by Lisa Kleypas
Finally Leo made it to one of the doors and slipped outside.
His eyes widened as he beheld an astonishing tableau. Poppy, clasped in the arms of a tall black-haired man . . . being watched by a small group of people who had come onto the balcony through another set of doors. And one of them was Michael Bayning, who looked sick with jealousy and outrage.
The black-haired man lifted his head, murmured something to Poppy, and leveled a cool glance at Michael Bayning.
A glance of triumph.
It only lasted a moment, but Leo saw it, and recognized it for what it was.
“Holy hell,” Leo whispered.
His sister was in considerable trouble.
When a Hathaway caused a scandal, they never did it by half measures.
By the time Leo steered Poppy back into the ballroom and collected Miss Marks and Beatrix, the scandal had started to spread. In no time at all, Cam and Amelia had found them, and the family drew together in a protective cluster around Poppy.
“What happened?” Cam asked, looking deceptively relaxed, his hazel eyes alert.
“Harry Rutledge happened,” Leo muttered. “I’ll explain everything shortly. For now, let’s leave here as quickly as possible and meet Rutledge at the hotel.”
Amelia leaned close to murmur into Poppy’s scarlet ear. “It’s all right, dear. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”
“You can’t,” Poppy whispered. “No one can.”
Leo looked past his sisters and saw the subdued uproar of the crowd. Everyone was staring at them. “It’s like watching an ocean wave,” he remarked. “One can literally see the scandal sweep through the room.”
Cam looked sardonic and resigned. “Gadjos,” he muttered. “Leo, why don’t you take your sister and Miss Marks in your carriage? Amelia and I will make our farewells to the Norburys.”
In a daze of wretchedness, Poppy allowed Leo to usher her outside to his carriage. All of them were silent until the vehicle had pulled away from the mansion with a sharp lurch.
Beatrix was the first to speak. “Have you been compromised, Poppy?” she asked with concern. “As Win was last year?”
“Yes, she has,” Leo replied, while Poppy let out a little moan. “It’s a bad habit our family’s gotten into. Marks, you’d better write a poem about it.”
“This disaster could have been avoided,” the companion told him tersely, “had you found her sooner.”
“It could also have been avoided if you hadn’t lost her in the first place,” Leo shot back.
“I’m responsible,” Poppy broke in, her voice muffled against Leo’s shoulder. “I went off with Mr. Rutledge. I had just seen Mr. Bayning in the ballroom, and I was distraught, and Mr. Rutledge asked me to dance but I needed air and we went out to the balcony—”
“No, I’m responsible,” Miss Marks said, looking equally as upset. “I let you dance with him.”
“It does no good to assign blame,” Leo said. “What’s done is done. But if anyone is responsible, it’s Rutledge, who apparently came to the ball on a hunting expedition.”
“What?” Poppy lifted her head and looked at him in bewilderment. “You think he . . . no, it was an accident, Leo. Mr. Rutledge didn’t intend to compromise me.”
“It was deliberate,” Miss Marks said. “Harry Rutledge never gets ‘caught’ doing anything. If he was seen in a compromising situation, it was because he wanted to be seen.”
Leo looked at her alertly. “How do you know so much about Rutledge?”
The companion flushed. It seemed to require an effort for her to hold his gaze. “His reputation, of course.”
Leo’s attention was diverted as Poppy buried her face against his shoulder. “I’m going to die of humiliation,” she said.
“No, you won’t,” Leo replied. “I’m an expert on humiliation, and if it were fatal, I’d have died a dozen times by now.”
“You can’t die a dozen times.”
“You can if you’re a Buddhist,” Beatrix said helpfully.
Leo smoothed Poppy’s shining hair. “I hope Harry Rutledge is,” he said.
“Why?” Beatrix asked.
“Because there’s nothing I’d rather do than kill him repeatedly.”
