Tempt Me at Twilight

by Lisa Kleypas

  She felt a pang of regret, leaving the Rutledge and its employees. In no time at all it had become home . . . but things could not stay the way they were. Something would have to yield. And that something—or someone, rather—was Harry Rutledge.

  Valentine returned to escort her to the back entrance. Opening an umbrella to shelter her from the rain, Valentine guided her outside to the waiting vehicle.

  Poppy climbed onto the block step that had been placed beside the carriage, and turned to face the valet. With the added height of the step, they stood nearly eye to eye. Raindrops glittered in the light from the hotel as they fell in jewel-like strands from the points of the umbrella.

  “Mr. Valentine . . .”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You do think he’ll follow me, don’t you?”

  “Only to the ends of the earth,” he said gravely.

  That drew a smile from her, and she turned to climb into the carriage.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It had taken Mrs. Meredith Clifton three months of dedicated pursuit before she had finally seduced Leo, Lord Ramsay. Or more accurately, was about to seduce him. As the young and nubile wife of a distinguished British naval officer, she was frequently left to her own devices while her husband was off at sea. Meredith had bedded every man in London worth bedding—excluding the handful of tiresomely faithful married ones, of course—but then she had heard about Ramsay, a man reputedly as sexually audacious as herself.

  Leo was a man of tantalizing contradictions. He was a handsome man, dark haired and blue eyed, with a clean and wholesome appeal . . . and yet he was rumored to be capable of shocking debauchery. He was cruel but gentle, callous but perceptive, selfish but charming. And from what she had heard, he was a vastly accomplished lover.

  Now, in Leo’s bedroom, Meredith stood quietly while he undressed her. He took his time about unfastening the row of buttons at her back. Sidling back, she let the backs of her fingers brush his trousers. The feel of him caused her to purr.

  She heard Leo laugh, and he pushed her exploring hand away. “Patience, Meredith.”

  “You can’t know how much I’ve anticipated this night.”

  “That’s a shame. I’m terrible in bed.” Gently he spread her dress open.

  She shivered as she felt the exploratory stroke of his fingertips on her upper back. “You’re teasing, my lord.”

  “You’ll find out soon, won’t you?” He brushed aside the wisps of hair at her nape and kissed her there, letting his tongue brush her skin.

  That light, erotic touch caused Meredith to gasp. “Are you ever serious about anything?” she managed to ask.

  “No. I’ve found that life is far kinder to shallow people.” Turning her, Leo drew her up against his tall, well-muscled frame.

  And in one long, slow blaze of a kiss, Meredith realized that she had finally met a predator more seductive, less inhibited, than anyone she had ever met. His sensual power was no less potent for being completely devoid of emotion or tenderness. This was pure, unashamed physicality.

  Consumed in the kiss, Meredith gave an agitated little cry when he stopped.

  “The door,” Leo said.

  Another tentative knock.

  “Ignore it,” Meredith said, trying to slide her arms around his lean waist.

  “I can’t. My servants won’t let me ignore them. Believe me, I’ve tried.” Releasing her, Leo went to the door, opened it a crack, and said curtly, “There had better be a fire or a felony in progress, or I swear you’ll be sacked.”

  Another murmur from the servant, and Leo’s tone changed, the arrogant drawl vanishing. “Good God. Tell her I’ll be down at once. Get her some tea or something.” Raking his hand through the short dark brown layers of his hair, he went to a wardrobe and began to hunt through a row of jackets. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ring for a maid to help you dress, Meredith. When you’re ready, my servants will make certain you’re escorted out to your carriage at the back.”

  Her mouth fell open. “What? Why?”

  “My sister has arrived unexpectedly.” Pausing in his search, Leo threw an apologetic glance over his shoulder. “Another time, perhaps?”

  “Most certainly not,” Meredith said indignantly. “Now.”

  “Impossible.” He pulled out a coat and shrugged into it. “My sister needs me.”

  “I need you! Tell her to return tomorrow. And if you don’t send her away, you’ll never have another chance with me.”

  Leo smiled. “My loss, I’m sure.”

