He needed no such adornments; they would only have detracted from his raw appeal. In comparison, Poppy felt like a drab little mouse.
If the rumors that Victoria had espoused were true and he had been thrown over by Lady Elaine, the woman was twelve kinds of a fool. What woman would refuse a man like that?
She only hoped he had not left the ballroom while she and Victoria had been otherwise engaged. Without knowing his direction, it could take forever to locate him.
Victoria donned her freshly-mended slipper, flexing her foot in it to test the strength of the ribbon. “Perfect,” she sighed. “I shan’t have to sit with the chaperones after all. I don’t know how you can bear it, Poppy. It’s so boring.”
Poppy ground her teeth together and reminded herself that Victoria hadn’t meant anything by it. She simply did not understand that it had not been Poppy’s choice to do so. The days when she might have found a place for herself in society, when she might have gone sailing across the dance floor in the arms of some gentleman or other had long since passed her by. She should have come out eight years ago, but Papa had not been willing to spend funds on her that could be wagered at the racetrack.
So Poppy had watched the years roll past her, watched her own chance for love and a family of her own slip through her fingers, watched her opportunities wither and die. She had accepted Papa’s tactless justifications that she had been a gangly, awkward thing, plain and quiet, and she probably couldn’t have hoped for much on the marriage mart anyway, and certainly not well enough to recoup his investment. She had learned to let his criticism, well-intentioned though it may have been, fall away from her like water rolling off a duck’s back, and she had surrendered whatever girlish hopes she might once have entertained.
It was enough that she could give Victoria and Isobel the chance that she had never had. It was enough to have her writing, to have found a purpose beyond marriage and children. In writing it was safe enough to dream. Everything turned out exactly as she wanted it, and she was never disappointed. In her stories, there was hope.
“Poppy,” Victoria pressed. “May we return now?”
“Of course,” Poppy said, shaking away the shackles of the past at last. “Of course, dearest."
∞∞∞
Drat. She had lost him after all.
Poppy scanned the ballroom from her position at the back of the room, reluctant to return to the row of chairs reserved for chaperones, searching for any hint of icy blond hair. It was just her luck that he’d escaped while she had been otherwise occupied with Victoria. And the Addington’s residence was so much larger than the last one she’d encountered him in—running him to ground would be no small amount of effort.
But Victoria had rejoined the other dancers and she doubted that Lady Winifred had even noticed that Poppy had not returned with her. Just occasionally it was a bit of a boon to be so unnoticeable.
Again a tiny prick of shame seared her conscience as she considered backing from the room and going in search of scandal once again. But her fingers traced the outline of the notebook hidden away in her pocket, and they itched to jot down something new, something titillating and exciting—things that no well-bred lady was supposed to know of.
She imagined that there remained a whole host of unspeakable things that she could learn from Lord Westwood and his paramours. If only she could recapture just an ounce of that creative zeal—
No one would notice her missing. And so long as she was very careful and quiet, Lord Westwood would never know that she’d trespassed where she ought not and collected her inspiration from his wickedness.
Provided she could even find the man.
Setting her shoulders, she turned away from the ballroom and headed for the unlit corridor opposite the one containing the ladies’ retiring room. Just once more—it would tide her over for weeks at least, give her a chance to rediscover her own inspiration and dredge up enough enthusiasm to make it through the rest of her book. She didn’t intend to spy upon him forever.
She hoped.
The hallway was silent, dark—she passed room after room, the doors tightly shut to ward off trespassers. There wasn’t even the slightest sound that might betray the presence of another wanderer, of a clandestine meeting. But at the end of the hall, a door stood open, revealed by the faint glow of moonlight pouring through it.
Her heart tripped in her chest as she approached, listening intently for any sound within. Nothing rose to her ears, and so she peeked around the doorframe, scanning the room. But for the slice of moonlight cutting across the floor from the large window on the opposite wall, she could see little. It appeared to be a library. The walls were lined in shelves, and a few sticks of furniture were clustered about, though she could not make them out well enough in the darkness to determine anything more than vague shapes.
Summoning her courage, she stepped into the room and hugged the wall, relying on the clinging shadows to keep her hidden.
She made it no more than three steps before something moved in the darkness, and a hand shot out, clamping over her mouth to stifle the cry that rose in her throat.
Chapter Six
“For God’s sake, woman, have you gone mad?” David hissed, looping his free arm about the woman’s waist and dragging her back against him, trapping her arms at her sides. The muffled sound she’d made vibrated against his palm, and he thanked God he’d had the foresight to smother it, else she would no doubt have brought the whole assembly crashing in.
He wasn’t precisely certain what he had intended, what bit of devilment had taken hold of him to lurk in the abandoned library, waiting to see if the woman—Miss Poppy Fairchild, according to Jilly—would come. But he’d noticed her taking off to the retiring room with a tiny blond slip of a thing that had to be one of the sisters that Jilly had spoken of, and he’d wanted to ascertain for himself the truth of it.
