“Relax, Poppy. You’re doing fine.” This was accompanied by a little stroke that she assumed was meant to be soothing, but set fire to her senses instead. She was aware of her own rigidity, that her back did not touch her chair. She fancied she could feel the heat of his hand through the fabric of her gown.
Another course came and went; she abandoned her utensils and didn’t even bother to give the slightest pretext of eating. Still his hand was draped across her leg as he idly worked his way through the food on his own plate as though he had not a care in the world.
Her wine had disappeared, been refilled, and disappeared again. Her throat was parched, and her heart hammered in her chest. The pressure of his fingers on her skin was alarming—the fact that he could sit there silently and not betray himself was even more so.
At last their plates were swept away to be replaced by tiny pastry dishes, each containing a perfect poached pear, swimming in a delicate brandy sauce liberally spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg.
“Eat,” Westwood urged. “Or Jilly will think she’s been a poor hostess.”
“I cannot eat with your hand upon my…my person.” She had intended the words to sound scathing, but they came out a distressed squeak instead, and she cringed to hear it. He laughed beneath his breath, an utterly masculine sound of satisfaction. But he did remove his hand at last, and she dutifully selected the proper utensils and began to shave off wafer-thin slices of the fruit on her plate.
“You were late,” he said as the sliver of pear melted on her tongue. “I thought I might very well have to drag you out after all.”
“Lady Winifred wished to quiz me on social graces before we were allowed to leave,” she said.
“You’re joking.” His head swiveled toward her and on reflex she met his eyes.
“Oh, no. Not at all.” Another glass of wine had disappeared. She’d cautioned Victoria and Isobel both of the perils of overindulging, but it seemed she’d forgotten her own lesson. But at least the wine had evoked a rather pleasant lassitude, soothing her strained muscles. “She thinks I’m hopeless now. Imagine what she would say if she knew that I write Gothic novels.” A gusty sigh. “She abhors them.”
His gaze roamed her face, then drifted at last to her empty wine glass. The corner of his mouth hitched up in a lazy grin. As a servant drifted by with a decanter of wine, Westwood plucked her glass from the table and handed it off. “I think she’s had enough,” he said.
The presumption of the gesture left her furious, a hot splash of color staining her cheeks. “I am not inebriated,” she hissed beneath her breath.
“No,” he agreed. “But you have gone through three glasses of wine in relatively short order. I thought a fourth might be inadvisable.”
He was right, and she knew it, but she didn’t have to like it. As the dessert plates were at last removed, she slipped her hands beneath the table and drew on her gloves once again, in jerky, unsettled movements.
“The ladies will depart shortly for the green salon,” he said. “Of course, you will accompany them. In half an hour, I shall await you in the library. It’s three doors down from the green salon, on the left.”
She sucked in a breath, struck with an odd sense of foreboding. Though she had come for expressly this purpose, to retrieve her notebook from him, her nerve had deserted her. What if he kissed her again?
What if he didn’t kiss her again?
It was just that the wine had gone to her head, surely, for she couldn’t decide in that moment which possibility would be worse.
Chapter Eighteen
The clock on the mantel ticked down the minutes, and David watched the hands stutter through their paces with a queer sense of anticipation. He had removed his gloves and his coat already, and stretched out on couch, positioned so he could see the door. At any moment, Poppy would stroll through it. At least, he hoped she would. She had left the dinner table with a queer expression of indecision.
He debated pouring a glass of brandy for her, but ultimately decided against it. Though the three glasses of wine she’d run through at dinner had doubtless relaxed her, he didn’t care to test her constitution against a fourth drink. He couldn’t recall having seen her take anything but a small glass of champagne, and wondered if she was even aware of how much she had imbibed already. It had been a nervous response, not a conscious one—she had stood out like a sore thumb already in her grey gown that buttoned clear up to her throat, and she had feared drawing attention to herself yet further by revealing her ink-stained fingertips.
