Did he…? That question hovered on the air. Filled with a restiveness, Tristan came to his feet, and wandered a back and forth path before his best friend’s desk. The promise he’d made Poppy had come in the heat of the moment, with him three sheets to the wind. It had been met with disapproval by…all members of her family, and Tristan’s own best friend included. As such, there were numerous ways in which to disentangle himself from this. Poppy would be fine. In fact, she would be better off without him. As he’d reminded the lady, she’d be free to marry a gentleman whom she loved.
Jealousy wound its way through his veins; pumping fire, and spreading rage.
His nape prickled with the intensity of St. Cyr’s focus.
“I…gave her my word. I cannot renege on that pledge.” Is it really about your honor this time? Or is it about more? Is it about a visceral hatred for any man who might win her affections? Thrusting aside that silent jeering, he faced St. Cyr. “Poppy knows her own mind. This”—he lifted the commission—“it changes nothing.”
St. Cyr flashed a sad smile. “Are you trying to convince me of that, Bolingbroke? Or yourself?”
Perhaps a bit of both. “I am sorry I’ve betrayed your trust—”
“Not sorry enough to do anything differently, however.”
Touché. What was there to say to that? Tristan turned to go when his friend called out.
“I’d tell you not to hurt her, and yet, I know that there is no other possible outcome of this.”
And with that ominous prediction lingering, Tristan took his leave.
Chapter 13
He’d been gone for the better part of the morn. Poppy knew because she’d waited for a glimpse of him leaving the hotel. Partly out of uncertainty in the light of a new day that Tristan had, in fact, changed his mind. Partly because of the need to see him.
That perilous, inexplicable desire that had plagued her as a girl, and did so all these years later.
Adding a second coat to the wall in her brother-in-law’s hotel smoke room, Poppy stole yet another glance at the doors that led out to the patio.
He’d said yes.
Oh, that “yes” had come with a good deal of convincing. But in the end, when he’d accepted her terms, there had been a heat in his gaze that had touched her to the core. That primitive glimmer that could not be feigned, and proved that at somewhere along the way, despite his words to the contrary, he’d ceased to see her as “younger sister” or “little friend”.
I assure you, Poppy, ours will never be a marriage in name only…
She made herself draw a slow, even breath.
“I felt a dark brown would…” her sister was saying.
“Mmm.” Poppy had simply assumed that Tristan would see them live together as friends, friends who happened to be joined in a marriage of convenience.
“…with tinges of olive green and mustard yellow.”
But he hadn’t expected theirs to be a formal arrangement devoid of intimacy. He—
Wait… Poppy blinked slowly. “Olive green and mustard?” What in blazes was her sister asking for? “I swear every art lesson Juliet gave you was in vain. Surely you aren’t asking me to paint…”
Penelope’s eyes twinkled.
“Oh.”
Penelope pushed aside Poppy’s sketch for the smoke room redesign and drew herself up onto the work table cluttered with paints, brushes. “You seem distracted.”
“Why do you say that?” She bristled defensively. She was not some kind of silly ninny to be woolgathering about Tristan and his kiss and…well, anything. Liar. You’ve been thinking of him and only him since you parted ways on the patio outside his room early this morning.
Penelope leaned in. “Because you’ve had the brush poised at the wall for nearly two minutes now and haven’t made a single stroke with it since,” she whispered. Her sister gave a pointed look at Poppy’s fingers, and she followed her stare.
Poppy blinked. “Oh.” She added a belated swipe to the wall, covering a place where a grotesque pair of horns sprang from a cherub’s tousled golden curls. “Quite hideous, really,” she said lamely. “A devilish cherub.”
“The artist intended for the room and mural to represent a contradiction.”
“What does that even mean?”
Penelope lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “It sounded perfectly reasonable when he explained it. Just as it sounds as though you are attempting to distract me now.”
Poppy tamped down a sigh. The problem with sisters is they saw all; there were no secrets. Not well-guarded ones, anyway.