Harry received Leo and Cam Rohan in his private library. Any other family in the situation would have been predictable . . . they would have demanded that he do the right thing, and terms of compensation would have been discussed, and arrangements would have been made. Because of Harry’s vast fortune, most families would have accepted the results with good grace. He wasn’t a peer, but he was a man of influence and means.
However, Harry knew better than to expect a predictable response to the situation from either Leo or Cam. They were not conventional, and they would have to be dealt with carefully. That being said, Harry wasn’t worried in the least. He had negotiated over matters of far greater consequence than a woman’s honor.
Pondering the events of the night, Harry was filled with immoral triumph. No, not triumph . . . elation. It was all turning out to be so much easier than he had expected, especially with Michael Bayning’s unanticipated appearance at the Norbury ball. The idiot had practically handed Poppy to Harry on a silver platter. And when an opportunity presented itself, Harry took it.
Besides, Harry felt he deserved Poppy. Any man who allowed scruples to get in the way of having a woman like her was a fool. He recalled the way she had looked in the ballroom, pale and fragile and distraught. When Harry had approached her, there had been no mistaking the relief in her expression. She had turned to him, she had let him take her away.
And as Harry had brought her outside to the terrace, his satisfaction had been quickly supplanted by an entirely new sensation . . . the desire to ease someone else’s pain. The fact that he had helped to bring about her heartbreak in the first place was regrettable. But the end justified the means. And once she was his, he would do more for her, take better care of her, than Michael Bayning ever could.
Now he had to deal with Poppy’s family, who were understandably outraged that he had compromised her. That didn’t worry him in the slightest. He had no doubt of his ability to persuade Poppy to marry him. And no matter how much the Hathaways objected, they would ultimately have to come to terms.
Marrying him was the only way to redeem Poppy’s honor. Everyone knew it.
Keeping his expression neutral, Harry offered wine as Leo and Cam entered the library, but they refused.
Leo went to the fireplace mantel and leaned beside it with his arms folded across his chest. Cam went to a leather-upholstered chair and settled into it, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles.
Harry wasn’t deceived by their comfortable postures. Anger, masculine discord, permeated the room. Remaining relaxed, Harry waited for one of them to speak.
“You should know, Rutledge,” Leo said in a pleasant tone, “that I had planned to kill you right away, but Rohan says we should talk for a few minutes first. Personally, I think he’s trying to delay me so he can have the pleasure of killing you himself. And even if Rohan and I don’t kill you, we probably won’t be able to stop my brother-in-law Merripen from killing you.”
Harry half sat on the edge of the heavy mahogany library table. “I suggest you wait until Poppy and I marry, so she can at least be made a respectable widow.”
“Why do you assume,” Cam asked, “that we would allow you to have Poppy?”
“If she doesn’t marry me after this, no one will receive her. For that matter, I doubt any of the rest of your family would be welcome in London parlors.”
“I don’t think we’re welcome as it is,” Cam replied, his hazel eyes narrowed.
“Rutledge,” Leo said with deceptive casualness, “before I came into the title, the Hathaways lived outside London society for so many years that we couldn’t give a monkey’s arse as to whether we’re received or not. Poppy doesn’t have to marry anyone, for any reason, other than her own desire to do so. And Poppy
is of the opinion that you and she would never suit.”
“The opinions of women are frequently changed,” Harry said. “Let me talk to your sister tomorrow. I’ll convince her to make the best of the situation.”
“Before you convince her,” Cam said, “you’re going to have to convince us. Because what little I know about you makes me damned uneasy.”
Of course Cam Rohan would have some knowledge of him. Cam’s former position at the gentlemen’s gaming club would have made him privy to all kinds of private information. Harry was curious as to how much he had found out.
“Why don’t you tell me what you know,” Harry invited idly, “and I’ll confirm if it’s true.”
The amber-shaded eyes regarded him without blinking. “You’re originally from New York City, where your father was a hotelier of middling success.”
“Buffalo, actually,” Harry said.
“You didn’t get on with him. But you found mentors. You apprenticed at an engineering works, where you became known for your abilities as a mechanic and draftsman. You patented several innovations in valves and boilers. At the age of twenty, you left America and came to England for undisclosed reasons.”
