“What are you doing?” Poppy asked as he grabbed his lawn shirt.
“Dressing.” Protecting her.
Or are you protecting yourself?
Poppy caught the garment, and tugged it from his fingers. “You’re hiding.” There was an accusatory edge to her tone.
“I’m protecting you.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
Poppy’s eyes narrowed into thin slits of fury. Pressing her hands hard against his shoulders, she shoved him back. Tristan grunted as he hit the floor. “You think me so weak that I’m somehow horrified by your scars?”
“I saw your eyes, Poppy,” he said softly. “You wear your every emotion in them.” Every emotion.
Poppy’s scowl deepened. “You’re correct. I was horrified.” The fight seemed to go out of her, and she sank back on her haunches. “At the idea of you hurt, T-Tristan.” Her voice broke.
“Poppy,” he said softly, reaching for her.
She swatted off his touch. “Don’t patronize me. I—”
Cupping a hand around her, he guided her down, and then kissed her.
She stiffened, and then with a sigh, melted into his embrace.
“You’re trying to distract me,” she murmured, when they broke apart.
“I wouldn’t dare. It would be futile. You cannot be distracted, Poppy Poplar.”
Poppy picked her head up, resting her chin on his chest.
A smile teased her lips. “Poppy Poplar sounds atrocious.”
“Yes,” he conceded. But it felt right. “It is, however, far preferable to Lady Poppy Flowers.” Even in jest, the tendrils of jealousy wrapped about him, and he wanted to beat Lord Rochford all over again.
Poppy propped her chin on his chest so she could look him in the eye. “Oh, there’s something poetic in Poppy Flow—”
He rolled her under him so quick, he rang a startled laugh from her. “Minx,” he growled.
“S-stop,” she howled, breathlessly, as he nuzzled that sensitive spot at her neck. “I was t…teasing.”
“No regrets that you are not, in fact, Poppy Flowers, Lady Rochford.”
Snorting and gasping, she thrashed her head back and forth. “Y-You must c-concede that all together, i-it is a v-very g-garden inspired—ahhh.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, as he raised her barefoot and glided his fingers over the sensitive arch. “I-I concede.”
Tristan relented and while she regained control of her mirth, he studied her. Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes sparkling. She was temptation personified.
And had it not been for that bounder Rochford, she and Tristan even now would have never been wed. Why did the idea leave him bereft? Why should it when they’d entered into a marriage of convenience?
Because you lied to yourself. It was always going to be more with her… And there was a certainty: Tristan would have despised any man who’d lured her into her sister-in-law’s paint room.
“You’ve gone all serious,” Poppy murmured.
He lifted his head. “Have I?” Tristan stroked his palm along the soft curve of her back, alternating an up and down stroke with his fingers along her spine. How…right this moment felt. With Poppy in his arms. Not even a week ago, the idea would have been laughable for the inconceivability of it; because of who she was. Because of who he was. And yet, she belonged here.
She ran a finger along his lips. “Here. You become all tense.” She lightly touched his brow. “And you’ve three creases here that draw up. What are you thinking about?” Poppy murmured.
“Rochford.”
Of all the reasons for her husband’s sudden seriousness, mention of Rochford would have been the last reason she expected. “Rochford? Never tell me, you’ve thought of painting him, too,” she teased.
A half grin formed on Tristan’s lips; the tension there, however, belied any hint of his earlier levity. He drifted his fingers through her thick, dark curls, brushing them back, and she luxuriated in the tingling along her scalp that his touch roused. “Why Rochford?”
She wrinkled her brow. “I already told you he—”
“Was pleasing to the eye and proportional. Yes. Yes, I know all that. But why?”
He had been the first to ask that question. In the immediacy of her fall, Poppy’s family had been so caught up in the scandal that such a question would have never occurred to them. And then, even after…they wouldn’t have bothered to ask. Rochford had nearly been naked and she’d been determined to paint him and no other details than that had mattered to them. Nor would they ever.
“Because I wanted to paint a male subject nude,” she said matter-of-factly. “And he was the only one who seemed a possibility.” Because he’d been the only gentlemen who’d come ’round. The only gentlemen who’d expressed an interest in art. Those humiliating details, however, she could not bring herself to share or admit…especially with Tristan Poplar, the Baron Bolingbroke. Poppy rested her cheek on the light silken mat of curls on his chest, and savored the steady beat of his heart under her ear…when he again spoke.
“And is that something you still want to do?”
She glanced up, donning a pensive expression. “Paint Rochford nude—” He growled again. “I’m teasing.” She laughed as he tickled her right side. When her hilarity abated, she shimmied up his chest so that she could better hold his gaze. “I want to paint everything, Tristan. Everything.”
“For what purpose?”
For what purpose? It was an…odd question. “I enjoy painting,” she said simply. Since Juliet had opened her eyes to the thrill in that pursuit, Poppy had found joy in simply creating things.
“But you wish to…what? Have your paintings hanging in your home? And the homes of your siblings? And beyond that?”
Beyond that? “I’d…never given much thought to beyond.” Poppy lifted her shoulders in an uneven shrug, sending her hair cascading over her husband’s face. “Some people just paint, Tristan.”