“What is it, Poppy?” Penelope asked softly, shifting closer.
What could Poppy say? She had to tell her something. Nay, she had to tell her the truth. Why, at this very instant, Tristan was either speaking to or had already spoken to Jonathan. Her sister would find out, and Poppy would rather she was the one in control of that narrative. For she’d done nothing wrong. She was no different than her sisters who’d taken control of their own fates. “Penelope—” she began.
In the end, she was interrupted from sharing by a thunderous bellow.
Both women jumped.
Next came the slam of doors, and the frantic shouts of hotel staff.
Horror creeping in, Poppy looked to the glass doors of the empty smoke room. “Oh, bloody hell,” she whispered.
After all, she well knew that voice. Rarely had it been raised, and when it had? Never had it been raised at her or her sisters. Nay, this was bad.
“Not now, Black,” her brother shouted from somewhere outside the smoke room. Jonathan’s shouting grew increasingly close in frequency. “I’ll deal with you later.” And then he was there, outside the double doors, with a gaggle of hotel staff at his back and Ryker at his side. “Where in holy hell is my—” His gaze slashed through the crystal panels. Poppy dropped to the floor.
“I saw you.” Jonathan exploded into the room.
“Sinclair, you are bad for my business,” Ryker bit out, closing the glass doors behind them.
“I don’t give ten bloody damns on Sunday about your business.”
Poppy remained pressed to the floor. Oh, hell. It was a dire day indeed when not even Ryker Black could quell his brother-in-law into silence.
“Get up, Poppy,” her brother ordered. “I see your legs sticking out.”
Poppy glanced down at her damning boots.
“I take it this is the reason for your previous distraction?” Penelope whispered.
“Of a sort,” she prevaricated.
“And I hear you,” Jonathan snapped.
At least he was no longer yelling or slamming things. It was little consolation. Gathering what Joan of Arc must have felt on that fateful day she’d met her maker, Poppy climbed reluctantly to her feet.
His cheeks splotched red, his eyes brimming with rage, and his chest heaving. Whether it was from his ride here or fury, she knew not, and cared not to speculate.
Except, when the storm came, it wasn’t with a thunderous bellow, but on a whisper.
“No.”
Penelope looked between brother and sister, perplexed. “No?”
Poppy gave a slight shake.
Jonathan’s lips curved into an ice-cold smile she’d never before seen on him. That was, not turned on her, anyway. “Will you care to tell her? Or should I?”
“Tell me what?”
“I’m not having this as a public discussion,” she said tightly, ignoring her sister’s query.
“Tell me ‘what’?” Penelope pressed, with a greater urgency. “Furthermore, this is not a ‘public’ discussion. It is merely Ryker and I.”
“This is all your fault.” Jonathan turned his rage on the elder of his sisters present. “Both of you,” he shot over his shoulder at Ryker, who’d set himself up as a sentry of sorts at the doorway.
“My fault?” Penny squawked. “What in blazes have I done?” Not allowing a beat for an answer, she spun to Poppy. “What have you done?’
“H
ave you watched her?” Jonathan demanded.
Penelope and Ryker exchanged a look.
Oh, Poppy had quite enough of all this. “I am not a dog.”
Sir Faithful hopped up and barked angrily.
The Tidemores spoke in unison. “Quiet.”
With a soft whine, the dog sank to his belly and buried his face in his paws.
Jonathan stalked across the room, and Poppy’s earlier bravado flagged. “Have you seen how she spent her days?”
Penelope slid herself between Poppy and their fuming brother. “She has painted, Jonathan. Painted.” She enunciated each syllable, while jabbing at the canvas behind her. “And I’ll not make apologies for that.”
Emotion clogged Poppy’s throat at her sister’s impassioned defense. But then, that was the bond they’d always had: steadfast. Unwavering.
“And I trust you gave her free rein of the entire hotel.” Jonathan tossed a furious glance over at his brother-in-law. “Both of you?”
