by Lisa Kleypas
“You are persistent,” she said. “They told me you would be.”
“I’m everything they told you and worse,” Harry said without hesitation. “But what they didn’t tell you is that you are the most desirable and fascinating woman I’ve ever met, and I would do anything to have you.”
It was insanely flattering to have a man like Harry Rutledge pursuing her, especially after the hurt inflicted by Michael Bayning. Poppy flushed with cheek-stinging pleasure, as if she’d been lying too long in the sun. She found herself thinking, Perhaps I’ll consider it, just for a moment, in a purely hypothetical sense. Harry Rutledge and me . . .
“I have questions,” she said.
“Ask away.”
Poppy decided to be blunt. “Are you dangerous? Everyone says you are.”
“To you? No.”
“To others?”
Harry shrugged innocently. “I’m a hotelier. How dangerous could I be?”
Poppy gave him a dubious glance, not at all deceived. “I may be gullible, Harry, but I’m not brainless. You know the rumors . . . you’re well aware of your reputation. Are you as unscrupulous as you’re made out to be?”
Harry was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on a distant cluster of blossoms. The sun threw its light into the filter of branches, scattering leaf shadows over the pair in the arbor.
Eventually he lifted his head and looked at her directly, his eyes greener than the sunstruck rose leaves. “I’m not a gentleman,” he said. “Not by birth, and not by character. Very few men can afford to be honorable while trying to make a success of themselves. I don’t lie, but I rarely tell everything I know. I’m not a religious man, nor a spiritual one. I act in my own interests, and I make no secret of it. However, I always keep my side of a bargain, I don’t cheat, and I pay my debts.”
Pausing, Harry fished in his coat pocket, pulled out a penknife, and reached up to cut a rose in full bloom. After neatly severing the stem, he occupied himself with stripping the thorns with the sharp little blade. “I would never use physical force against a woman, or anyone weaker than myself. I don’t smoke, take snuff, or chew tobacco. I always hold my liquor. I don’t sleep well. And I can make a clock from scratch.” Removing the last thorn, he handed the rose to her, and slipped the knife back into his pocket.
Poppy concentrated on the satiny pink rose, running her fingers along the top edges of the petals.
“My full name is Jay Harry Rutledge,” she heard him say. “My mother is the only one who ever called me Jay, which is why I don’t like it. She left my father and me when I was very young. I never saw her again.”
Poppy looked at him with wide eyes, understanding that this was a sensitive subject he rarely, if ever, discussed. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, although she kept her tone carefully devoid of pity.
He shrugged as if it was of no importance. “It was a long time ago. I barely remember her.”
“Why did you come to England?”
Another pause. “I wanted to have a go at the hotel business. And whether I was a success or failure, I wanted to be far away from my father.”
Poppy could only guess at the wealth of information buried beneath the spare words. “That’s not the entire story,” she said rather than asked.
The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “No.”
She looked down at the rose again, feeling her cheeks color. “Do you . . . would you . . . want children?”
“Yes. Hopefully more than one. I didn’t like being an only child.”
“Would you want to raise them at the hotel?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think it a suitable environment?”
“They would have the best of everything. Education. Travel. Lessons in anything that interested them.”
Poppy tried to imagine bringing up children in a hotel. Could such a place ever feel like home? Cam had once told her that the Rom believed the entire world was their home. As long as you were with your family, you were home. She looked at Harry, wondering what it would be like to live intimately with him. He seemed so self-contained and invulnerable. It was hard to think of him doing ordinary things such as shaving, or having his hair trimmed, or staying in bed with a head cold.
“Would you keep your wedding vows?” she asked.
Harry held her gaze. “I wouldn’t make them otherwise.”
Poppy decided that her family’s worries about letting her talk to Harry had been entirely justified. Because he was so persuasive, and appealing, that she was beginning to consider the idea of marrying him, and seriously weigh the decision.
