by Lisa Kleypas
“We chopped some leeks and sautéed them in butter and cream, and—” She paused as she noticed the staff in a sudden flurry of activity, scrubbing, chopping, stirring. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Harry had entered the kitchen.
“Sir,” Mrs. Pennywhistle said, while she and Jake stood to face him.
Harry motioned for them to stay seated. “Good morning,” he said with a slight smile. “Forgive me for interrupting.” He came to stand beside Poppy, who was perched on a stool. “Mrs. Rutledge,” he murmured, “I wonder if I might steal you away for just a few minutes? There’s a . . .” His voice faded as he stared into his wife’s face. She had looked up at him with a flirting little grin that had apparently disrupted his train of thought.
And who could blame him? Jake Valentine thought, both amused and similarly mesmerized. Although Poppy Rutledge had always been a beautiful woman, there was an extra glow about her now, a new brilliance in her blue eyes.
“The carriage maker,” Harry said, recollecting himself. “They’ve just delivered your carriage. I hoped you might come look at it, and make certain everything is to your satisfaction.”
“Yes, I’d love to.” Poppy took another bite of her brioche, a warm puff of glazed bread touched with butter and jam. She held the last bit up to Harry’s lips. “Help me finish?”
They all watched in astonishment as Harry took the tidbit obligingly into his mouth. And, holding her wrist in his hand, he nipped at her fingertip to remove a little spot of jam. “Delicious,” he said, helping her from the stool. He glanced at the three of them. “I’ll return her shortly. And Valentine . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s come to my attention that you haven’t gone on holiday in far too long. I want you to arrange something for yourself immediately.”
“I wouldn’t know what to do on holiday,” Jake protested, and Harry smiled.
“That, Valentine, is why you need one.”
After Harry had escorted his wife from the kitchen, Jake looked at the others with a dumbfounded expression. “He’s an entirely different man,” he said dazedly.
Mrs. Pennywhistle smiled. “No, he’ll always be Harry Rutledge. It’s just that now . . . he’s Harry Rutledge with a heart.”
As the hotel was a virtual clearinghouse of gossip, Poppy was privy to scandals and private disclosures concerning people from every part of London. To her dismay, there were persistent rumors about the continuing decline of Michael Bayning . . . his frequent public drunkenness, gambling, brawling, and all manner of behavior unbecoming to a man of his position. Some of the rumors were linked to Poppy, of course, and her precipitate wedding to Harry. It saddened Poppy profoundly to hear what a mess Michael was making of his life, and she wished there were something she could do about it.
“It’s the one subject I can’t discuss with Harry,” she told Leo, visiting his terrace one afternoon. “It puts him in a dreadful temper—he gets very quiet and stern faced, and last night we actually quarreled about it.”
Taking a cup of tea from her, Leo arched a sardonic brow at the information. “Sis, as much as I would prefer to take your side in all things . . . why should you want to discuss Michael Bayning with your husband? And what the devil is there to argue about? That chapter in your life is closed. Were I married—and thank God I never will be—I wouldn’t welcome the subject of Bayning with any more enthusiasm than Harry apparently does.”
Poppy frowned into her own cup of tea, slowly stirring a sugar lump into the steaming amber liquid. She waited until it had thoroughly dissolved before replying. “I’m afraid Harry took exception to a request I made. I said I wanted to visit Michael, and that perhaps I might be able to talk some sense into him.” As she saw Leo’s expression, she added defensively, “Only for a few minutes! A supervised visit. I even told Harry he was welcome to accompany me. But he forbade me in a very overbearing manner, without even letting me explain why I—”
“He should have put you over his knee,” Leo informed her. As her mouth fell open, he set his tea down, made her do the same, and took both her hands in his. His expression was a comical mixture of reproof and sympathy. “Darling Poppy, you have a kind heart. And I’ve no doubt that for you, visiting Bayning is a mission of mercy comparable to Beatrix rescuing a rabbit from a snare. But this is where it becomes clear that you are still woefully ignorant of men. Since it falls to me to explain to you . . . we’re not nearly as civilized as you seem to think. In fact, we were much happier in the days when we could simply chase off a rival at spearpoint. Therefore, asking Harry to allow you—by all accounts, the only person on earth he actually gives a damn about—to visit Bayning and soothe his wounded feelings . . .” Leo shook his head.