“Yes,” he agreed, stroking those curls back, behind her ears. “Artists paint. You never struck me as the manner of woman who’d reduce a passion to a pastime.” His words were coupled with a look in his eyes, a look that felt very much like…disappointment.
She bristled. “You’re implying that my enjoying my work is not enough.”
“I didn’t imply that. You said that.”
Her mouth parted, but it took several tries to get words out. “Me?”
“You,” he confirmed with a nod.
“If it was just a pastime, Poppy, you’d be happily sketching fruit bowls and floral arrangements like most every other lady in Polite Society. You wouldn’t have taken on the responsibility of redecorating your sister’s hotel.”
Poppy lay her cheek back on the muscular wall of his chest once more.
And this time, they went silent, and there were no more words spoken between them. Poppy remained wide-awake, long after Tristan’s breath had settled into an even cadence, indicating he slept. Slumber, however, proved elusive as his admonishments lingered in her mind.
Had they been admonishments, though? Or had he simply challenged her to think about why she did the work she did? She chewed at her lower lip. In that questioning, he’d been no different than she had been earlier that night, telling him that he needed to find himself.
The difference was…Poppy had believed herself found. She’d been so very confident, in having a sketchpad in hand and creating paintings and sketches, that she knew her interests and that which brought her joy.
What he suggested, what Tristan had all but said without saying the actual words was that her enjoyment was just a hobby.
The thing of it was, Poppy hadn’t really considered much beyond her enjoyment of art. She found pleasure in what she did. But doing anything else with it? Well, such an idea hadn’t entered her head.
It was enough that it was enough for her.
Wasn’t it?
A quiet snore spilled from Tristan’s lips, breaking into her own distracted musings.
She used that moment to study him. His features were so softened in sleep, so at peace and unguarded. His dark locks tousled like a fallen angel who’d lost his halo. How very different this relaxed version was from the troubled man he’d become.
A memory slid in of when she’d found him in his offices, wholly absorbed on those pages he’d hastily tucked away. What had he been looking at when she’d arrived? She was his wife, and as such, she was surely permitted to know…whatever had been responsible for his disquiet. Nor would she ever be the manner of wife who was content to allow her husband to worry while she remained oblivious to their circumstances.
Tristan emitted a bleating snore, and then his breathing settled into a quieter, more even cadence.
Curled against her husband, Poppy stared at the mural she and Tristan together had painted.
Her family would, of course, say whatever Tristan had been reading wasn’t her business. But neither would her siblings have secrets from or with their spouses. She warred with herself through thirty long ticks of the clock, before sliding out of her husband’s arms.
Tristan snorted in his sleep, and then rolled onto his stomach. Rescuing her dress, Poppy struggled into the garment. She fetched a candle, and then tiptoed her way across the ballroom.
The moment she’d closed the door behind her, Poppy released a breath, and then took off quickly down the hall, her bare feet cold upon the hardwood floors.
“You are not doing anything wrong,” she muttered under breath.
Except, if you aren’t, why are you sneaking?
Poppy thrust aside that taunting voice. Her husband shouldered so many burdens. Burdens no person should have to face alone. Tristan was her friend—nay, not just her friend, but also her husband. As such, she’d never be able to blithely ignore the troubles that tormented him. With a clearer conscience, Poppy held her candle aloft, and found her way below stairs. She didn’t stop until she’d reached Tristan’s office. The door stood ajar from when she’d led him through that threshold—two hours? Two years? A lifetime ago?
So much had changed in their relationship. There could be no doubting that the illusion of a fraternal relationship was just that—an illusion. Despite the chill hovering in the drafty townhouse, a blush heated her body.
Poppy stepped inside.
All the flames snuffed and the curtains drawn, but for the lone candle in her hand, the room remained pitched in darkness. She blinked several times in a bid to adjust to the dim lighting, and then entered Tristan’s office. Poppy set the candle in an empty sconce, and then made her way over to his desk. “Get in and then get gone,” she whispered, reaching for the drawer, and then she froze.
Her gaze went to the book resting atop the row of ledgers.
Stealing a glance at the door, Poppy found herself picking up her sketchpad. She fanned through the familiar pages.
Emotion swelled in her chest, as she brushed her fingertips over the telling little crease. “He dog-eared it,” she whispered.
The drawing was a rudimentary sketch. One of her earlier ones, and as such missing the detail and skill that she’d improved upon over the years. But so very special because of when she’d drawn it and because of what it represented.
Her cheeky grin, as she stood conversing with the tall gentleman. Sir Faithful stood between them, looking adoringly up at the man who patted his head.
He’d marked the page.
Poppy sank onto the edge of the swivel chair and it rotated slightly under her added weight. She turned the pages until she reached another one marked by Tristan.
This sketch, a self-portrait of her fishing at Prudence and Christian’s summer estate. A pair of legs stretched out from behind a tree; but the trunk obscured his identity. Had Tristan remembered that moment as well?
Why…why had he marked them?
And why are you making more of it than is there?
Poppy forced herself to close the book and set it aside. Enough. She’d come for a purpose: to find out what had so occupied her husband’s attention and then leave.