And sure enough he’d watched her hesitate at the boundary of the ballroom, scanning the crowd—and perhaps it was rather vain of him to assume so, but he was certain she’d been looking for him. He would have let it pass if she had simply reclaimed her seat with the other chaperones, if she had kept her eyes to herself. But instead she had wandered down the hallway as if to seek him out.
He would never have expected it of her. But then, he supposed even the meekest demeanor might disguise a bold spirit. And he had always been rather fond of bold women.
But if she were willing to toss away her morals in the pursuit of pleasure, then he supposed he might as well oblige her. The body that squirmed against his was surprisingly well-formed for all that it was most unflatteringly garbed, and the shadows would blunt the severity of her features. All women were more or less the same in the dark.
Her foot stamped down upon his toes. Hard. David swore beneath his breath. One would think a woman seeking out an assignation wouldn’t be quite so twitchy. He tightened his arm about her waist, momentarily surprised by the lush bottom that pressed against his groin. Even her cheeks were soft and smooth beneath the hand he had clamped over her mouth.
“Be still,” he hissed in her ear, somewhat gratified that he didn’t have to risk a crick in his neck in bending to reach it. “I’ll release you when I can be certain you won’t call down the whole bloody ballroom by screaming.”
She froze so swiftly and completely that it was almost insulting. In the silence he could hear her breaths puffing out through her nose, rife with nervous agitation. Tension strung her tight and stiff, and if she had stopped struggling, she had certainly not stopped fretting.
He was beginning to wonder if he might’ve mistaken her interest. Surely a woman who had intended on a bit of naughtiness would have—
A sharp flash of pain shocked him into releasing her. The wench had bitten him! Actually bitten him, like an ill-mannered pet!
She skittered in her haste to flee the dark room, stumbling over the hem of her own heavy skirts and he caught her wrist, dragging her backward. “Not so fast, Miss Fai
rchild,” he ground out. “I think I’m due an explanation.”
“Unhand me, you—you—” Either she was at a loss for words, or she simply didn’t know any foul enough. Finally she settled on, “You seducer of women!”
The absurdity of the comment drew him up short. The laugh caught him by surprise, dredged up from some long-absent wellspring of humor he hadn’t known he’d still possessed.
“That’s the best you can manage?” he heard himself say. She tried twisting her wrist free, but it was an exercise in futility. He had caught her, and she would stay right where she was until he deigned to release her. Possibly unless she elected to bite him again—which, by the set of her chin revealed by the moonlight, he could not entirely rule out.
“Forgive me,” she said, acidly, “for not having a mind that runs to the profane!”
Good lord, but she was an astringent thing—from her overly starched gown to her cheeks which had hollowed in fury, to the dark eyes that had narrowed to slits. If he had not felt her pressed up against him he would have assumed that the rest of her hidden beneath that gown would have been just as unpleasant; all edges and angles, jabbing elbows and bony shoulders.
He had imagined that an obvious spinster such as herself would have been thankful for any attention at all that she might have received. Clearly she had not taken when she had had her Seasons, and women so overlooked tended to be pitifully grateful masculine interest.
This woman speared him with a damning gaze, as if he were little more than an insect to be crushed beneath her foot.
He opened his mouth to ask her why she had been watching him, for what purpose she had gone wandering the house if not to conduct an affaire, but all that emerged was, “How did a woman like you end up with so frivolous a name as Poppy?”
Her mouth opened, the severity of her face relieved for an instant while she floundered for an appropriate response. She was not classically beautiful, he thought. She didn’t have the round-cheeked, pink and white perfection that was so highly prized among women. Her hair was a nondescript dark brown, and she had made no concessions to style with it. She was too tall to affect that delicate, fragile air that most young ladies cultivated, standing at least a head above them.
He wouldn’t have to bend his head to kiss her.
The thought surprised him, rattling around in his brain like a set of loose marbles. Who would want to kiss such a truculent woman? She’d likely bite him, the feral little she-demon.
“I can’t imagine,” she said tartly, “how my name is any of your concern. We have not been introduced, my lord. I beg you to release me.” Her imperious tone belied her words.
“No,” he said. “I don’t think I will.” Somehow it was satisfying to needle her, to watch her face change as audacity gave way to anger. Her expressive brows, dark and arched, furrowed with fury. Her lips pinched in acerbic defiance, the tiny movement emphasizing the cut of her cheekbones. She might not be precisely pretty, but her face was compelling in a way that surpassed every other mild and meek young lady of his acquaintance. She couldn’t keep her emotions from tripping across it, it seemed, and it was rather fascinating to watch.
“You were watching me,” he said, watching a flush climb up her face.
“I wasn’t!” Her voice broke high on the words. It was a wonder to him that she’d attempted lying at all. She was horrible at it.
“You were,” he insisted. “And then you came in search of me. I saw you searching the ballroom. You were looking for me—and when you realized I had left, you came looking.” He felt her pulse leap beneath his fingers, felt a tremor slide through her.
