael Bayning.”
Her heart began to hammer with alarm. “How do you know that?”
Harry ignored the question. “Do you really think that Viscount Andover, a man of notoriously exacting standards, would allow his son to marry a Hathaway?”
“I do. He loves his son, and therefore he will choose to overlook the fact that Poppy comes from an unconventional family. He could ask for no better mother for his future heirs.”
“He’s a peer. Bloodlines are everything to him. And while Poppy’s bloodlines have led to an obviously charming result, they’re far from pure.”
“Her brother is a peer,” Catherine snapped.
“Only by accident. The Hathaways are a twig on the farthest limb of the family tree. Ramsay may have inherited a title, but in terms of nobility, he’s no more a peer than you or I. And Andover knows it.”
“What a snob you are,” Catherine observed in as calm a tone as she could manage.
“Not at all. I don’t mind the Hathaways’ c
ommon blood one bit. In fact, I like them all the better for it. All those anemic daughters of the peerage—none of them could hold a candle to the two girls I saw this morning.” His smile became genuine for one dazzling moment. “What a pair. Catching a wild monkey with a comfit jar and string.”
“Leave them alone,” Catherine said. “You play with people as a cat does with mice. Entertain yourself with someone else, Harry. God knows you have no shortage of women who would do anything to please you.”
“That’s what makes them boring,” he said gravely. “No, don’t leave yet—there’s something I want to ask. Has Poppy said anything to you about me?”
Mystified, Catherine shook her head. “Only that it was interesting to finally be able to put a face to the mysterious hotelier.” She stared at him intently. “What else should she have told me?”
Harry adopted an innocent expression. “Nothing. I merely wondered if I had made an impression.”
“I’m sure Poppy overlooked you entirely. Her affections are with Mr. Bayning, who, unlike you, is a good, honorable man.”
“You wound me. Fortunately in matters of love, most women can be persuaded to choose a bad man over a good one.”
“If you understood anything about love,” Catherine said acidly, “you would know that Poppy would never choose anyone over the man she has already given her heart to.”
“He can have her heart,” came Harry’s casual reply. “As long as I have the rest of her.”
As Catherine spluttered in offended fury, Harry stood and went to the door. “Let me show you out. No doubt you’ll want to go back and sound the alarms. For all the good it will do.”
It had been a long time since Catherine had known such fathomless anxiety. Harry . . . Poppy . . . could he really have designs on her, or had he simply decided to torture Catherine with a cruel jest?
No, he had not been playacting. Of course Harry wanted Poppy, whose warmth and spontaneity and kindness was completely alien in his sophisticated world. He wanted a respite from his own inexhaustible needs, and once he was done with Poppy, he would have drained her of all the happiness and innocent charm that had attracted him in the first place.
Catherine didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t expose her own connection to Harry Rutledge, and he knew it.
The answer was to make certain that Poppy was betrothed to Michael Bayning, publicly betrothed, as soon as possible. Tomorrow Bayning would meet with the family and accompany them to the flower show. Afterward Catherine would find a way to hasten the courtship process. She would tell Cam and Amelia that they must press for the matter to be quickly resolved.
And if for some reason there was no betrothal—perish the thought—Catherine would suggest that she accompany Poppy on a trip abroad. Perhaps France or Italy. She would even tolerate the company of the galling Lord Ramsay, if he chose to go with them. Anything to keep Poppy safe from Harry Rutledge.
“Wake up, slugabed.” Amelia strode into the bedroom wearing a dressing gown trimmed with cascades of soft lace, her dark hair gathered in a thick, neat braid over one shoulder. She had just come from feeding the baby. Having left him in the nurse-maid’s care, she was now set on the course of waking her husband.
Cam’s natural preference was to stay up all hours of the night and rise late in the day. This habit was directly opposed to Amelia’s early to bed, early to rise philosophy.
Going to one of the windows, she whisked open the curtains to admit the morning light, and was rewarded with a protesting groan from the bed. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “The maid will be here soon to help me dress. You’d better put something on.”
She busied herself at her dresser, sorting through a drawer of embroidered stockings. Out of the periphery of her vision she saw Cam stretch, his body lithe and powerful, his skin glowing like clover honey.
“Come here,” Cam said in a sleep-darkened voice, drawing back the bed linens.
A laugh stirred in her throat. “Absolutely not. There is too much to be done. Everyone is busy except you.”
“I intend to be busy. As soon as you come here. Monisha, don’t make me chase you this early.”
Amelia gave him a severe glance as she obeyed. “It’s not early. In fact, if you don’t wash and dress quickly, we’ll be late to the flower show.”
“How can you be late for flowers?” Cam shook his head and smiled, as he always did when she said something he considered to be gadjo nonsense. His gaze was hot and slumberous. “Come closer.”
“Later.” She gave a helpless gasp of laughter as he reached out with astonishing dexterity, snaring her wrist in his hand. “Cam, no.”
