His Reluctant Lady

by Aydra Richards

  With a delicate sniff, Vivienne set to dragging the brush through Poppy’s hair. Her hands were gentler than Poppy would have expected. Also unexpectedly, it felt rather nice to have someone else brush her hair.

  As Vivienne worked the brush through the tangled strands, Poppy felt obliged to reassure the girl, even though she would not be understood. “I shall do my best not to overburden you,” she said. “I’m really rather proficient at doing for myself, you know. I might occasionally need help doing up laces or buttons, but I certainly shan’t require your help in the bath or putting on my underthings. Honestly, I’ve never understood why it is that ladies are encouraged to be so helpless.”

  Vivienne gave another vacuous smile, her green eyes briefly meeting Poppy’s in the mirror.

  “I know lady’s maids are often provided cast-off clothing,” Poppy said. “But I assure you, you won’t want anything of mine—at least you won’t want anything I have now. Everything’s several years out of date. But you’re of a size with my sisters, I think. I could probably convince them to part with a couple of their old gowns. Would that be acceptable, do you think?”

  “Oui, madame,” Vivienne said. In quite the worst attempt at a French accent Poppy had ever heard in her life.

  Surprised, Poppy cast back her head and laughed. “Why, you little fraud!” she said. “You’re no more French than I am!”

  Vivienne—if indeed that was her name, which Poppy heartily suspected it was not—jumped guiltily. “No,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing a furious red. “I’m just from Whitechapel, my lady. But French lady’s maids are in such demand, and I am qualified, I swear on my mum’s life. Oh, please—I do so need this position.”

  Still snickering, Poppy turned to the girl. “Vivienne,” she said, and paused. “Is it Vivienne?”

  “Vivian,” said the girl, dropping an effortlessly correct curtsey. “Vivian Smythe.”

  “I’m not going to sack you, Vivian,” she said. “Really, I’m just relieved that I won’t have to pantomime everything to you in the hopes of making you understand. I’m not so particular about lady’s maids that I’d remove you from your position simply because you were born on the wrong side of the channel.”

  “Oh, thank you, ma’am,” the girl said, with another curtsey. “But his lordship—won’t he be angry when he finds out?”

  Poppy huffed her annoyance. If she had been able to ascertain that Vivian wasn’t French, then certainly David had known at once that the French lady’s maid he’d hired was somewhat less Gallic than she’d claimed to be. And yet he’d hired her anyway.

  “Somehow, I don’t think his lordship will present a problem,” she replied. Still, she felt an odd sort of kinship with the girl. After all, they were both pretending to be something they were not.

  ∞∞∞

  Several hours later, David entered the library to find Poppy had set herself up at a desk before the window overlooking the rear garden. He guessed that she would have preferred to do her writing in her room, where she could be assured of some manner of privacy—but with her new lady’s maid, likely there was little enough of that to be found.

  “Are you finding Vivienne agreeable?” David inquired innocently, catching the balled-up sheet of paper that Poppy cast at him. Even over her shoulder, having judged his position simply by the sound of his voice, she truly had impeccable aim.

  She laid down her pen, shifting in her chair to jab an accusing finger at him. “You knew she wasn’t French!” she said.

  “She said she was,” he replied, tucking the paper ball into his pocket. “And she does speak it, more or less.” He paused in reflection, and amended, “We’ll go with less. Seems as if she knows just enough to mimic…poorly. I wouldn’t take lessons from her, were I you.”

  “But you told me she didn’t speak English!”

  “I most certainly did not,” he replied. “I said I didn’t ask whether or not she did.” He gave a particularly offensive shrug. “It didn’t seem worthwhile to point out that it was clear enough that she was not French.”

  “Hmph,” she said, but she could not quite disguise the smile that clung to the corners of her mouth as she turned back around and picked up her pen once again.

  David caught a chair and dragged it toward her desk, where he sat beside her, watching her pen move smoothly across the page laid out on the desk before her. “I thought you would like her,” he said. “She reminded me of you.”

