This time, as she left, he let her go.
And staring after her, long after the quiet echo of her footfalls had faded, he’d never felt more miserable.
Chapter 18
When she’d been a girl of fifteen, Poppy had secretly dreamed of a life as Poppy Poplar, the Countess of Maxwell.
Of course, it hadn’t been the title which had mattered to her. It had been him: the charming gentleman with a love of dogs and an appreciation for horses.
As such, married a fortnight now, one might say Poppy had everything she’d dreamed of.
Except she didn’t.
In the two weeks since they’d been wed, they’d been precisely as they’d been: teasing friends. Albeit teasing friends who made love to one another each evening. But during the day, they lived their own separate lives.
Which was fine.
Which was what she had essentially agreed to.
So why was she so bloody miserable?
On the heel of that was the rush of an answer: it wasn’t enough. Selfishly, she wanted more. Nay, she wanted more with him.
Adding another stroke to the mural Penelope had commissioned for her daughter’s nursery, Poppy stole another glance out of the corner of her eye at her elder sister and husband, the blissfully happy couple, crawling on all fours, chasing the squealing little girl around the room.
And there proved to be something inherently bad and wicked in Poppy, for she was awash with an envy that crippled her from making so much as another stroke.
That was what a marriage was.
Mayhap not to Polite Society and mayhap not for the world on a whole, but that relationship was all the Tidemores had ever witnessed or had for themselves. Until Poppy. Oh, she’d been the one to reassure Jonathan with the reminder that ultimately all the Tidemore women found love…even in the unlikeliest and formal matches they’d entered into.
But after fourteen days as Lady Poppy Poplar, the Baroness Bolingbroke, she conceded one very distinct difference that she’d failed to note…until now—Poppy had known her husband for more than six years. First as a girl on the cusp of womanhood, and then as a young woman, and now, simply, a woman. They were not strangers to one another. And as such there was affection, but what had never blossomed between them—was love.
“Da-Da,” Paisley cried happily, and toddled away from the growling Ryker Black.
Her niece ran into Poppy’s skirts, knocking Poppy slightly off-balance.
“Havn,” the little girl happily crowed the safe word.
Breathless from the game of chase, Penelope fell back on her heels. “Aunt Poppy cannot be your haven. Aunt Poppy is painting.”
Abandoning what had become a futile attempt at her work, Poppy set aside her brush, and scooped up her niece. “Don’t you listen to your silly mum,” she assured in sing-song tones. “Aunt Poppy always has time.” She blew on the ticklish spot at the back of the little girl’s neck until great big giggles spilled from her lips. Taking mercy, she dropped a kiss atop Paisley’s black curls, and then set her on her feet. “Run,” she whispered.
With another loud squeal, the girl went toddling off.
Poppy watched on wistfully as parents and child played, feeling like an interloper on that special family time they shared.
And that was what Poppy was missing in her own life: time that she and Tristan shared. Oh, they made love every night, but during the day, Poppy worked on the redesign of her sister’s hotel, and in the early evening she returned and put the same efforts into her new residence. All the while, he remained either shut away in his offices or…elsewhere… “Sorting out his affairs”, as he’d come to say.
His affairs.
Not theirs.
As though they were separate still.
But then, wasn’t that precisely what they were? She made an angry swipe of her brush.
“Are you all right?”
Poppy started.
Concern filled her elder sister’s eyes.
“I’m fine,” she assured, making another stroke on the menagerie she painted on her niece’s wall.
Penelope gave Ryker a look, and just like that, with no words, and some unspoken communication only they two understood, he scooped Paisley into his arms, and left the Tidemore sisters alone.
“You shouldn’t be here,” her sister said without preamble.
Poppy set her jaw. “You asked that I see to the redesign of your hotel. Where else should I be?”
“At home, Poppy,” she said softly, resting an elbow against the wall. “Making your goodbyes…which is what a wife would do.”
