“I’m sure she will,” Poppy replied. “But the cost—”
“The cost is insignificant,” he said. “I assure you, we could afford to throw a ball such as this every week for the next ten years without feeling the strain.” When she made no response to this statement, he added in a softer tone, “Poppy. You don’t have to economize any longer.”
She knew that. But it felt wrong somehow, to spend of his money so indiscriminately. As if they were taking shameless advantage of his resources. And she had scrimped and saved for so long that it was impossible to simply cease exercising her conscientious habits.
Picking at the serving of blancmange in the tiny bowl before her, she muttered, “Hyacinths, then.”
“Blue ones,” Victoria insisted. “The white ones are just so bland and colorless, and the pink—well, pink is quite juvenile, isn’t it?” She daintily patted her mouth with her napkin.
Poppy thought that a rather interesting assessment, especially considering the vast number of pink—or near enough to it—gowns that Victoria possessed.
In an attempt to steer the conversation away from flowers, Poppy said, “The invitations have all gone out, but I’d like you girls to review the list once more to see if anyone has been left off.”
Isobel made an unpleasant sound, picking at her food uncomfortably. “Cousin Rupert has come into town with his family,” she said. “We don’t have to invite them, do we?”
As Poppy hesitated, torn between the proper thing and the right one, David spoke. “Absolutely not,” he said fiercely. “I see no reason he ought to be included, given his own lack of consideration.”
Somehow, his indignation sparked a warm glow in her chest, a strange kind of pleasure that he could be so incensed on their behalf.
“I think that’s enough for this evening, girls,” David said. “Your sister must be quite overwhelmed already. If you have any other requests, I would suggest you put them on paper for Poppy to consider.”
The girls knew a dismissal when they heard one. Within moments they had removed themselves from their seats and exited the dining room, their heads bent together as they headed for the stairs, already deep in discussion of what they intended to put to paper.
David had stood when they had risen from their seats, and she’d expected him to retake his seat when the girls had departed, but instead he flicked his fingers at the footmen waiting in the wings, casually dismissing them. He moved toward her, the slow, even cadence of his steps evoking a sort of restless tension in her.
“Shall I—shall I fetch the account books?” she asked. And then, “Oh—I think Mrs. Sedgwick had them delivered to the library.”
“Not tonight,” he said. “We’ll go over them. But not tonight.” He paused before her and held out his hand, waiting expectantly for her to take it.
She swallowed. “But I’ve not finished with my blancmange.”
“You don’t even like blancmange,” he chided.
It was true, but it seemed rather presumptuous of him to assume so. Defiantly she tucked her spoon into the pudding and took another bite. The taste was fine, sweet cream with a hint of almond, but the texture was awful. It felt rather like what she assumed swallowing a slug might be like, quivering unpleasantly down her throat.
He chuckled, a low sound of wry amusement. “Poppy. You can come with me of your own volition, or you can be carried. I’ll leave the choice to you.”
Feeling like a recalcitrant child, she muttered, “Or you could simply leave me to finish my dessert in peace.”
“Carried it is, then.” To her surprise, he did not sound displeased—rather he sounded almost gleeful, as if he had nurtured a secret hope that she would prove difficult. He laid his hand on the back of her chair, and in the next moment the whole world tilted. With a shriek of surprise she fell backward with her unbalanced chair and to avoid crashing with it to the floor she reached out for something, anything, to stabilize herself. Which turned out to be his shoulders. Of course.
“You ass,” she gasped as he slid his arms beneath her before she could find her balance, lifting her off of her feet.
“I did give you the opportunity to come along in a dignified manner.” He dropped a kiss onto the top of her head. “You chose to be difficult.”
She tested out a wriggle to see if she might be able to extricate herself, but his arms didn’t so much as budge, and her skirt was caught tight. “Now, David—” But he had already made the stairs, and it seemed like an abysmally poor idea to attempt an escape while on them. “I really would like to go over the account books,” she ventured.