  Surprised, Poppy’s head jerked up and a drop of ink splattered over the page. She uttered a low curse, fumbling for a handkerchief to soak it up before it ruined the sheets beneath. “Whyever would you think that?” she inquired.

  “She’s determined,” he said. “She’s scraping out a living in the best way she can. I thought she would suit you well, but if you don’t like her, we’ll find you someone else.”

  “No,” she said, and something in her face had softened nearly imperceptibly. “No, I do like her.” She smothered a laugh in her palm, her ink-stained little fingers curving over her cheek. “Will I be a laughingstock, do you think, for having a fake French lady’s maid?”

  “Surely no more so than I will be, when I set foot in parliament for the first time in my life.” He sighed, stretching out his legs and slouching in his chair. “My father was a great statesman,” he said. “I’m certain I won’t begin to measure up.”

  “Oh, David.” She pressed her hand over his own on the arm of the chair. “Your worth isn’t measured by your father’s legacy. Surely you must know that.” She shifted once again in her seat, turning toward him. “You are truly going?”

  He gave a brisk nod. “Though it’s likely I’ll have nothing of value to contribute.” His fingers flexed beneath her own. “I suppose I’ll have to begin keeping abreast of the issues,” he sighed. “I can’t remember when I last read the paper.”

  “I could—” But the words died on her lips nearly immediately, and she shifted uncomfortably.

  “No,” he said. “Tell me. What?”

  “I read the paper,” she said, her gaze sliding away from his as if she were confessing an egregious sin. “I quite enjoy politics, but women aren’t supposed to have such opinions, and they are most certainly discouraged from voicing them in any case.”

  He mulled that over in silence for a moment. “I haven’t even got any opinions of my own,” he admitted. “Suppose you tell me yours, and I’ll consider them. I’ve got to start somewhere, after all.”

  “Really?” The tentative smile graced her face for only an instant before it faded away. “But your colleagues won’t approve,” she said.

  “I don’t give a damn whether or not they approve.” He let his fingers slip between hers, entangling them. “I’d be a fool to refuse assistance from a woman who knows more than I do. You probably will have to write my speeches, you know. I haven’t the skill for it.”

  “So long as I agree with your position,” she reminded him, a crooked grin lifting her mouth. “You’ll be on your own if I don’t. I’m not above letting you fall on your face if we find ourselves at odds politically.” But her fingers squeezed his. “I’ve never written a speech. It could be interesting.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  When Jilly sailed into the library some hours after David had departed, Poppy was deep into a writing fugue. Thus she lashed out in the usual manner when Jilly announced her presence by trilling, “Poppy, how lovely to see you!”

  The balled-up scrap of discarded paper she had absently lobbed over her shoulder struck the duchess clear in the face, and the poor woman gave an indignant squawk. Jilly toed the paper ball that had fallen to the floor with her shoe, then bent to retrieve it, unfurling it in her hands. Her arched brows rose high over wide eyes.

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh. Oh, oh, oh!” For a moment she hopped up and down on her feet like a deranged rabbit. Then she drew in a huge breath and burst out, “It’s you! It’s been you all along!”

  Jarred by the noise, Poppy turned
in her seat and stared blankly. At last her busy brain cleared enough to recognize that it was Jilly standing there in the middle of the library, clutching one of her discarded sheets in her hands. Her face turned hot with embarrassment.

  “I can’t believe I lent you my copies, when all along you’d written them!” Jilly crowed. “You should have said something! Oh, this is glorious!”

  Poppy threw out her hand as if to ward Jilly off. “You can’t—you must promise not to tell anyone!” she said desperately.

  “Oh, but you can’t mean that,” Jilly protested, her lower lip thrust out in an admirable rendition of a pout. “This is the most incredible, the most exciting thing—”

  “No,” said Poppy, firmly. “I’ve already gone up against my publisher on it. I don’t wish for anyone else to know.” She held out her hand expectantly, and with a great sigh, Jilly at last sidled over and laid the sheet of paper in her hands.