  His indifference aroused Meredith even further. “Oh Ramsay, please,” she said heatedly. “It’s ungentlemanly to leave a lady wanting!”

  “It’s more than ungentlemanly, darling. It’s a crime.” Leo’s face softened as he approached her. Taking her hand, he lifted it to kiss the backs of her fingers one by one. His eyes glinted with rueful amusement. “This is certainly not what I had planned for this evening. My apologies. Let’s try again someday. Because, Meredith . . . I’m actually not terrible in bed.” He kissed her lightly, and smiled with such skillfully manufactured warmth that she almost believed it was real.

  Poppy waited in the small front parlor of the terrace. At the sight of her brother’s tall form entering the room, she stood and flew to him. “Leo!”

  He gathered her close. After a brief, hard hug, he held her at arms’ length. His gaze swept over her. “You’ve left Rutledge?”

  “Yes.”

  “You lasted a week longer than I expected,” he said, not unkindly. “What’s happened?”

  “Well, to start with—” Poppy tried to sound pragmatic even though her eyes watered. “I’m not a virgin anymore.”

  Leo gave her a mock-shamed glance. “Neither am I,” he confessed.

  A reluctant giggle escaped her.

  Leo rummaged in his coat for a handkerchief, without success. “Don’t cry, darling. I have no handkerchief, and in any case, virginity is nearly impossible to find once you’ve lost it.”

  “That’s not why I’m weepy,” she said, blotting her wet cheek on his shoulder. “Leo . . . I’m in a muddle. I need to think about some things. Will you take me to Hampshire?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to depart immediately. Because if we wait too long, Harry may prevent us from going at all.”

  “Sweetheart, the devil himself couldn’t stop me from taking you home. That being said . . . yes, we’ll go right away. I prefer to avoid confrontation whenever possible. And I doubt Rutledge will take it well when he discovers you’ve left him.”

  “No,” she said emphatically. “He’ll take it quite badly. But I’m not leaving him because I want to end my marriage. I’m leaving him because I want to save it.”

  Leo shook his head, smiling. “There’s Hathaway logic for you. What worries me is that I almost understand.”

  “You see—”

  “No, you can explain once we’re on our way. For the moment, wait here. I’ll send for the driver and tell the servants to ready the carriage.”

  “I’m sorry to cause trouble—”

  “Oh, they’re used to it. I’m the master of hasty departures.”

  There must have been some truth to Leo’s claim, because a trunk was packed and the carriage was readied with astonishing speed. Poppy waited by the parlor fire until Leo came to the doorway. “We’ll be off now,” he said. “Come.”

  He took her to his carriage, a comfortable and well-sprung vehicle with deep-upholstered seats. After arranging some cushions in the corner, Poppy settled back in preparation for a long journey. It would take the full night to reach Hampshire, and although the macadamized roadways were in decent repair, there were many rough stretches.

  “I’m sorry to have come to you at such a late hour,” she told her brother. “No doubt you would be sleeping soundly right now had I not arrived.”

  That produced a swift grin. “I’m not sure about that,” Leo said. “But no matte
r—it’s time to go to Hampshire. I want to see Win and that merciless brute she married, and I need to check on the estate and tenants.”

  Poppy smiled slightly, knowing how fond Leo was of the so-called “merciless brute.” Merripen had earned Leo’s everlasting gratitude for rebuilding and managing the estate. They communicated frequently by letter, maintained two or three running arguments at any given time, and thoroughly enjoyed baiting each other.

  Reaching to the dark brown shade that covered the window nearest her, Poppy lifted it to glance at the broken buildings, brick facings plastered with bills, and battered shop fronts, all of them bathed in the twilight gloom of street lamps. London at night was unsavory, unsafe, uncontrolled. Harry was out there somewhere. She had no doubt he could take care of himself, but the thought of what he might be doing—or whom he might be doing it with—filled her with melancholy. She sighed heavily.

  “I loathe London in the summer,” Leo said. “The Thames is working up to an unholy stench this year.” He paused, his gaze resting on her. “I suppose that look on your face isn’t caused by worry over public sanitation. Tell me what you’re thinking, sis.”