She’d done a passable job of scrubbing them clean. None but the most eagle-eyed of guests would have noticed the grey splotches upon them, but her efforts with soap and water had also rendered them red and dry.
It hadn’t taken much consideration to determine what had disturbed her as she had twisted her hands in her lap after removing her gloves, but he believed he’d still shocked her with his observation. Still she’d picked at her supper, her discomfiture obvious.
No more so than when he’d placed his hand on her thigh. In truth, he had sought to comfort her initially, but she’d made such a satisfying response—that shaky indrawn breath, followed by the rigid set of her shoulders. Probably she had been embarrassed, wary of giving the slightest hint to anyone else that he’d done something so scandalous. But he wondered if she had any idea that she had also trembled, that her muscles had softened beneath his fingers as if to invite his touch. As much as she had been discomfited, she had also been desirous.
Yes. She could be seduced back into his arms—she would be. Perhaps she would allow him to pluck the pins from her hair this time. Surely it didn’t take a lady’s maid to pin her hair up in that severe style. His fingers itched to bury themselves in those sleek, cool strands…to bury themselves other places. Perhaps he could coax her into touching him, beyond merely gripping his shoulders. Perhaps he should have discarded his shirt as well—
The door creaked open, snaring his attention away from his wholly inappropriate reverie. Poppy slipped into the room in a whisk of crinkly grey skirts, snapping the door shut behind her. And there she stayed, stationed by the door, as if prepared to flee at any moment.
“My notebook,” she said without preamble, her hushed voice barely audible above the crackle of the fire. Her cheeks were flushed, but from the wine or nervousness, he couldn’t tell. Still, he retrieved the little book from the pocket of his coat and held it in his hands, but did not rise from the couch. The message was clear—if she wanted it, she would have to come retrieve it.
She rose to the bait like a prize trout and peeled herself from the wall, setting her shoulders and striding resolutely toward him. She paused just before him, extending her hand, palm up, to receive the notebook. Her free hand was clenched in the skirt of her gown.
He took her hand in his, cramming the notebook back into his pocket. With just the tips of his fingers, he peeled her glove down to her wrist and felt the leap of her pulse. Flustered, she tried to pull her hand back, but only ended up divesting herself of her glove, which he cast over his discarded coat.
She gave a flutter of nervous laughter as he seized her hand once more, feeling the play of delicate bones beneath her soft skin. “My lord—”
“David.” He’d permitted her the use of his given name days ago, given the intimacy of their situation. He had hoped she would use it now, but given the way her fingers jerked in his and her jaw clenched, he supposed it would have been too much to hope for.
“My lord,” she reiterated deliberately. “While I must thank you for your…generous offer of assistance, I must also respectfully decline.” She gave a tug of her arm, but with his fingers now looped firmly around her wrist, she couldn’t hope to free herself with so half-hearted an attempt. She would, of course, be relying upon his honor as a gentleman to release her, as was only proper. But he had never been much of a gentleman.
He reeled her in, inch by inch, until she was close enough that he could lift her hand to his mouth
and place his lips against her palm. “Must you?” he inquired, tracing one of the lines that creased her soft palm with the tip of his tongue, all the way to her wrist.
He heard the hitch of her breathing, felt the flex of her fingers against his cheek. “Must I what?” she inquired, her voice oddly soft and devoid of its former crispness. With just a stroke of his tongue he’d stripped of her reason, cast a sensual spell over her—the determination with which she had confronted him had fled, and she could not even recall the threads of conversation.
He suppressed a triumphant grin and lifted his head. “Respectfully decline,” he said, watching her brows draw together above her dazed eyes. She drew in a shaky breath, and her little pink tongue swiped across her full lower lip.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, yes.” She cleared her throat. “I should be going. I might—I might be missed. If I could have my notebook, please…”
But she made no effort to withdraw her hand, and he trailed his fingertips along the silky skin of her forearm, tracing delicate patterns all the way up to her elbow. A tremulous shudder slid down her spine. It wasn’t fair of him to use this against her—the advantage was all his. She had no defenses against his considerable skill.