  “Does David know?” Jilly inquired, valiantly resisting the urge to peek at the stack of papers that comprised Poppy’s latest draft.

  “Yes,” Poppy said, her voice cast in sulky discontent. It occurred to her quite suddenly that if he had never found out, if she had not been so careless with her notebook, the whole course of her life might not have been changed so drastically. She might even now be tucked away in her own room in her own house, dutifully scratching out her stories, unburdened by a husband and a title she had not wanted. Only now the life she had lost seemed so very small, so confining.

  “And he—he approves?”

  Poppy sighed. “He hasn’t forbidden it,” she said. “Which is not to say that I would heed him even if he did.” She wished she could say he did approve, but at the very least he had accepted her unorthodox career. It was better than an outright rejection of it, but sometimes she wished he might show a little interest in her writing.

  “I’d skewer him if he had,” Jilly said passionately. “I do love your books.”

  It was the first time someone, aside from Mr. Plessing and the girls, had praised her work directly to her. A peculiar little glow bloomed in her chest, and she found herself pushing the stack of papers comprising her latest draft across the desk toward Jilly. “Would—would you like to—”

  “Oh, yes.” With a squeal of delight, Jilly collected the papers and tapped them into a tidy stack. “I can’t believe it. I’ll be the first to know!” She turned in search of chair to settle into while she read, but paused a moment, the papers still clutched in one hand. Her free hand she laid on Poppy’s shoulder. “I’m so proud of you,” she said, squeezing gently.

  Proud. The word did something strange to Poppy’s heart. She gave a curt nod and turned her attention back toward her desk, blinking back the sting of tears, surprised by how much someone else’s pride could so affect her.

  ∞∞∞

  David returned home much later, well after the dinner hour had passed. It had been a rather exhausting day all around, and he hoped that he would find some sort of meal had been held over for him. He hadn’t inquired whether or not Poppy and the girls had had any sort of engagement this evening—but he hadn’t known when he had left for parliament in the early afternoon that he would find himself occupied for quite so long.

  Voices rose to meet him as he entered the foyer. It was not quite an argument, but rather a lively debate of sorts, and after such a long day it came as something of a relief. He followed the sound toward the library, poking his head in to investigate.

  Poppy and Jilly came into view, sitting on the floor of the library before the fire, pages spread out between them on the Aubusson rug. They’d pushed the chairs out of the way, creating a space for themselves.

  “Oh, you can’t mean that,” Jilly was saying, her hands clutching at a page.

  “Of course I can,” Poppy replied. She made grabbing motions with her hands, indicating that Jilly should surrender the page to her.

  “But poor Julia,” Jilly sighed. “She’s so determined, so resourceful—of course she should have a happy ending.”

  Poppy rolled her eyes. “Happy endings are all well and good,” she allowed. “But don’t you think it would be more honest to forgo it?” She snagged the top of the paper and tugged it from Jilly’s hands. “Not everyone gets a happy ending. In fact, most don’t. One could make the argument that it would be out of place in a Gothic novel.”

  A sort of alarm shrilled in David’s head, a trickling feeling of unease and foreboding that skittered down his spine like icy water. The mere thought that Poppy was considering a bad end to her book seemed wrong somehow, an indication of defeat from a woman who had so recently claimed that she could wave away unhappiness with only her pen. Without even the vicarious dreams she gave to her characters, what would Poppy have left of happiness?

  “But she loves the viscount,” Jilly insisted, twisting her hands in her lap as though pleading for a kinder fate for a heroine to whom she had grown attached.

  Poppy cast her head back, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “She can be content on her own,” she said, though the words lacked conviction. “Honestly, Jilly. It’s a Gothic novel, not a fairy story. There’s no magic in the world, no handsome princes on horseback. There’s no such thing as true love’s kiss. There’s only reality, and what we make of it.” She began collecting pages, sorting them back into order. Then, as a sort of conciliatory gesture, she added, “She need not be unhappy.”

  Desperate to interrupt the conversation before Poppy could say anything else to send guilt churning in his gut, David coughed into his fist.