  “Harry left the hotel tonight after—” Poppy broke off, unable to find a word to describe just what it was they had done. “I don’t know how long he’ll stay out, but at best, we’re only about ten or twelve hours ahead of him. Of course, he may decide not to follow me, which would be rather anticlimactic but also a relief. Still—”

  “He’ll follow,” Leo said flatly. “But you won’t have to see him if you don’t wish it.”

  Poppy shook her head morosely. “I’ve never had such mixed-up feelings about anyone. I don’t understand him. Tonight in bed, he—”

  “Wait,” Leo said. “Some things are better discussed between sisters. I’m sure this is one of them. We’ll reach Ramsay House by morning, and you can ask Amelia anything you like.”

  “I don’t think she would know anything about this.”

  “Why not? She’s a married woman.”

  “Yes, but it’s . . . well . . . a masculine problem.”

  Leo blanched. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, either. I don’t have masculine problems. In fact, I don’t even like saying the phrase ‘masculine problems.’ ”

  “Oh.” Crestfallen, Poppy pulled a lap blanket over herself.

  “Damn it. What exactly are we calling a ‘masculine problem’? Did he have trouble running the flag up? Or did it fall to half-staff?”

  “Do we have to speak about this metaphorically, or—”

  “Yes,” Leo said firmly.

  “All right. He . . .” Poppy frowned in concentration as she searched for the right words, “. . . left me while the flag was still flying.”

  “Was he drunk?”

  “No.”

  “Did you do or say something to make him leave?”

  “Just the opposite. I asked him to stay, and he wouldn’t.”

  Shaking his head, Leo rummaged in a side compartment beside his seat and swore. “Where the blazes is my liquor? I told the servants to stock the carriage with drink for the journey. I’m going to fire the bloody lot of them.”

  “There’s water, isn’t there?”

  “Water is for washing, not drinking.” He muttered something about an evil conspiracy to keep him sober, and sighed. “One can only guess as to Rutledge’s motivations. It’s not easy for a man to stop in the middle of lovemaking. It puts us in a devil of a temper.” Folding his arms across his chest, he watched her speculatively. “I propose the radical notion of actually asking Rutledge why he left you tonight, and discussing it like two rational beings. But before your husband reaches Hampshire, you’d better decide on something, and that’s whether you’re going to forgive him for what he did to you and Bayning.”

  She blinked in surprise. “Do you think I should?”

  “The devil knows I wouldn’t want to, were I in your place.” He paused. “On the other hand, I’ve been forgiven for many things I should never have been forgiven for. The point is, if you can’t forgive him, there’s no use in trying to talk about anything else.”

  “I don’t think Harry cares about being forgiven,” Poppy said glumly.

  “Of course he does. Men love to be forgiven. It makes us feel better about our inability to learn from our mistakes.”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready,” Poppy protested. “Why must I do it so soon? There’s no time limit for forgiveness, is there?”

  “Sometimes there is.”

  “Oh, Leo . . .” She felt crushed under a weight of uncertainty and hurt and yearning.

  “Try to sleep,” her brother murmured. “We’ll have two hours, more or less, before it’s time to change horses.”

  “I can’t sleep for worrying,” Poppy said, although a yawn had already overtaken her.

  “There’s no point in worrying. You already know what you want to do—you just aren’t ready to admit it yet.”

  Poppy settled deeper into the corner, closing her eyes. “You know a lot about women, don’t you, Leo?”

  There was a smile in his voice. “I should hope so, with four sisters.” And he watched over her while she slept.

  After returning to the hotel drunk as a boiled owl, Harry staggered to his apartments. He had gone to a tavern, flamboyantly decorated with mirrors, tiled walls, and expensive prostitutes. It had taken approximately three hours to drink himself into a suitable state of numbness that he could go back home. Despite the artful advances of more than a few lightskirts, Harry took no notice of any of them.

  He wanted his wife.

  And he knew that Poppy would never soften toward him unless he began with a sincere apology for taking her away from Michael Bayning. The problem was, he couldn’t. Because he wasn’t at all sorry about what he’d done, he was only sorry that she was unhappy about it. He would never regret having done what was necessary to marry her, because she was what he had wanted most in his life.