Fairy-tale dreams had to be set aside if she was to embark on marriage with a man she didn’t love and hardly knew. But adults had to take responsibility for their actions. And then it occurred to Poppy that she was not the only one taking a risk. There was no guarantee for Harry that he would end up with the kind of wife he needed.
“It’s not fair for me to ask all the questions,” she told him. “You must have some as well.”
“No, I’ve already decided that I want you.”
Poppy couldn’t prevent a bemused laugh. “Do you make all your decisions so impulsively?”
“Not usually. But I know when to trust my instincts.”
It seemed Harry was about to add something else when he saw a movement on the ground from the periphery of his vision. Following his gaze, Poppy saw Medusa pushing her way through the rose arbor, waddling innocently across the path. The little brown and white hedgehog looked like a walking scrub brush. To Poppy’s surprise, Harry lowered to his haunches to retrieve the creature.
“Don’t touch her,” Poppy warned. “She’ll roll into a ball and sink her quills into you.”
But Harry settled his hands on the ground, palms up, on either side of the inquisitive hedgehog. “Hello, Medusa.” Gently he worked his hands beneath her. “Sorry to interrupt your exercise. But believe me, you don’t want to run into any of my gardeners.”
Poppy watched incredulously as Medusa relaxed and settled willingly into the warm masculine hands. Her spines flattened, and she let him lift and turn her so she was tummy upward. Harry stroked the soft white fur of her underbelly while Medusa’s delicate snout lifted and she regarded him with her perpetual smile.
“I’ve never seen anyone except Beatrix handle her like that,” Poppy said, standing beside him. “You have experience with hedgehogs?”
“No.” He slanted a smile at her. “But I have some experience with prickly females.”
“Excuse me,” Beatrix’s voice interrupted them, and she came into the tunnel of roses. She was disheveled, bits of leaves clinging to her dress, her hair straggling over her face. “I seem to have lost track of . . . oh, there you are, Medusa!” She broke into a grin as she saw Harry cradling the hedgehog in his hands. “Always trust a man who can handle a hedgehog, that’s what I always say.”
“Do you?” Poppy asked dryly. “I’ve never heard you say that.”
“I only say it to Medusa.”
Harry carefully transferred the pet to Beatrix’s hands. “ ‘The fox has many tricks,’ ” he quoted, “ ‘the hedgehog only one.’ ” He smiled at Beatrix as he added, “But it’s a good one.”
“Archilochus,” Beatrix said promptly. “You read Greek poetry, Mr. Rutledge?”
“Not usually. But I make an exception for Archilochus. He knew how to make a point.”
“Father used to call him a ‘raging iambic,’ ” Poppy said, and Harry laughed.
And in that moment, Poppy made her decision.
Because even though Harry Rutledge had his flaws, he admitted them freely. And a man who could charm a hedgehog and understand jokes about ancient Greek poets was a man worth taking a risk on.
She wouldn’t be able to marry for love, but she could at least marry for hope.
“Bea,” she murmured, “might you allow us a few moments alone?”
“Certainly. Medusa would love to grub about in the next row.”
/> “Thank you, dear.” Poppy turned back to Harry, who was dusting his hands. “May I ask one more question?”
He looked at her alertly and spread his hands as if to show he had nothing to hide.
“Would you say that you’re a good man, Harry?”
He had to think about that. “No,” he finally said. “In the fairy tale you mentioned last night, I would probably be the villain. But it’s possible the villain would treat you far better than the prince would have.”
Poppy wondered what was wrong with her, that she should be amused rather than frightened by his confession. “Harry. You’re not supposed to court a girl by telling her you’re the villain.”
He gave her an innocent glance that didn’t deceive her in the least. “I’m trying to be honest.”
“Perhaps. But you’re also making certain that whatever anyone says about you, you’ve already admitted it. Now you’ve made all criticism of you ineffectual.”
Harry blinked as if she’d surprised him. “You think I’m that manipulative?”