  Two sets of eyes swung toward him, and instantly the women clambered to their feet.

  “Oh,” said Poppy, brushing at her skirts with one hand, the other clenched around a fistful of papers. “You’ve returned. How was your day at parliament?”

  Jilly’s eyes widened. “You’ve been to parliament?” she inquired. “But you swore you would never.”

  David shrugged, feeling the burn of embarrassment creep over him. “I suppose it was time to begin taking on a bit of responsibility,” he said. Flashing a sheepish grin at Poppy, he added, “It was madness. Chaos, in fact. I’d never thought to see so many grown men shouting at one another. Every man’s got an opinion, and every other man is mortally offended by it.”

  A glimmer of amusement came into her eyes. “And did you offend anyone?”

  “Oh, several people, I should say. I fear we may not receive an invitation from Lord and Lady Stanhope anytime soon.”

  Poppy covered her mouth, but her shoulders shook in silent mirth.

  Jilly gasped. “The Stanhopes! Oh, no.” She tossed a fretful look toward the clock on the fireplace mantel and collapsed into a chair with a sigh. “Lady Stanhope was hosting a musicale this evening, and I let it slip my mind entirely. I shall have to extend my apologies.” She shot a petulant glance at Poppy. “You should have reminded me!”

  “Ah,” Poppy said. “I had no idea she was having a musicale this evening. Unfortunately, we were not invited.”

  But they should have been. The invitations would have been sent weeks ago, long before David’s row with Stanhope. He felt his shoulders set in indignation, his jaw tighten with strain. Poppy slanted him a quelling look.

  “It’s quite all right,” she said. “I really haven’t anything acceptable to wear just yet, and you know the girls could never sit still through a musicale.”

  None of that mattered, not really. What mattered was that she had been deliberately slighted by the absence of an invitation, and still she was determined to wave it off as if it were inconsequential.

  Jilly made an offended sound in her throat. “I think, under the circumstances, I shall conveniently forget an apology,” she said. “And they’ll not receive an invitation to Victoria and Isobel’s ball,” she said. “Let them think on that.”

  Poppy’s brows rose. “Victoria and Isobel’s ball?”

  “Oh, no!” Jilly said. “I forgot that, too—it’s why I came. To help
you begin planning for it.” She laughed helplessly, casting her head back against the chair. “But I let myself become distracted by my sister-in-law, the novelist. David, I simply can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

  “It wasn’t my secret to tell,” he replied.

  “But she won’t let me tell anyone!” Jilly threw a pleading glance at Poppy. “Not even Nora?”

  Poppy shook her head severely. “No one.”

  Jilly released a sound of anguish. “Oh, all right,” she muttered, folding her arms over her chest. “I suppose I can live with that, provided you let me be the first one to read each new installment.”

  ∞∞∞

  David had left Poppy and Jilly to their preparations for Victoria and Isobel’s ball, which was slated to take place in a few weeks at Jilly’s residence, since Kittridge House was comparatively small, and Jilly had been determined to make it the social event of the Season, which would necessitate a great deal of space.

  He’d enjoyed a quiet late dinner on his own in the dining room, as the ladies had commandeered the entirety of the library, and though it had been only shortly after ten when he’d at last retired to his room, he found himself pleasantly tired. Still, he’d lain awake, listening for sounds through the connecting door that would indicate that Poppy, too, had retired for the evening.

  It struck him as rather odd that, at the end of the day, he was not looking forward so much to climbing into her bed to coax her into his arms for a rousing bout of lovemaking, but rather to share with her the day he’d had. It wasn’t so much her body that he desired, when the strain of the day had worn on him so heavily, but the approval he knew he would see in her eyes, the interest she would display, the questions she would ask.

  He wanted to tell her about his day, because she would care. She was perhaps the only person who would care. She was the only person who had looked beyond the superficial face he showed the world. She had seen through him in a way that had left him vulnerable and cringing in fear and shame, and instead of turning her gaze away with distaste, she had extended her hand to him.