“A good Romany wife never refuses her husband,” he teased.
“The maid—” she said breathlessly as she was pulled across the mattress, and clasped against all that warm golden skin.
“She can wait.” He unbuttoned her robe, his hand slipping past the lace, fingertips exploring the sensitive curves of her breasts.
Amelia’s giggles died away. He knew so much about her—too much—and he never hesitated to take ruthless advantage. She closed her eyes as she reached up to the nape of his neck. The clean, silky locks of his hair slipped through her fingers like liquid.
Cam kissed her tender throat, while one of his knees nudged between hers. “It’s either now,” he murmured, “or behind the rhododendrons at the flower show. Your choice.”
She writhed a little, not in protest but excitement as he trapped her arms in the confining sleeves of the dressing gown. “Cam,” she managed to say as his head bent over her exposed breasts. “We’re going to be so terribly late . . .”
He murmured his desire to her, speaking in Romany as he did whenever his mood turned un-civilized, and the exotic syllables fell hotly against her sensitive skin. And for the next several minutes he possessed her, consumed her, with a lack of inhibition that would have seemed barbaric had he not been so gentle.
“Cam,” she said afterward, her arms clasped around his neck, “are you going to say something to Mr. Bayning today?”
“About pansies and primulas?”
“About his intentions toward my sister.”
Cam smiled down at her as he fingered a loose lock of her hair. “Would you object if I did?”
“No, I want you to.” A frown notched the space between her brows. “Poppy is adamant that no one should criticize Mr. Bayning for taking so long to speak to his father about courting her.”
Gently Cam used the pad of his thumb to smooth away the little frown. “He’s waited long enough. The Rom say of a man like Bayning, ‘he would like to eat fish, but he would not like to get in the water.’ ”
Amelia responded with a humorless chuckle. “It’s very frustrating, to know that he’s tiptoeing around the issue like this. I wish Bayning would simply go to his father and have it out.”
Cam, who knew something about the aristocracy from his days as the manager of an exclusive gaming club, said dryly, “A young man who stands to inherit as much as Bayning has to tread softly.”
“I don’t care. He has gotten my sister’s hopes very high. If it all comes to naught, she’ll be devastated. And he has kept her from being courted by other men, and wasted an entire season—”
“Shhh.” Cam rolled to his side, taking her with him. “I agree with you, monisha . . . this shadow courtship must end. I’ll make certain Bayning understands that it’s time to take action. And I’ll speak to the viscount, if that will help.”
“Thank you.” Amelia tucked her cheek into one of the hard curves of his chest, seeking comfort. “I’ll be so glad when this is resolved. Lately I haven’t been able to rid myself of the feeling that things won’t turn out well for Poppy and Mr. Bayning. I hope I’m wrong. I want so badly for Poppy to be happy, and . . . what will we do, if he breaks her heart?”
“We’ll take care of her,” he murmured, cuddling her. “And love her. That’s what a family is for.”
Chapter Eight
&nb
sp; Poppy was light-headed with nerves and excitement. Michael would soon arrive to accompany the family to the flower show. After all their subterfuge, this was the first step toward an openly acknowledged courtship.
She had dressed with extra care in a yellow walking dress trimmed with black velvet cord. The layered skirts were caught up at intervals with black velvet bows. Beatrix wore a similar ensemble, only hers was blue trimmed in chocolate.
“Lovely,” Miss Marks had pronounced, smiling as they entered the receiving room of the family suite. “You will be the two most elegant young ladies at the flower show.” She reached up to Poppy’s upswept curls and anchored a pin more securely. “And I predict that Mr. Bayning will not be able to take his gaze off you,” she added.
“He’s a bit late,” Poppy said tensely. “It’s not like him. I hope he hasn’t met with some difficulty.”
“He will arrive soon, I’m sure.”
Cam and Amelia entered the room, the latter looking radiant in pink, her small waist cinched with a bronze leather belt that matched her walking boots.
“What a lovely day for an outing,” Amelia said, her blue eyes twinkling. “Though I doubt you’ll even notice the flowers, Poppy.”
Putting a hand to her midriff, Poppy let out an unsteady sigh. “This is all so nerve-wracking.”
“I know, dear.” Amelia went to embrace her. “This makes me indescribably grateful that I never had to go through the London season. I would never have had your patience. Really, they should levy a tax on London bachelors until they marry. That would hasten the entire courtship process.”
“I don’t see why people have to marry at all,” Beatrix said. “There was no one to marry Adam and Eve, was there? They lived together naturally. Why should any of us bother with a wedding if they didn’t?”
Poppy gave a nervous laugh. “When Mr. Bayning is here,” she said, “let’s not bring up any outlandish debate topics, Bea. I’m afraid he’s not used to our way of . . . well, our . . .”
“Colorful discussions,” Miss Marks suggested.
Amelia grinned. “Don’t worry, Poppy. We’ll be so staid and proper, we’ll be absolute bores.”