Cam paused to observe the effects of his recitation.
Harry’s ease had evaporated, the muscles of his shoulders drawing upward. He forced them back down and resisted the temptation to reach up and ease a cramp of tension at the back of his neck. “Go on,” he invited softly.
Cam obliged. “You put together a group of private investors and bought a row of houses with very little capital of your own. You leased the houses for a short time, razed them and bought the rest of the street, and built the hotel as it now stands. You have no family, save your father in New York, with whom you have no communication. You have a handful of loyal friends and a host of enemies, many of whom seem to like you in spite of themselves.”
Harry reflected that Cam Rohan must have had impressive connections to have unearthed such information. “There are only three people in England who know that much about me,” he muttered, wondering which one of them had talked.
“Now there are five,” Leo said. “And Rohan forgot to mention the fascinating discovery that you’ve become a favorite with the War Office after designing some modifications to the standard issue army rifle. But lest we assume that you are only allied with the British government, you also seem to have dealings with foreigners, royalty and criminals alike. It rather gives one the impression that the only side you’re ever on is your own.”
Harry smiled coolly. “I’ve never lied about myself or my past. But I keep things private whenever possible. And I owe allegiance to no one.” He went to the sideboard and poured a brandy. Holding the bowl in the palms of his hands to warm it, he glanced at both men. He’d bet his fortune that Cam knew more that he wasn’t revealing. But this discussion, brief as it was, made it clear that there would be no helpful family coercion to make Poppy an honest woman. The Hathaways didn’t give a damn about respectability, nor did they need his money, nor his influence.
Which meant that he would have to focus solely on Poppy.
“Whether you approve or not,” he told Cam and Leo, “I’m going to propose to your sister. The choice is hers. And if she accepts, no power on earth will stop me from marrying her. I understand your concerns, so let me assure you that she will want for nothing. She’ll be protected, cherished, even spoiled.”
“You have no bloody idea how to make her happy,” Cam said quietly.
“Rohan,” Harry said with a faint smile, “I excel at making people happy—or at least making them think they are.” He paused to survey their set faces. “Are you going to forbid me to speak to her?” he asked in a tone of polite interest.
“No,” Leo said. “Poppy’s not a child, nor a pet. If she wants to speak to you, she shall. But be aware that, whatever you say or do in the effort to convince her to marry you, it will be counterweighed by the opinions of her family.”
“And there’s one more thing to be aware of,” Cam said, with a wintry softness that disguised all hint of feeling. “If you succeed in marrying her, we’re not losing a sister. You’re gaining an entire family—who will protect her at any cost.”
That was almost enough to give Harry pause.
Almost.
Chapter Eleven
“My brother and Mr. Rohan don’t like you,” Poppy told Harry the next morning, as they walked slowly through the rose garden behind the hotel. As the news of the scandal traveled through London like wildfire, it was necessary to do something about it with all expediency. Poppy knew that as a gentleman, Harry Rutledge was bound to offer for her, to save her from social disgrace. However, she wasn’t certain if a lifetime of being married to the wrong man was any better than being a pariah. She didn’t know Harry well enough to make any judgments about his character. And her family was emphatically not in favor of him.
“My companion doesn’t like you,” she continued, “and my sister Amelia says she doesn’t know you well enough to decide, but she’s inclined not to like you.”
“What about Beatrix?” Harry asked, the sun striking glimmers in his dark hair as he looked down at her.
“She likes you. But then, she likes lizards and snakes.”
“What about you?”
“I can’t abide lizards or snakes.”
A smile touched his lips. “Let’s not fence today, Poppy. You know what I’m asking.”
She responded with an unsteady nod.
It had been a hellish night. She had talked and cried and argued with her family until the early hours of the morning, and then she’d found it nearly impossible to sleep. And then more arguing and conversation this morning, until her chest was a cauldron of roiling emotions.