“Are you so vain that you would assume that I was looking for you rather than simply seeking privacy?” The acidic scorn in her voice was very nearly convincing.
“I don’t know that I’d call it vanity,” he said. “I mean to say, it might indeed be vain, were it not the truth.”
She lifted her chin and retorted sharply, “You do have a high opinion of yourself, my lord.”
Not particularly. David knew himself for what he was and what he was not. He cut a dashing figure, but could not assign himself any particular qualities that he would admire in another man. He drank to excess more often than he would’ve liked to admit even to himself. He’d been a middling student, and he’d never bothered to take up his seat in the House of Lords. He lived a life of relative indolence and did little that would have shown himself as a man of any particular moral rectitude or strong convictions. If he were being honest, he would have said that he thought of himself as little as possible, because it was uncomfortable to do so. To spend any amount of time in self-reflection would be to admit to himself that he had lived a rather feckless and unimportant life.
He still held her wrist in a firm grip, but she’d ceased to yank at it. Instead she relied upon her disdainful glare and upturned chin to put him back in his place. He had to admit, it was well done, practiced and firm, designed to evoke shame—and had he been another man, it was entirely likely that he would have backed off in the face of it.
If she had known him at all—which surely she did not—she would have known better than to attempt it. He had no shame to exploit, and he reveled in behaving badly. Her set-downs might work well enough on her sisters that doubtless wanted her approval, but they would not work on him. He didn’t particularly care whether she approved of him or not, except…it was so enjoyable to provoke her into that flare of temper that gave her that pursed-lipped governess appearance.
He was going to give the prim little spinster the thrill of her life.
She made an odd, strangled sound as he came closer, and skittered backward until her back touched the bookshelf and there was nowhere left to flee. She could have screamed after that first initial fright he’d given her, but he supposed she must know as well as he did that any scandal that touched her would also taint her sisters, ruining their prospects to make good matches.
She swallowed audibly as he crowded her back, releasing her wrist to pin her in against the bookshelf. Uncertainty shook the stern severity from her face, confusion flitting across in its wake. Her hands came up to ward him off, but hesitated shy of actually touching him. Still she tipped her chin up to him, trying for a more stern expression.
“My lord,” she hissed. “I’ll thank you to—”
He smothered the words with his lips. It wasn’t that he had wanted to kiss her. It was that she was a challenge, and she’d baited him into accepting it, even if she didn’t realize it.
She made a sound like a startled mouse and froze completely, her lips still pursed into that disapproving frown. Still she did not touch him, even to shove him away, but there was a strange scrabbling sound—she had slapped her hands back against the bookshelf, her fingernails raking over the spines of the books housed there.
No one had ever kissed her before, that much was obvious. She had no idea what she was meant to do or how she was meant to react. She kept her lips tightly sealed and made no effort to angle her head to better accommodate him. But neither had she pushed him away or turned her head to free herself. She simply stood there, still and silent and bewildered.
Damn. It was like kissing a bloody statue. He cracked one eye open and was surprised to find her watching him, her eyes wide and shocked.
Withdrawing a scant distance, he ordered, “Close your eyes.”
She drew in a gasping breath, as if her lungs had been starved of air. “Wh-what?” she whispered, blinking in stupefaction.
With one hand he cupped her throat, nudging her chin up with his thumb. “Close your eyes,” he repeated.
For a moment she stared at him, and he felt the frantic pounding of her pulse beneath his fingers. He had expected her to launch a furious protest, to slap him or to shove him away, but she didn’t. Instead she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, as if bracing herself.
David wasn’t certain whether he ought to be offended or amused. He stroked his thumb across her jaw and over her cheek, sur
prised by the dewy softness of her skin. Some ladies wore powder and rouge, cosmetics that, while often flattering, tended to give the skin a gritty, dry feel. Poppy Fairchild wore no such cosmetics, and she had a lovely complexion. It was smooth and unblemished, without the unhealthy pallor so prized amongst London ladies. When he slid his hand around the back of her neck, her head remained as he’d angled it. Her hair was cool and sleek beneath his fingers. It might even have been soft, had it not been bound up and pinned so securely. Still, it hadn’t the brittleness that was endemic amongst the ladies of his acquaintance, a natural consequence of the liberal application of curling tongs. There was no crackling fragility in the strands, and he was struck with the oddest temptation to pluck out her pins and sink his fingers into it.
Though he could hear the shuddering unsteadiness of each breath she drew, her face had relaxed somewhat. Her eyes were no longer squeezed shut, her face had lost its scrunched expression. Though her brows were still drawn, her lashes fanned her cheeks, long and inky.
“That’s it,” he said, and he bent once more. Relieved of the pinch-mouthed expression, her lips were softer than he would have believed, the lower one full and lush. Still she did not understand that she was meant to respond, and he didn’t fool himself that she had given over to passion. Rather he had the sense that she was observing, even with her eyes closed—as if her mind were tripping through its paces, collecting each moment for study and examination.
His Reluctant Lady Page 4