His silky laugh was unnerving, because she’d heard that very same sound a number of times before and it had always accompanied bare skin and soft sheets, and her treacherous body reacted alarmingly to it.
“I’m sure you would,” he said. “And I will be happy to join you in that endeavor another time. Tonight, however—tonight, you will indulge me.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
She had affected that stern-governess mien the instant he’d set her on her feet, of course, just as he had known she would. He’d allowed her—rather generously, he thought—the opportunity to smooth her wrinkled skirts, fist her hands on her hips, and tilt her chin up imperiously as though collecting herself to upbraid him. He suspected that she’d grown adept at administering scathing set-downs.
She opened her mouth, drew in a swift breath, and prepared to launch her first volley.
“Do you think me a liar, Poppy?” he inquired.
Her brows lifted, their elegant arches climbing toward her hairline. “No,” she said slowly, but it drew out into uncertainty, as if she suspected him of luring her into a trap. The rigid set of her spine relaxed as she realized that he had wrested control of the conversation from her.
“Insincere, then—certainly, you must think me insincere.” He picked at an imaginary bit of lint on his sleeve, observing her through half-lowered lids.
“I don’t—I never said—” She stammered through a few more attempts at a denial, and her hands, which had dropped to her sides, curled and uncurled reflexively.
He’d flustered her, and that was good. She’d be more malleable that way, if he could keep her unbalanced. With one hand he caught her shoulder, gently turning her to face the cheval glass against the wall. He positioned himself behind her, close enough that his chest brushed her back, and when she shivered he knew the thin silk of her gown was no barrier at all to the heat of his body.
“What do you see?” he asked, and when her eyes met his in the mirror, he shook his head. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “Look at yourself. What do you see?”
Her gaze flickered lightly—dismissively—over her reflection. He saw her lips thin, her cheeks hollow. “David, this is ridiculous,” she huffed.
“Shall I tell you what I see?” he asked. He curved his fingers over her left shoulder, slipping them just beneath the tight neckline of her bodice, distracting her from the deft maneuvering of her buttons from their loops with his right.
“Well, I don’t know how I could manage to stop you.” The acerbic comment drew a laugh from him, and he pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck and saw the gooseflesh break out upon her skin.
He let his thumb drift across the line of her jaw, tilting her chin. “Firm, determined chin. Some are quite weak, you know—hardly there at all. More neck than chin, really, as if the face is melting downward like bad tallow. But not you. You can see the fortitude in yours, the stubbornness.”
She snorted. “You speak as if they’re admirable traits in a woman.” She jerked her chin away from his fingers, her brows lowering to severe slashes. “David, I don’t see the point in this. I know I’m not pretty. It’s not important.”
“No, it’s not,” he said. “But for you—a novelist, someone accustomed to exploring the possibilities instead of reality, you have a remarkably inflexible image of yourself.” His fingers flirted with the edges of her cap sleeves, slipping them minut
ely toward her arms and off of her shoulders. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “It’s easy to become what is expected of us, to accept someone else’s judgment of who and what we are. Those things collect over time, until we lose all sense of self, until it’s safer simply to allow our opinions of ourselves to be formed by others. If that is the lens through which you view yourself, Poppy, then allow me to challenge it as you’ve done for me.”
Her breath whistled in, short and sharp. “I didn’t—”
“Poppy. Of course you did. You had every opportunity to write me off as another self-serving, apathetic nobleman, and God knows you should have done. But you didn’t.” He slipped his fingers through her hair, locating pins and plucking them free one at a time until her hair tumbled down over her shoulders. “The truth is, I am self-serving and apathetic. But perhaps that’s not all I am. I can be more.”
Her lips pursed, then flattened into a firm line. By the glitter of her eyes he suspected she had wanted to agree with him, but had weighed it against the likelihood of him throwing her own words back at her, to twist into something to serve his own intent.