“But Leo,” Poppy protested, “you remember the days when you were doing the same things that Michael is doing. I would have thought you’d have sympathy for him.”
Letting go of her hands, Leo smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The circumstances were a bit different. I had to watch a girl I loved die in my arms. And yes, afterward I behaved very badly. Even worse than Bayning. But a man on that path can’t be rescued, sweetheart. He has to follow it off a cliff. Perhaps Bayning will survive the fall, perhaps not. In either case . . . no, I have no sympathy for him.”
Poppy picked up her tea and took a hot, bracing swallow. Presented with Leo’s viewpoint, she felt uncertain and even a bit sheepish. “I’ll let the matter drop, then,” she said. “I may have been wrong to ask it of Harry. Perhaps I should apologize to him.”
“Now that,” Leo said softly, “is one of the things I’ve always adored about you, sis. The willingness to reconsider, and even change your mind.”
After her visit to her brother had concluded, Poppy went to the jeweler’s shop on Bond Street. She retrieved a gift that she’d had made for Harry, and returned to the hotel.
Thankfully, she and Harry had planned to have supper sent up to their apartment that night. It would allow her the time and privacy she needed to discuss their argument of the previous evening. And she would apologize. In her desire to help Michael Bayning, she hadn’t stopped to consider Harry’s feelings, and she wanted very much to atone.
The situation reminded her of something her mother had often said about marriage: “Never remember his mistakes, but always remember your own.”
After taking a perfumed bath, Poppy donned a light blue dressing gown and brushed out her hair, leaving it loose in the way he liked.
Harry entered the apartment as the clock struck seven. He looked more like the Harry she remembered from the beginning of their marriage, his face grim and tired, his gaze wintry.
“Hello,” she murmured, going to kiss him. Harry held still, not rebuffing her, but he was hardly warm or encouraging. “I’ll send for dinner,” she said. “And then we can—”
“None for me, thank you. I’m not hungry.”
Taken aback by his flat tone, Poppy regarded him with concern. “Did something happen today? You look all in.”
Harry shrugged out of his coat and laid it on a chair. “I’ve just returned from a meeting at the War Office, where I told Sir Gerald and Mr. Kinloch that I’ve decided not to work on the new gun design. They receive my decision as nothing short of treason. Kinloch even threatened to lock me in a room somewhere until I’d come up with a set of drawings.”
“I’m sorry.” Poppy grimaced in sympathy. “That must have been dreadful. Are you . . . are you disappointed that you won’t be doing the work for them?”
Harry shook his head. “As I told them, there are better things I could do for my fellow countrymen. Working on agricultural technology, for one thing. Putting food in a man’s belly is a vast improvement over inventing a more efficient way to put a bullet in him.”
Poppy smiled. “That was well done of you, Harry.”
But he didn’t return the smile, only leveled a cool, speculative stare at her. His head tilted a bit. “Where were you today?”
Poppy’s
pleasure dissolved as she understood.
He was suspicious of her.
He thought she had gone to visit Michael.
The injustice of that, and the hurt of being mistrusted, caused her face to stiffen. She answered in a brittle voice. “I went out for an errand or two.”
“What kind of errand?”
“I’d rather not say.”
Harry’s face was hard and implacable. “I’m afraid I’m not giving you a choice. You will tell me where you went and whom you saw.”
Reddening in outrage, Poppy whirled away from him and clenched her fists. “I don’t have to account for every minute of my day, not even to you.”
“Today you do.” His eyes narrowed. “Tell me, Poppy.”
She laughed incredulously. “So you can verify my statements, and decide whether I’m lying to you?”
His silence was answer enough.