“A wife,” she spat. She wasn’t a wife. Not in the ways that mattered. Such, however, had not been the way of her new marriage. Collecting Penelope’s arm, she moved her away from the fresh paint.
“You will regret not going,” her sister persisted.
She shrugged. “He chose to leave.” He’d chosen his commission and his honor over a future with her. And in fairness, she could not resent him for that decision. He’d only ever been honest in what he was able to offer, and she’d not asked him for more. In that, she’d lied…to the both of them—Tristan and herself. Nay, she’d not resent the future he craved. She would only ever regret that she hadn’t been enough for him. But because of that, she could not go and simply blow a kiss to his departing carriage.
His departing carriage.
Oh, God. Her shoulders slumped. She could not take this.
Penelope slipped the brush from Poppy’s loose grip. “Would you care to know what I suspect?”
“No,” she whispered. She wanted to work on her mural and pretend this day was any other day of painting in her sister’s hotel.
Why do you paint…?
Which had always been enough. Until Tristan had made her question why she painted and she was still left these fourteen days later trying to determine an answer to that.
“That you are hiding away here during the day because you didn’t quite think out this thing with Tristan.”
Drawing in a shuddery breath, Poppy sank to the floor, and drew her knees close.
“I know what this is like. Precisely.” Doing a sweep of the nursery, Penelope grabbed the child’s rocker, and perched herself in front of Poppy, forcing her sister to meet her eyes.
“It is not the same.” Poppy bit the inside of her cheek. Even though they were both sisters who’d married for convenience, it wasn’t at all the same: Penelope’s marriage was now filled with love…and a babe. And Poppy had a husband who didn’t even know how to share his worries with her. “We fought about his leaving.” By God, it wasn’t your place to go through my things, Poppy… “On our wedding night, no less. A rather ignominious start, no?”
“And you’ve not talked since?”
“Oh, no…we…have. Well, mayhap not talking-talking, per se. But uh…some talk and then, other things…” she finished lamely. Her cheeks pinkened.
Understanding filled Penelope’s eyes. “Ahh.” She dusted a hand over her mouth, ineffectually hiding a smile.
“What was your argument about?”
Poppy recalled that disastrous night. The panic in his eyes. And desperation. And worse, the anger. “I went through his things and learned of the commission.” But his outrage had seemed to come more from what she’d discovered. Tristan, in all his honor and pride, had chafed at her knowing the exact state he found himself in. “I implored him to stay. I offered him my dowry.”
Penelope winced. “Husbands tend to not like that. In fairness, neither men nor women would.”
Poppy picked her head up. “Do you know something of it?”
“Of course. I uncovered secrets my husband didn’t wish for me to know.”
And in the end, despite that, her sister and Ryker had worked through that. Poppy lay her cheek along her skirts.
“You have always been one to take charge of your circumstances, Poppy. Why should this moment be any different?”
Penelope’s marriage had been one of convenience, too,
but her husband had also been there for them to try and build a future…which they had. Poppy and Tristan? They couldn’t very well have anything if they were worlds apart. She toyed with her apron pocket. “He’s gone,” she whispered. “There is nothing to take charge of,” she said, borrowing her sister’s phrase. There could be no “taking” when there was “nothing”.
“No,” Penelope concurred. “He’s not gone. He’s leaving.” She glanced pointedly at the long-case clock. “Unless he’s left early. Then, he’s already gone. In which case, all I know is that if it were my husband, regardless of the details of how we came to be married, I’d want to say goodbye.”
Tears pricked Poppy’s lashes, and she blinked them back. “I can’t.”
“We have no promise for the future. Will you be all right living the rest of your life having sent Tristan on his way without even a parting?”
A single tear slid down her cheek, and she swiped angrily at the moisture. “I-I managed to c-convince myself that it w-was not r-really happening. Th-that he wasn’t leaving.”