Still silent, his arms folded at his broad chest, Ryker’s dark brows came together.
Penelope paused. “I…” Her cheeks went grey.
“Which included, no doubt, rooms generally reserved for gentleman patrons?”
Penelope’s mouth dropped, and exhaling a noisy hiss through her teeth, she grabbed Poppy tightly by the arm. “What have you done?”
So much for unwavering sisterly loyalty. “I’ve not done anything,” she said indignantly.
“And did the rooms you provided her access to include Tristan Poplar’s?”
That seemed to penetrate her brother-in-law’s previously unflappable repose. His body went whipcord straight.
“She painted a mural and redesigned his rooms, but—” Penelope gasped, her grip going slack on Poppy. And with that, her loyal sister stepped out of the way and allowed Jonathan a direct path over.
Poppy hurried to put several safe steps between them. “Nothing improper occurred.” Not that she’d ever dare admit what happened to a single Tidemore. Not if she wished to have a living, breathing bridegroom.
“Did you paint him…naked?” Penelope asked on an outrageously loud and horrified whisper.
“The bastard,” Ryker hissed. “Oi’ll kill him and then throw ’im out on ’is bloody arse.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Poppy ordered, stabbing a finger in her brother-in-law’s direction, before facing Penelope. “I didn’t paint him.” Though, in fairness, she would like to paint Tristan naked. His form needed to be preserved on canvas.
“No,” Jonathan gritted out between clenched teeth. “It is worse. She proposed to him.”
Penelope slapped hands over her mouth. “You…?”
“She. Asked. Him. To. Marry. Her.”
And at last…there was silence.
Which was a rather impressive feat; few were able to quiet Penelope, the most garrulous of the Tidemore sisters. As such, Poppy should be contented. As long as no one was talking, there was no fury to counter or outrageous shows of temper.
And yet…
“Is that what Tristan said?” Poppy exclaimed, indignation pulling that question from her. Oh, the lummox would be lucky if she didn’t end it before it began. Unless, that was what he’d hoped. Or intended. “It wasn’t really me offering marriage.” She chewed at her fingernail. Though the idea squarely rested with her.
“I knewwww it,” Jonathan exclaimed; sticking a finger in her direction, he waved it about. “You did propose.”
Poppy winced. And here, she’d let Jonathan trip her up into revealing the truth.
Her brother began to pace frantically before them. “The moment you mentioned his dogs six years ago, I should have called him out.”
Her lips twitched, and she fought to conceal that smile. “He didn’t do anything then, Jonathan, and he didn’t do anything now,” she continued over his interruption. “I want this arrangement.”
And all the fight seemed to go out of Jonathan. His shoulders slumped, and misery marched across his features.
“Poppy,” Penelope started in with a gentleness in her eyes. “You don’t need to make a match. Not as I or Patrina or Prudence once had to. And certainly not because of a bounder like Rochford. You’ll find the man worthy of you.”
She already had. In fact, entering into a marriage with Tristan, she already had far more than her sisters had previously known with men who’d been strangers to them. She had a friendship.
“I don’t need to make a match,” Poppy agreed. She touched her gaze on her family present. “I want to.”
Her sister stared back with stricken eyes.
Poppy gathered her hands and squeezed them. “I know what I am doing.” And what she wished for.
“May I speak alone with Poppy?” Jonathan asked quietly, with complete restraint and entirely different than the man who’d stormed the hotel.
Penelope looked to her, the meaning clear in her Tidemore eyes: if Poppy wished for her to remain, she would.
Poppy gave a slight nod. “I’m fine,” she promised softy, and with reluctant steps, her sister joined her husband. Ryker slid his fingers into Penelope’s and raised them to his lips for a brief kiss, before taking their leave.
Poppy stared after them wistfully.
“You see that,” Jonathan quietly noted, without judgment.
“See…?”
“That tenderness. That partnership. That is what your sisters have with their husbands. That is what I have with Juliet. And that is what I want for you, Poppy,” he finished quietly.