Hurt and furious, Poppy went to her reticule, which had been set on a small table, and rummaged in it. “I went to visit Leo,” she snapped without looking at him. “He’ll vouch for me, and so will the driver. And afterward I went to Bond Street to pick up something I had bought for you. I had wanted to wait for an appropriate moment to give it to you, but apparently that’s not possible now.”
Extracting an object encased in a small velvet pouch, she resisted the temptation to throw it at him. “Here’s your proof,” she muttered, pushing it into his hands. “I knew you would never get one of these on your own.”
Harry opened the pouch slowly, and let the object slide into his hand.
It was a pocket watch with a solid gold casing, exquisitely simple except for the engraved initials JHR on the lid.
There was a perplexing lack of reaction from Harry. His dark head was bent so that Poppy couldn’t even see his face. His fingers closed around the watch, and he let out a long, deep breath.
Wondering if she had done the wrong thing, Poppy turned blindly to the bellpull. “I hope you like it,” she said evenly. “I’ll ring for dinner now. I’m hungry, even if you’re—”
All at once Harry seized her from behind, wrapping his arms around her, one hand still gripped around the watch. His entire body was trembling, powerful muscles threatening to crush her. His voice was low and remorseful.
“I’m sorry.”
Poppy relaxed against him as he continued to hold her. She closed her eyes.
“Damn it,” he said into the loose sheaf of her hair, “I’m so sorry. It’s just that the thought of you having any feelings for Bayning . . . it . . . doesn’t bring out the best in me.”
“There’s an understatement,” Poppy said darkly. But she turned in his arms and pressed against him, her hand sliding up to the back of his head.
“It tortures me,” he admitted gruffly. “I don’t want you to care for any man but me. Even if I don’t deserve it.”
Poppy’s hurt faded as she reflected that the experience of being loved was still very new to Harry. The problem wasn’t a lack of trust in her, it was a result of his own self-doubt. Harry would probably always be possessive where she was concerned.
“Jealous,” she accused softly, pulling his head down to her shoulder.
“Yes.”
“Well, there’s no need for it. The only feelings I have for Michael Bayning are pity and kindness.” She brushed her lips against his ear. “Did you see the engraving on the watch? No? . . . It’s inside the lid. Look.”
But Harry didn’t move, didn’t do anything except hold her as if she were a lifeline. She suspected he was too overcome to do anything at the moment. “It’s a quote by Erasmus,” she said helpfully. “My father’s favorite monk, after Roger Bacon. The watch is inscribed,‘It is the chiefest point of happiness that a man is willing to be what he is.’ ” At Harry’s continued silence, she couldn’t help throwing more words into the void. “I want you to be happy, you exasperating man. I want you to understand that I love you for exactly what you are.”
Harry’s breathing turned hard and rough. He held her in a grip that would have taken a hundred men to break. “I love you, Poppy,” he said raggedly. “I love you so much that it’s absolute hell.”
She tried to suppress a smile. “Why is it hell?” she asked sympathetically, stroking his nape.
“Because I have so much to lose now. But I’m going to love you anyway, because there doesn’t seem to be any way to stop doing it.” He kissed her forehead, eyelids, cheeks. “I have so much love for you, I could fill rooms with it. Buildings. You’re surrounded by it wherever you go, you walk through it, breathe it . . . it’s in your lungs, and under your tongue, and between your fingers and toes . . .” His mouth moved passionately over hers, urging her lips apart.
It was a kiss to level mountains and shake stars from the sky. It was a kiss to make angels faint and demons weep . . . a passionate, demanding, soul-searing kiss that nearly knocked the earth off its axis.
Or at least that was how Poppy felt about it.
Harry swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He lowered over her and smoothed the rich tumble of her hair. “I never want to be apart from you,” he said. “I’m going to buy an island and take you there. A ship will come once a month with supplies. The rest of the time it will be just the two of us, wearing leaves and eating exotic fruit and making love on the beach . . .”
“You’d start a produce export business and organize a local economy within a month,” she said flatly.