“He is leaving, Poppy,” Penelope spoke the words aloud, saying them when Poppy had prevented herself from doing so.
“I-I know.” Poppy found the clock.
Forty minutes. He was to leave in forty minutes and then she’d not see him again.
An agonizing pressure squeezed at her chest. Of course she needed to say goodbye to him. She’d never forgive herself if he left without at least a goodbye.
Poppy struggled to her feet. “I have to go,” she rasped, and set off running.
“I know,” Penelope called after her. “The carriage has been sitting out front all morn.”
Of course her sister would have had the foresight to prepare that. Shouting her thanks, Poppy continued sprinting through the hotel, and didn’t break stride until the front doors of the lobby were thrown open by the pair of butlers there.
Tripping at the top step, Poppy grabbed the rail and kept herself upright, before rushing on to the carriage. “M-my home,” she rasped. “Quickly, please.”
A moment later the door was shut behind her. The carriage dipped as the driver climbed atop his perch, and then they were moving through the streets of London—the crowded streets.
Restless, Poppy whipped the gold velvet curtain back and stared out at the clogged streets. “Hurry,” she whispered.
Only, the conveyance moved with an infernal, agonizing slowness.
Tristan was leaving.
In fact, he should have left ten, nearly eleven, minutes ago. The carriage was readied. His trunks and military satchel had all long been loaded.
And yet, Tristan hadn’t been able to bring himself to go.
Not yet. Soon, he would.
Shortly.
He paced the marble foyer, no longer dusty, and the white stone shining since the touch left by Poppy.
She’d not come. Of course, that fact shouldn’t have come as any form of surprise. Poppy had only ever been honest; and in a world where nearly all the women he’d had dealings with—his own mother, included—prevaricated or lied, Tristan had never ceased to be refreshed and in awe of her candor.
She’d disapproved of his leaving, and as a result, had insisted that she’d not give him that goodbye he’d sought.
Though in fairness, did she disapprove of his leaving…or his reasons for doing so…?
He ignored that jeering voice.
For ultimately, it didn’t matter. He’d been unable to make her see reason, that this commission, to restore the Poplar name was now no longer just about him. That it was, as much for her and their someday babes.
A babe she might even now be carrying.
He briefly closed his eyes, that intangible imagining so very real he could almost touch it. And if there was a son or daughter, they’d be sullied by the legacy of crimes and sin left by their late grandfather.
At least when he departed, Tristan would know that the roof had been repaired and the rodent problem handled, leaving the residence habitable for Poppy and any babe that might have been conceived. Both situations addressed through your wife’s funds.
It was all the reminder he needed of why he’d set the course he had.
Tristan abruptly ceased pacing. It was time.
St. Cyr and his wife, Poppy’s sister, hovered at the bottom stair rail, along with Blackthorne and his wife, Lily, and their two children.
The group who’d come to bid him goodbye had been silent, until now. “I’m certain she wanted to be here,” Lady Prudence murmured, the first to speak. “I suspect she must have been…caught up in whatever renovations Penny and Ryker were having her see to today.”
“Of course,” he said automatically, unable to meet the pitying expressions of his friends and their wives. Tristan tugged on his crisp white gloves, a flawless match to the immaculate trousers.
“Can we go play now?” Krisander whispered to his parents.
St. Cyr gave his son a look.
“What?” the boy mumbled.
Tristan had delayed long enough.
The marquess came forward and stuck a hand out.
Tristan clasped his friend’s palm, and shook. “Thank you.”
“That is what friends do.”
Joining them, Blackthorne limped over. Using the head of his cane to balance his weight, he freed his right hand, and shook Tristan’s. “Don’t get killed,” he said flatly, with a command only a duke could manage.
“It is my intention to return.” Tristan glanced between his friends. How similar this moment was to one years earlier, back when they’d been young boys, resplendent in their military apparel. Then, as they’d prepared to head off and face Boney, they’d had stars in their eyes and excitement in their hearts about what was to come.