She nodded.
Harry seemed stunned that she could see through him so easily. Instead of being annoyed, however, he stared at her with stark longing. “Poppy, I have to have you.”
Reaching her in two steps, he took her into his arms. Her heart thumped with sudden force, and she let her head fall back naturally as she waited for the warm pressure of his mouth. When nothing happened, however, she opened her eyes and glanced at him quizzically.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me?”
“No. I don’t want your judgment clouded.” But he brushed his lips against her forehead before he continued. “Here are your choices, as I see them. First, you could go to Hampshire in a cloud of social scorn, and content yourself with the knowledge that at least you didn’t get trapped into a loveless marriage. Or you could marry a man who wants you beyond anything, and live like a queen.” He paused. “And don’t forget the country house and carriage.”
Poppy could not contain a smile. “Bribery again.”
“I’ll throw in the castle and tiara,” Harry said ruthlessly. “Gowns, furs, a yacht—”
“Hush,” Poppy whispered, and touched his lips gently with her fingers, not knowing how else to make him stop. She took a deep breath, hardly able to believe what she was about to say. “I’ll settle for a betrothal ring. A small, simple one.”
Harry stared at her as if he were afraid to trust his own ears. “Will you?”
“Yes,” Poppy said, her voice a bit suffocated. “Yes, I will marry you.”
Chapter Twelve
This was the phrase of Poppy’s wedding day: “It’s not too late to change your mind.”
She had heard it from every member of her family, or some variation thereof, since the early hours of the morning. That was, she’d heard it from everyone except Beatrix, who thankfully didn’t share the Hathaways’ general animosity toward Harry.
In fact, Poppy had asked Beatrix why she hadn’t objected to the betrothal.
“I think it might turn out to be a good pairing,” Beatrix said.
“You do? Why?”
“A rabbit and a cat can live together peaceably. But first the rabbit has to assert itself—charge the cat a time or two—and then they become friends.”
“Thank you,” Poppy said dryly. “I’ll have to remember that. Although I daresay Harry will be surprised when I knock him over like a ninepin.”
The wedding and the reception afterward would be as large and heavily attended as humanly possible, as if Harry intended for half of London to witness the ceremony. As a result, Poppy would spend most of her wedding day amidst a sea of strangers.
She had hoped that she and Harry might become better acquainted in the three weeks of their betrothal, but she had scarcely seen him except for the two occasions when he had come to take her on a drive. And Miss Marks, who had accompanied them, had glowered so fiercely that it had embarrassed and infuriated Poppy.
The day before the wedding, her sister Win and brother-in-law Merripen had arrived. To Poppy’s relief, Win had elected to remain neutral on the controversy of the marriage. She and Poppy sat together in a richly appointed hotel suite, talking over the matter at length. And just as in the days of their childhood, Win assumed the role of peacemaker.
The light from a fringed lamp slid over Win’s blond hair in a brilliant varnish. “If you like him, Poppy,” she said gently, “if you’ve found things to esteem in him, then I’m sure I will, too.”
“I wish Amelia felt that way. And Miss Marks, too, for that matter. They’re both so . . . well, opinionated . . . that I can hardly discuss anything with either of them.”
Win smiled. “Remember, Amelia has taken care of all of us for a very long time. And it’s not easy for her to relinquish her role as our protector. But she will. Remember when Leo and I left for France, how difficult it was for her to see us off? How afraid she was for us?”
“I think she was more afraid for France.”
“Well, France survived the Hathaways,” Win said, smiling. “And you will survive becoming Harry Rutledge’s wife on the morrow. Only . . . if I may say my piece . . . ?”
“Certainly. Everyone else has.”
“The London season is like one of those Drury Lane melodramas in which marriage is always the ending. And no one ever seems to give any thought as to what happens after. But marriage isn’t the end of the story, it’s the beginning. And it demands the efforts of both partners to make a success of it. I hope Mr. Rutledge has given assurances that he will be the kind of husband that your happiness requires?”