Harry groaned as he recognized the truth of it. “God. Why do you tolerate me?”
Poppy grinned and slid her arms around his neck. “I like the side benefits,” she told him. “And really, it’s only fair since you tolerate me.”
“You’re perfect,” Harry said with heated earnestness. “Everything about you, everything you do or say. And even if you have a little flaw here or there . . .”
“Flaws?” she asked in mock indignation.
“. . . I love those best of all.”
Harry undressed her, his efforts hindered by the fact that Poppy was trying to undress him at the same time. They rolled and struggled with their clothing, and despite the intensity of their mutual need, a few gasps of laughter escaped as they found themselves in a hopeless tangle of fabric and limbs. Finally, they both emerged naked and panting.
Harry hooked a hand beneath her knee, widening the spread of her thighs, and he took possession of her in a forceful plunge. Poppy cried out, quivering in surprise at the power of his rhythm. His body was elegant and strong, claiming her in demanding thrusts. Her breasts were cupped in his hands, his mouth covering a taut peak, and he suckled her in time to the lunges of his hips.
A deep flush came over her, the hard slide of his flesh in hers offering exquisite relief and erotic torment. She moaned and struggled to match his rhythm as ripples of pleasure went through her, stronger and stronger until she couldn’t move at all. And he drank in her sobs with his mouth, making love to her until she eventually quieted, her body replete with sensation.
Harry stared down at her intently, his face gleaming with perspiration, eyes tiger bright. Poppy wrapped her arms and legs around him, trying to absorb him, wanting him as close as physically possible. “I love you, Harry,” she said. The words made him catch his breath, shudders resounding through his body. “I love you,” she repeated, and he surged inside her, hard and deep, and found his release. She curled up against him afterward, while his hand played gently in her hair. They slept together, dreamed together, all barriers finally gone.
And the next day, Harry disappeared.
Chapter Twenty-six
For a man who revered schedules as much as Harry, being late was not only unusual, it was akin to atrocity. Therefore, when he didn’t return to the hotel from an afternoon visit to his fencing club, Poppy was more than a little concerned. When three hours had passed and her husband still wasn’t back, she rang for Jake Valentine.
The assistant came at once, his expression perturbed, his brown hair in disarr
ay as if he’d been tugging on it distractedly.
“Mr. Valentine,” Poppy said with a frown, “do you know anything about Mr. Rutledge’s whereabouts at present?”
“No, ma’am. The driver just returned without him.”
“What?” she asked, bewildered.
“The driver waited at the usual time and place, and when Mr. Rutledge didn’t appear after an hour, he went inside the club to make inquiries. A search was done. Apparently Mr. Rutledge was nowhere to be found on the premises. The master of the fencing club asked various members if they had seen Mr. Rutledge go off with someone, perhaps enter a carriage, or even mention his plans, but no one had seen or heard anything after Mr. Rutledge finished his practice.” Valentine paused and drew the side of his fist over his mouth, a nervous gesture Poppy had never seen him make before. “He seems to have vanished.”
“Has this ever happened before?” she asked.
Valentine shook his head.
They stared at each other in the mutual recognition that something was very wrong.
“I’ll go back to the club and search again,” Valentine said. “Someone had to have seen something.”
Poppy steeled herself to wait. Perhaps it was nothing, she told herself. Perhaps Harry had gone somewhere with an acquaintance, and he would return any moment. But she knew instinctively that something had happened to him. It seemed her blood had turned to ice water . . . she was shaky, numb, terrified. She paced around the apartments, and then she went downstairs to the front office, where the receptionist and concierge were similarly distracted.
Evening had settled deeply over London by the time Valentine finally returned. “Not a trace of him anywhere,” he said.
Poppy felt a chill of fear. “We must notify the police.”
He nodded. “I already have. I once received instructions from Mr. Rutledge in case something like this ever occurred. I’ve notified a Special Constable who works from the Bow Street office, and also a South London cracksman named William Edgar.”