“No arguments?” he inquired. “Good. Now look.” He cupped her chin in his hand, redirecting her gaze once more. “Straight nose, with just a touch of arrogance to it. You use it to rather devastating effect, you know. It makes people want to obey you. High, elegant cheekbones. Expressive eyes. I’ve told you that before.”
She rolled them, and her shoulders rose and fell with the force of her gusty sigh. “They’re just brown,” she said.
“They’re not. They’ve got little gold flecks in them that move and shift with the light. They shimmer.” He gathered up a fistful of her hair. “Your hair slips through my fingers like silk threads. It’s soft and thick and lustrous. Blond might be flavor of the Season, but this”—he held up the skein of hair, let it slide through his grip in a waterfall of sable—“is timeless.”
“David—”
“No. You’ll give me this,” he said fiercely. “For once, I have the opportunity to teach you, and you’ll be good enough to listen.” His voice was commanding, a newly-acquired skill he’d developed between her tutelage and his time spent in parliament. In reaction, she first stiffened and then relaxed, as if helpless not to obey the authoritative snap in his voice.
He continued speaking to her as he slipped her arms out of her sleeves, as he shoved down her chemise, lowering his voice to a velvet murmur and gratified to see the flare of desire in her eyes. “You have an unmatched eloquence and intellect—if women could sit in parliament, you’d be a force to be reckoned with. Every time I stand in that chamber, it’s your wit and cleverness that accompanies me. You stand beside me in spirit.”
Her breath hitched as her bodice fell to her waist, as his hands slipped beneath the fabric to ease it down over her hips until her gown drifted to the floor. She twitched beneath his scrutiny in the mirror, as if their conflicting opinions—what she saw, what he saw—met uncomfortably, each vying for supremacy.
But she’d taught him how to argue, and this time he would win out.
He scraped his cheek against hers, saw her eyes slide closed. “Watch,” he insisted, nipping her earlobe until her eyes flew open once more, bright, shocked, and more than a little titillated. She listed as his hands coasted over her ribs, easing up her sides to cup her breasts, and he let her fall against him, her head tucked against his shoulder.
“You’re capable in a way that most people can scarcely dream of,” he told her, stroking his fingers over her soft skin as if he could press the words into her, past skin and muscle and bone, until they were indelibly etched inside her. “You’re creative and resourceful. Inquisitive.” He brushed his thumbs over her nipples, gratified with the little hum of delight that escaped her. “You’d work yourself to the bone if it was in service of someone you cared for. You shine, Poppy.” His right hand glided downward, over her belly, flirting with the dark curls at the apex of her thighs until her hips lifted to his hand.
“When you laugh, it’s glorious. You ought to do it more often.”
“I laugh,” she said, almost indignantly, but the instinctive protest faded to silence as his knee edged between her legs, opening her to the slow stroke of his fingers, and she sighed instead, “Oh, David.”
“Not nearly often enough,” he said, brushing a kiss across her cheek. “Put your arms around my neck.”
With a flattering alacrity, she did, and her nails reflexively curled into his coat. His fingers found her slick and wanting, her dewy private flesh inviting. She arched into his caress, her body strung with unrelieved tension, a husky little moan burning his ear. She was so responsive, so primed for release, climbing onto her toes in search of what he held just out of reach.
He pressed himself against her back and rolled his hips to her bottom to let her feel the stark evidence of his own desire. “Watch,” he murmured in her ear. “Watch yourself. I want you to see what I see when you come.”
It took only moments. Just a few shallow pumps of his fingers, a couple of indulgent strokes to that little bud between her thighs, and she shattered with a low, broken sound, her body twisting in an agony of pleasure, her inner muscles clenching on his fingers in a way that made his breath hiss out from between his teeth. Her knees trembled, threatening to give out beneath her. He seized her before they could buckle, carrying her toward his bed.