“Well . . .” Poppy paused uncomfortably. “He told me I would live like a queen. Although that’s not quite the same thing, is it?”
“No,” Win said, her voice soft. “Be careful, dear, that you don’t end up as the queen of a lonely kingdom.”
Poppy nodded, stricken and uneasy, trying to hide it. In her gentle way, Win had offered more devastating advice than all the sharp warnings of the other Hathaways combined. “I’ll consider that,” she said, staring at the floor, at the tiny printed flowers of her dress, anywhere other than into her sister’s perceptive gaze. She twisted her betrothal ring around her finger. Although the current fashion was for diamond clusters, or colored stones, Harry had bought her a single rose-cut diamond, shaped at the top with facets that mimicked the inner spiral of a rose.
“I asked for something small and simple,” she had told Harry when he had given it to her.
“It’s simple,” he had countered.
“But not small.”
“Poppy,” he had told her with a smile, “I never do anything in a small way.”
Spying the clock ticking busily on the mantel, Poppy brought her thoughts back to the present. “I won’t change my mind, Win. I promised Harry that I would marry him, and so I shall. He has been kind to me. I would never repay him by jilting him at the altar.”
“I understand.” Win slid her hand over Poppy’s, and pressed warmly. “Poppy . . . has Amelia had a ‘certain talk’ with you yet?”
“You mean the ‘what to expect on my wedding night’ talk?”
“Yes.”
“She was planning to tell me later tonight, but I’d just as soon hear it from you.” Poppy paused. “However, having spent so much time with Beatrix, I should tell you that I know the mating habits of at least twenty-three different species.”
“Heavens,” Win said with a grin. “Perhaps you should be leading the discussion, dear.”
The fashionable, the powerful, and the wealthy usually married at St. George’s in Hanover Square, located in the middle of Mayfair. In fact, so many peers and virgins had been united in holy wedlock at St. George’s that it was unofficially and quite vulgarly known as the “London Temple of Hymen.”
A pediment with six massive columns fronted the impressive but relatively simple structure. St. George’s had been designed with a deliberate lack of ornamentation so as not to detract from the be
auty of the architecture. The interior was similarly austere, with a canopied pulpit built several feet higher than the box pews. But there was a magnificent work of stained glass above the front altar, depicting the Tree of Jesse and an assortment of biblical figures.
Surveying the crowd packed inside the church, Leo wore a carefully blank expression. So far he had given away two sisters in marriage. Neither of those weddings had begun to approach this kind of grandeur and visibility. But they had far eclipsed it in genuine happiness. Amelia and Win had both been in love with the men they had chosen to marry.
It was unfashionable to marry for love, a mark of the bourgeoisie. However, it was an ideal the Hathaways had always aspired to.
This wedding had nothing to do with love.
Dressed in a black morning coat with silver trousers and a white cravat, Leo stood beside the side door of the vestry room, where ceremonial and sacred objects were kept. Altar and choir robes hung in a row along one wall. This morning the vestry doubled as a waiting room for the bride.
Catherine Marks came to stand on the other side of the doorway as if she were a fellow sentinel guarding the castle gate. Leo glanced at her covertly. She was dressed in lavender, unlike her usual drab colors. Her mousy brown hair was pulled back into such a tight chignon as to make it difficult for her to blink. The spectacles sat oddly on her nose, one of the wire earpieces crimped. It gave her the appearance of a befuddled owl.
“What are you looking at?” she asked testily.
“Your spectacles are crooked,” Leo said, trying not to smile.
She scowled. “I tried to fix them, but it only made them worse.”
“Give them to me.” Before she could object, he took them from her face and began to fiddle with the bent wire.
She spluttered in protest. “My lord, I didn’t ask you to—if you damage them—”
“How did you bend the earpiece?” Leo asked, patiently straightening the wire.