A sound of impatience escaped her. “You do not get to decide what is best for me. You don’t get to decide what I should want or have, nor not want nor never have.” Having been the youngest of the Tidemores, she’d long been the one they sought to protect. An eternal baby of their family that they were determined to relegate to the role of un-aging child whom they would keep with them always. “I want to marry him, Jonathan.”
Sadness flickered in her brother’s eyes. “I know,” he said softly, his words barely reaching Poppy’s ears, “and I think that is what concerns me most.”
“He spoke to you.”
“He stated his intent.” Her heart thumped against her ribs. “And I informed him that I’d not be accepting that offer.”
Poppy curled her hands into fists. “I am a woman, capable of making up my own mind.”
“Funny, Bolingbroke said that very thing.”
Her heart fluttered. “And that makes him someone I wish to wed. Someone who trusts my judgment and allows me a freedom of choice.”
Her brother jerked as if she’d slapped him. His features twisted in such a mask of sadness, her heart spasmed. “Ah, Poppy, but that is the thing: I do. I recall the moments I first held you or wiped your tears or made you laugh. I don’t get to erase that because you’re grown. We protect the ones we love.”
She strode over to her brother. “Preventing me from making my own decisions, Jonathan, is not protecting me. It is controlling me.”
Jonathan dragged a hand through his unfashionably long hair. “Very well, if you wish to marry him, you may.”
Poppy sprang forward, and then suspicion immediately sank her movements. “What is the catch?” she asked, eyeing him carefully.
“Wait until Patrina delivers her babe and Mother returns. If you still feel the same way, I shall not object.”
“That is arbitrary, Jonathan,” she snapped. It was him simply fishing for time in the hopes that she…or Tristan would change their minds.
Poppy placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t require your permission, Jonathan. Not truly.” Spinning on her heel, she marched past him.
She made it no further than four steps. “Poppy,” he implored. “Only you could take every single one of your sister’s scandals, make them all yours and add your own damned scandal to the mix.”
It was hard in his beleaguered tones to determine whether he was on the cusp of crying or laughing.
Poppy took another step,
and then stopped. A memory traipsed in: her earliest one of Jonathan hefting her upon his shoulders and racing around the nursery. Poppy returned to her brother’s side. “Do you recall Chase the Monster?”
A smile ghosted his lips. “Chase, both a name and the game. Clever, you were.”
She nudged him in the side.
“Clever, you are,” he corrected. “It was your favorite game.” His gaze took on a far-off quality as it shifted over the top of her head. “You always loved hiding from pretend monsters.”
“Do you remember the time we were running in frantic circles, and it all became too real for me?”
The slight knob in his throat moved. “You buried your head against my chest and cried.”
Until her chest had ached from the force of her tears. “You promised you’d protect me always from anything and everything. Real and pretend.” And he had. He’d been the father she’d never known, and the elder brother a lady could only dare dream to have. That was why she hadn’t been able to simply walk out on him. Not without making him understand and offer his support.
“If I let you do this now, Poppy, then I f-fail.” His voice broke.
“Oh, Jonathan,” she whispered. “There is no failure in allowing me to make my own decisions. You empowered me to be a woman who could have my own mind and take control of my own life, and because of that, you’ve only done right by me.”
His face contorted. “Ah, God, Poppy.”
Stepping into his arms, she hugged him.
He stood there, stiff, before folding his arms around her.
Neither spoke for several moments. “I’m marrying him, Jonathan.”
Her eldest sibling sighed. “I know. I suspect I always did.”
“You believed Patrina’s decision to wed Weston was the wrong one,” she reminded.
“It was,” he muttered. “At the time…”
Her lips curved in a smile.
“And you had reservations about Christian,” she pointed out.
“Any brother would.”
“And you also were violently opposed to a match between Ryker and Penelope.”
“Fair point.” A scowl lit his features. “She was, however, nearly killed because of him.”
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