Except, as she reached for the gold ring in the middle of the drawer, guilt needled its way back in. Because if she truly wished to know, couldn’t she simply ask him?
Her stomach muscles clenched. Stop.
Poppy grabbed the drawer, and yanked it open. Picking up the ivory velum, she unfolded it, and proceeded to read.
Lord Bolingbroke,
Per our most recent discussion, you are well aware of the circumstances in which you now find yourself. After careful calculations, Lord Maxwell is determined to see that you pay your—
“Debts,” she whispered into the quiet. Poppy resumed the lengthy details marked in ink, and flipped to the next page, and the next. And with each sum listed, she mentally tabulated all until she at last reached the end of the ruthless note.
This is what had so troubled him earlier. What a bloody fool she’d been to make it something in her mind, when all the while Tristan had been dealing with this—on his own.
He was expected to turn over a fortune, and if he did not?
A chill scraped her spine, and Poppy’s fingers curved reflexively upon the pages, wrinkling their corners.
Grabbing her discarded sketchpad, Poppy turned to the first blank page, and sifting around the cluttered contents of the drawer, she found a small nub of pencil.
Poppy noted each number, marking them upon the empty sheet. Row after row after row of all the expenses and payments the current Earl of Maxwell expected Tristan to pay. She worked until the muscles in her neck strained from the position. Until she at last reached the end of the ruthless notes. She let her pencil fly over the page as she did a swift calculation, adding those numbers…
Her heart sank.
Bloody, bloody hell.
Poppy tossed the pencil down, and rubbing her neck, she examined the exorbitant sum. The current Earl of Maxwell and his man-of-affairs expected everything paid back, and that with interest, too: the salaries for governesses, art instructors, French tutors, dance teachers. Gowns and garments for all the years that the man had been missing. Tristan’s stables. Tristan’s…
“D-Dogs,” her voice broke. She gave her head a shake, and thrust aside those useless, weak sentiments. That would fix nothing.
Fifty-five thousand pounds, however, was what would.
It was a fortune.
And Tristan had no hope of paying that debt.
Her jaw went slack as the truth slammed into her. Why, the current Earl of Maxwell didn’t expect to receive that payment. The funds had less to do with him adding to his already no-doubt outrageous fortunes, but exacting revenge on those who’d stolen from him.
Poppy tossed her pencil down, and pressed her fingertips to her suddenly throbbing temples. Blast her husband. Why hadn’t he confided in her?
I’ll not touch your dowry…I’d ask for one thing, however…
Her heart froze in her chest.
“He knew,” she whispered. It was one of the reasons he’d allowed Poppy control of her dowry when any other gentleman in England would have taken that fortune gladly and paid off his debts. But Tristan, the great lummox, in all his honor, had wanted to ensure his sisters were cared for, and hadn’t mentioned at all the possibility of debtors’ prison. Poppy grabbed the last page of Sanders’ note to Tristan.
Lord Maxwell trusts you know there will be consequences should you fail to make repayments on the attached items…
“The bastard,” she gritted out, refolding those pages from Sanders. Poppy returned them to the desk drawer when another note caught her eye.
The creation of a…
Poppy grabbed the packet and frantically scanned the page.
…new battalion has resulted in numerous vacancies. Among which, the rank of Captain in the 15th Hussars is being…
“What?” she whispered, re-reading the sentences in her brother-in-law’s hand.
What was this?
Except, reading them again and again, wi
th nothing changing, she knew.
“What are you doing?” a voice snarled from the doorway.
She cried out. And her stomach flipped over itself as she stared blankly at the towering, shirtless, barefoot gentleman filling the doorway.
“Tristan,” she said weakly, as the packet slipped from her fingers, and landed with a decisive thwack, a damning thwack atop her husband’s cluttered desk.
As one, she and Tristan looked to the pages from Sanders.
Oh, bloody hell. This is bad.
What was she doing?
Even in the dark, with more than ten paces dividing Tristan from his wife, he caught the telltale guilt in her expression. The color had drained from her cheeks.
His heart thumped loudly and he forced his feet forward. “Were you spying on me?” he gritted out.
“Yes. No.”
“Which is it, lady wife?” he snapped.
Poppy held the pages she’d been reading aloft. “What is this?”
It had been inevitable. The moment he’d asked St. Cyr to speak on his behalf, and then his friend had secured that vacant commission, Tristan had been committed to that path. Just as it had been inevitable that Poppy would find out. “It is a commission.”
“A commission,” she repeated, like she’d never heard the word before. Like she didn’t understand it. When Poppy understood all.
He would hand it to her; for one who’d been snooping on him and going through his papers, she was remarkably unapologetic.
“It is an assignment with the Home Office,” he clarified, reaching for his paperwork.
Poppy wetted her lips and then reluctantly held it out. “You are…taking on work with the Home Office, then?” she repeated, in a second echo.
“I… It was something I’d pursued prior to your offer.”
She flinched.
Bloody hell. He’d not feel bad. Even as he told himself that, his chest squeezed. “Our pact, that is. Before we’d agreed to the pact.”
Lords of Honor-The Collection Page 116