“I need you,” he rasped, laying her down to yank at the buttons of his breeches. “I need you now.” He climbed over her, unwilling to wait long enough to get any more clothing than strictly necessary out of the way, and she, in her infinite generosity, shifted to accommodate him, her long legs parting to receive him.
He braced himself on one arm, and pulled her right leg over his hip with the other, moving in a solid thrust that carried him so deeply inside her that her back arched on a gasp. He was driving for fulfillment, and she—she was loving it. Every lunge brought a new sound breaking from her throat, an exquisite melody of intemperate passion.
“There’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be than inside you,” he gritted out, feeling her nails dig into his shoulders, the incredible lushness of her around him. He clenched his teeth against his encroaching climax, struggling to slow his frantic pace. “I need you to come with me. I need to feel you holding me inside you.” He brushed an open-mouthed kiss over her lips, and she made a raw, whimpering sound. A sheen of sweat misted his face as she tightened around him, and he surged into her with a fierce growl. “Yes,” he managed. “Good girl. Just like that.” He slid his hand between them and stroked her, and her thighs clamped tight around him. Her head thrashed on the pillow, a wild cry erupting from her throat, and inside she bore down on him, pulling him over with her into paradise.
Clamping his hand over her bottom, he lifted her into the surge of his hips, planting himself as deep as he could get, burying his groan in the soft skin of her throat as he spilled himself inside her. Long moments elapsed as their ragged breathing slowed, as he let himself collapse atop her and the tight grip of her arms softened from clasping to cradling.
He bestirred himself to scrape her damp hair away from her face, to swipe his thumb over her cheek and press a kiss to her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open at last, dazed and warm.
“You’re not pretty, Poppy. You could never be something so insipid as that,” he told her. “Pretty fades. Your kind of beauty lasts forever.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
They had, eventually, gotten round to going over the account books, and David had surprised her with his interest in the task. She doubted he would ever choose to reconcile them himself, but he’d patiently let her explain the workings of them, asked pertinent questions about some of the columns, and listened to her recommendations.
In her cursory examination of the books she’d discovered no particular irregularities—his household was well-managed, and there didn’t seem to be any skimming off the top—but when she suggested that the sta
ff might be due a not-insignificant raise, owing to the fact that there were now three additional people to cater to, with two of them being excitable young girls given to mischief, he’d agreed readily.
It wasn’t that she’d expected him to be a nipcheese about wages—he’d proved already that he was prepared to be generous—but for anyone to acquiesce so readily to her suggestions was still startling.
“Well,” she had said. “I thought I’d have more of an argument on my hands.”
He’d blinked. “Why? You have more experience than I do with such things, certainly. I’d be a fool if I did not defer to your better judgment.” And then he’d leaned back in his chair and added, reflectively, “I don’t suppose you’d care to take a trip to Kittridge Hall when the parliamentary session concludes? I’ve been letting my estate manager handle things like land rents and repairs, but I’d be interested to know what your opinion is.”
And she’d felt—a twinge. Somewhere in the vicinity of her heart. For him. Because he valued her opinions. Because he listened to her as if he were truly interested. Because he could tell her sisters apart, and he hadn’t once grown cross with them, even when they were being particularly disruptive. For a dozen little reasons, and a dozen large ones, she was desperately afraid that she had made the monumental mistake of falling in love with her husband.
∞∞∞
David arrived at the Marquess of Leighton’s residence at half past two on Saturday, carrying a bottle of his favorite whisky and with only the vaguest of ideas of what he was even doing there.
Somehow he had the sense that he’d been manipulated into it, that Poppy, with her boundless intelligence and gentle prodding, had somehow steered him to this position. She had said something about feeling sorry for the man, that he had seemed deeply unhappy. He was certain the idea had not been his, and yet she’d still managed to convince him that it held merit, and so here he’d arrived, and handed over his card to the butler, who had shown him into Leighton’s library.
His Reluctant Lady Page 27