“One kiss,” he said against the pulse point at her wrist, feeling the rapid flutter of it beneath his lips. “Just one kiss, Poppy.” It was a lie, and he knew it even as he said it. He’d planned for this, prepared for it—he would take her as far as she would let him.
And when she whispered, “Just one?” in a queer little voice, he knew that he had won. Before she could surface once more, he slipped his arm about her waist and dragged her down across his lap, slanting his lips over hers before she could do more than draw a breath. One kiss turned into several, and she performed a devastating wiggle on his lap, twisting to drape her arms around his neck, seeking stability. He groaned against her lips, steeling himself against the delicious twitch of her bottom as she settled more comfortably, his arms banding about her.
The nails of her right hand prickled on his back. One of these days he was going to get both of her gloves off. She tasted of the red wine she’d been drinking, rich and tart. A sweet, kittenish sound of pleasure emerged from her throat, and David found his hand slipping up her back, once again easing buttons from loops. How he was meant to slip her out of her gown in this position, he didn’t know, but sliding his hand within the heavy material of her gown and feeling the heat of her skin beneath her thin chemise was satisfying enough for the moment—though not as satisfying as baring her skin to the light of the fire would be.
“You said one kiss,” she murmured, though her arms still clutched at him.
“I lied,” he said against the smooth skin of her throat. That clean, soapy fragrance was strongest just at the base of her neck, in the little hollow of her throat, and as he dipped his tongue into the tiny alcove she tipped her head back and sighed.
And froze. And gave a little gasp of distress. Her hands clenched on his shoulders, but not in pleasure.
He lifted his head, following the direction of her stare across the room toward the door. Which was open—and populated by two young ladies, both blond, both green-eyed, wearing identical faces and identical devious grins.
“Oh, no,” Poppy whispered tremulously. “No. Victoria. Isobel. No.”
The one on the right, with just the perfect concoction of innocence and volume, inquired, “Poppy, what are you doing in here?”
And the one on the left uttered the fateful, equally loud, “With Lord Westwood. Alone.”
∞∞∞
The duchess had been kind enough to take Victoria and Isobel home in her own carriage, and for that, at least, Poppy was grateful.
But mostly she was humiliated. It was bad enough that they’d been caught in flagrante delicto by her sisters. But Victoria and Isobel’s thunderous announcement had called the entirety of the household down upon them, and she had known immediately that there would be no recovery from it. This was no genteel indiscretion. It was ruin.
Had she been a woman giving to weeping, she would have sobbed. Instead she had merely cowered from the judgmental stares as well as she was able, considering she couldn’t turn her back on them, or else they’d see that her gown was unbuttoned nearly to her waist.
The duchess had clucked sympathetically and ordered her carriage to be brought round to take the girls home, but the unspoken understanding was that Poppy was not to be included in their number. The duke had taken charge of everything else, pronouncing that the dinner party had concluded and shepherding the shocked and titillated guests toward the door. Westwood was even now pacing the floor of the library, pausing occasionally in his strides to glower at her.
Lady Ravenhurst had remained behind, and to Poppy she offered a glass of brandy and a compassionate smile.
“Turn a bit,” she said kindly. “Someone’s got to do up your buttons.”
Oh, God. She was a weeping sort of woman after all. “Thank you,” she managed through a throat clogged with tears, casting back the brandy to combat the sting of tears with the burn of the liquor. She bowed her head over her empty glass, hoping to obscure her face long enough to wrestle herself back into control once more.
Lady Ravenhurst worked the buttons quickly, smoothing Poppy’s gown back into some semblance of order. When she had finished, she reached for Poppy’s discarded glove and offered it back to her.
The duke returned as she was drawing the glove back on, his face drawn in contemplation. “Well, Westwood. I don’t suppose you’ve anything to say for yourself.”