  Poppy was every fine, good, unselfish impulse that he would never have. She was every caring thought, loving gesture, happy moment, that he would never know. She was every minute of peaceful sleep that would forever elude him. According to the law of universal balance, Poppy had been put into the world to compensate for Harry and his wickedness. Which was probably why, as the opposite of two magnetic forces, Harry was so damnably drawn to her.

  Therefore, the apology was not going to be sincere. But it would be made. And then he would ask to begin again with her.

  Lowering himself to the narrow settee, which he loathed with a passion, Harry fell into a drunken stupor that almost passed for sleep.

  The morning light, weak though it was, entered his brain like a stiletto. Groaning, Harry cracked his eyes open and took inventory of his abused body. He was dry mouthed, exhausted, and aching, and if there had ever been a time in his life he had needed a shower bath more, he couldn’t remember it. He slitted a glance at the closed door of his bedroom, where Poppy still slept.

  Remembering her gasp of pain the previous night, when he had thrust into her, Harry felt a cold, sick heaviness in the pit of his stomach. She would be sore this morning. She might need something.

  She probably hated him.

  Swamped with dread, Harry lurched upward from the settee and went to the bedroom. He opened the door and let his eyes adjust to the semidarkness.

  The bed was empty.

  Harry stood there blinking while apprehension swept over him. He heard himself whisper her name.

  In seconds he had reached the bellpull, but there was no need to call for anyone. As if by magic, Valentine was at the apartment door, his brown eyes alert in his lean face.

  “Valentine,” Harry began hoarsely, “where is—”

  “Mrs. Rutledge is with Lord Ramsay. I believe they are traveling to Hampshire as we speak.”

  Harry grew very, very calm, as he always did when a situation was dire. “When did she leave?”

  “Last night, while you we
re out.”

  Resisting the urge to kill his valet where he stood, Harry asked softly, “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “No, sir. She asked me not to.” Valentine paused, looking momentarily bemused, as if he, too, couldn’t believe that Harry hadn’t already killed him. “I have a carriage and team ready, if you intend to—”

  “Yes, I intend to.” Harry’s tone was as crisp as the strike of a chisel through granite. “Pack my clothes. I’m leaving within the half hour.”

  Rage hovered nearby, so powerful that Harry could scarcely own it as his. But he shoved the feeling aside. Giving in to it would accomplish nothing. The undertaking for now was to wash and shave, change his clothes, and deal with the situation.

  Any hint of concern or contrition burned to ashes. Any hope of being kind or gentlemanly had gone. He would keep Poppy no matter how he had to do it. He would lay out the law, and when he was through, she would never dare leave him again.

  Poppy awakened from a jolting sleep and sat up, rubbing her eyes. Leo was dozing in the seat opposite hers, his broad shoulders hunched and one arm curled behind his head as he leaned against a paneled wall.

  Nudging aside the little curtain over one of the windows, Poppy saw her beloved Hampshire . . . sun crossed, green, peaceful. She had been in London too long—she had forgotten how beautiful the world could be. The carriage passed flushes of poppies and oxeye daisies and vibrant stands of lavender. The landscape was rich with wet meadows and chalk streams. Brilliant blue kingfishers and swifts darted through the sky, while green woodpeckers rattled the trees.

  “Almost there,” she whispered.

  Leo awakened, yawning and stretching. His eyes narrowed in a protesting squint as he lifted a cloth panel for a glimpse of the passing countryside.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Poppy asked, smiling. “Have you ever seen such views?”

  Her brother dropped the panel. “Sheep. Grass. Thrilling.”

  Before long the carriage reached the Ramsay lands and passed the gatekeeper’s house, which had been constructed of blue gray brick and cream stone. Owing to recent and extensive renovations, the landscape and manor were new looking, although the house had retained its haphazard charm. The estate was not a large one, certainly nothing compared to the massive neighboring estate owned by Lord Westcliff. But it was a jewel, the land fertile and varied, with fields irrigated by channels that had been dug from a nearby stream to the upper fields.