Her safe, familiar world had been turned upside down, and the peace of the garden was an unspeakable relief. Strangely, it made her feel better to be in Harry Rutledge’s presence, even though he was partially responsible for the mess she was in. He was calm and self-assured, and there was something in his manner, sympathy woven with pragmatism, that soothed her.
They paused in a long arbor draped in sheets of roses. It was a tunnel of pink and white blossoms. Beatrix wandered along a nearby hedgerow. Poppy had insisted on taking her in lieu of Miss Marks or Amelia, both of whom would have made it impossible for her to have even marginal privacy with Harry.
“I like you,” Poppy admitted bashfully. “But that’s not enough to build a marriage on, is it?”
“It’s more than many people start with.” Harry studied her. “I’m sure your family has talked to you.”
“At length,” Poppy said. Her family had framed the prospect of marriage with Harry Rutledge in such dire terms that she had already decided to refuse him. She twisted her mouth in an apologetic grimace. “And after hearing what they had to say, I’m sorry to tell you that I—”
“Wait. Before you make a decision, I’d like to hear what you have to say. What your feelings are.”
Well. That was a change. Poppy blinked in disconcertion as she reflected that her family and Miss Marks, well intentioned as they had been, had told her what they thought she should do. Her own thoughts and feelings hadn’t received much attention.
“Well . . . you’re a stranger,” she said. “And I don’t think I should make a decision about my future when I’m in love with Mr. Bayning.”
“You still have hopes of marrying him?”
“Oh, no. All possibility of that is gone. But the feelings are still there, and until enough time passes for me to forget him, I don’t trust my own judgment.”
“That’s very sensible of you. Except that some decisions can’t be put off. And I’m afraid this is one of them.” Harry paused before asking gently, “If you go back to Hampshire under the cloud of scandal, you know what to expect, don’t you?”
“Yes. There will be . . . unpleasantness, to say the least.” It was a mild word for the disdain, pity and scorn she would receive as a fall
en woman. And worse, it might ruin Beatrix’s chances of marrying well. “And my family won’t be able to shield me from it,” she added dully.
“But I could,” Harry said, reaching for the braided coil at the top of her head, using a fingertip to nudge an anchoring pin further into place. “I could if you marry me. Otherwise, I’m powerless to do anything for you. And no matter how anyone else advises you, Poppy, you’re the one who will bear the brunt of the scandal.”
Poppy tried, but couldn’t quite manage, a weary smile. “So much for my dreams of a quiet, ordinary life. My choice is either to live as a social outcast or as the wife of a hotelier.”
“Is the latter choice so unappealing?”
“It’s not what I’ve always hoped for,” she said frankly.
Harry absorbed that, considered it, while reaching out to skim his fingers over clusters of pink roses. “It wouldn’t be a peaceful existence in a country cottage,” he acknowledged. “We would live at the hotel most of the year. But there are times we could go to the country. If you want a house in Hampshire as a wedding present, it’s yours. And a carriage of your own, and a team of four at your disposal.”
Exactly what they said he’d do, Poppy thought, and sent him a wry glance. “Are you trying to bribe me, Harry?”
“Yes. Is it working?”
His hopeful tone made her smile. “No, although it was a very good effort.” Hearing the rustling of foliage, Poppy called out, “Beatrix, are you there?”
“Two rows away,” came her sister’s cheerful reply. “Medusa found some worms!”
“Lovely.”
Harry gave Poppy a bemused glance. “Who . . . or should I say what . . . is Medusa?”
“Hedgehog,” she replied. “Medusa’s getting a bit plump, and Beatrix is exercising her.”
To Harry’s credit, he remained composed as he remarked, “You know, I pay my staff a fortune to keep those out of the garden.”
“Oh, have no fear. Medusa is merely a guest hedgehog. She would never run away from Beatrix.”
“Guest hedgehog,” Harry repeated, a smile working across his mouth. He paced a few impatient steps before turning to face her. A new urgency filtered through his voice. “Poppy. Tell me what your worries are, and I’ll try to answer them. There must be some terms we can come to.”