“She orchestrated this,” Westwood snarled. He shot a furious glare at her, and hissed, “You planned this. You needed witnesses.”
“I didn’t,” Poppy whispered, and the glass trembled in her hand. “I didn’t.” His livid face condemned her, and she couldn’t bear the suspicion in it. Even as much as that suspicion wounded her, she understood it—she’d said herself that no one would believe her even if she had told them. He’d assumed she’d ensured she would be believed.
Lady Ravenhurst patted her shoulder. “He doesn’t truly believe it,” she whispered. “It’s simply easier to cast blame at you than accept it himself.”
“Even if she did—which I hold in no small amount of doubt—you ought to have known better.” The duke gave a deep sigh, dragging his fingers through his tawny hair. “I’m afraid there’s no extricating yourself from this mess, Westwood.”
A mess. What a nasty word for such a situation. A shiver ran down her spine.
Westwood gave an ugly laugh. “You know better than most, Rushton, just how many women have claimed I’ve ruined them over the years. And without a shred of proof! You can hardly expect me to make an offer for every dried up, prune-faced spinster who sets her cap for me.”
Poppy felt the blood leave her face in a rush that left her woozy with shock and shame.
“For God’s sake, Westwood,” the duke snapped, devoid of patience. “There is a distinct difference between rumor and fact—you were caught this time. You know what that means. Dozens of people witnessed it. Miss Fairchild will be a pariah by morning at this rate. She, and her sisters, will be ruined.”
Poppy felt the sharp sting of reality like a knife slipping between her ribs. A shudder shook her, and then another, and finally she was shaking in earnest with the weight of the realization that a few moments in a deserted library had changed the whole course of her life, of her sister’s lives.
That young man who had seemed so besotted with Victoria this evening—he would never come calling. Their cards and flowers and invitations would dry up. Their opportunities for marriage would wither and fade into nonexistence. She had not just ruined herself; she had ruined her family.
Lady Ravenhurst was murmuring some soothing nonsense that Poppy couldn’t distinguish over the roaring of the blood in her ears. Her heart squeezed in her chest, a peculiar sort of pain that throbbed unmercifully. She rose unsteadily to her feet, shaking off L
ady Ravenhurst’s hands.
“Please excuse me.” She choked out the words. “I really must be going. My sisters…”
The duke took a step toward her. “Miss Fairchild,” he said, and his voice was so much softer than Poppy would have expected, so much kinder than she deserved. “Please sit. Jilly will be furious with me if I let you leave before she returns.”
She shook her head. “I can’t—I can’t stay. There’s no reason for me to stay.”
“Damn it, Poppy, sit down,” Westwood thundered, and though she started at the fierce command, she was unmoved by it.
“I have to pack. I have to get the girls packed.” An awkward little laugh bubbled up from inside her. She shook her head, surprised by how quickly the brandy had addled her mind. “Thank you,” she said to the duke. “For your hospitality.”
The duke was not looking at her, but over her shoulder where Westwood lurked, a furious presence at her back. His excoriating glare was for Westwood, not her, and for that alone she could have cried.
Westwood swore, vividly and eloquently. “Keep her here. By any means necessary,” he demanded of the duke. “I’ll be back.” And he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Poppy heaved a sigh of relief, the nausea that had been roiling in her stomach subsiding at once. “Could you please tell me where I might find a hack at this hour?” she inquired of the duke.
“I’m afraid not.” He managed a wry smile. “You’ll have to bear up a little longer, Miss Fairchild. Because unless I miss my guess, Westwood’s gone to do something he’s not done in quite a long while.”
The nausea returned full-force, and the question burst from her lips before she could think better of it. “What is that?”
The duke placed his hands very gently on her shoulders, directing her back toward the couch, and he made a queer sound in his throat, as if he could not quite believe it himself. “The right thing,” he said.
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