Only…everything had also changed. Now, Tristan was the only one riding out, while his friends remained behind with wives who loved them and children. There was no longer a thrill. There was no war. It should be the greatest of consolations, a commissioned captainship in the middle of peace time.
And yet…Tristan was hollow inside, gaping from the loss of…something he’d never truly had. But something he’d almost had.
Mindful of Poppy’s sister, and Blackthorne’s wife, who hovered in the background with their children and nursemaids close, Tristan spoke in a hushed tone reserved for his friends’ ears. “I’d ask if something were to happen to me that you look after Poppy.”
“Of course,” St. Cyr and Blackthorne spoke in unison.
“She would require some guidance in navigating the mess left by my finances. And if you could see that there are no ‘Rochfords’ who’d impugn her honor.”
St. Cyr clasped his shoulder. “You needn’t worry. You’ll return, but even if the worst were to happen, Blackthorne and I, along with every other sibling or in-law that Poppy has, will see she’s cared for.”
And it was a certainty; there was a sea of Tidemores who’d be there in the event she required it. Tristan balled his hands into reflexive fists. For he didn’t want her to fall to others as a responsibility.
He wanted to stay here with her. Because…
His mind shied away from the “because”…
Nothing good could come from analyzing what was or what might have been. Not until he returned, and in that time, his scandal would have faded and his name and honor hopefully restored.
That would have to be enough.
It had to be.
Bringing his shoulders back, Tristan dropped a bow. “Thank you,” he directed that appreciation at his friends who’d come.
St. Cyr’s son Krisander skipped over. “Are you going to fight a war?” he asked, excitement in his eyes. His younger brother joined them.
“What is war?” Charlie piped in.
“I…no,” Tristan said with a forced grin, ignoring the latter question, leaving it for the boy’s father to one day answer. Even so, this leaving Poppy felt far worse than any battle he’d fought.
Krisander’
s shoulders sagged with disappointment. “Oh.”
“I heard that.” Blackthorne’s young daughter, Grace, stomped over. “War isn’t a good thing, Krisander,” the little girl chided.
“I think it sounds like great fun.” The boy held his arms aloft like he wielded a bayonet and bolted down the nearest corridor. Calling to him, Grace followed along. Charlie struggled to keep up with the pair.
“I’ll see to them,” the Duchess of Blackthorne assured, and handing the babe in her arms over to her waiting nursemaid, Her Grace set out after the quarreling children.
Tristan’s sister-in-law came forward with her daughter in her arms. Prudence leaned up and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Be safe.” Emotion filled her eyes. “And please come home to Poppy.”
Unable to squeeze a suitable word out, he glanced down…and his gaze landed on the small girl she held. A babe smiling up at him. An impish Tidemore grin that was so very much his wife’s. It was too much. Tristan forced his gaze away from a glimpse of the future he wanted. “You have my word,” he made himself promise, and then headed for the door.
Florence, also cleaned up since Poppy’s influence on the townhouse, drew the door open. “Yar Lordship,” he said, clicking his heels together.
“Florence.”
Hurrying down the steps, Tristan started for the carriage. With one leg inside the carriage, Tristan paused and did a sweep of the bustling streets.
And then he heard it. “Trissstan!”
So faint, so distant, he might have imagined it.
“Tristan!”
There it was again.
Stepping down, he doffed his hat, and used the article to shield his eyes from the bright afternoon sun.
Then he spied her.
Weaving and racing down the pavement, she might have been confused for a fleet-of-foot pickpocket…if it hadn’t been for the paint-splattered apron and muslin skirts whipping at her ankles.
His heart lifted.
She’d come.
Tristan hurried to meet her, quickening his strides, lengthening them, until he and Poppy skidded to a halt before one another.
Gasping and out of breath, his wife leaned forward and rested her hands on her knees. “Th-there was traffic.”
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