Leighton arrived nearly half an hour later, but as David had half-expected to simply be turned away at the door, even that bit of condescension hadn’t overly annoyed him.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Leighton asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
David shrugged. “I wanted to have a conversation,” he said. “And I haven’t come empty-handed.” He reached for the bottle of whisky, poured a healthy measure into a couple of glasses, and handed one of them to Leighton.
“I’ve had better,” Leighton said, after a cautious sip.
“Ah, yes. You’ve got that Scottish estate, don’t you,” David replied, refusing to rise to the deliberate bait. “I imagine I’d have better as well, had I that sort of connection.”
Leighton settled into a chair, holding his glass in his hand and examining the amber liquor with a discerning eye. “Color could be better,” he said. “Really, Westwood. I would have judged you a better connoisseur of spirits than this.” He shook his head in disappointment. “What sort of conversation have you come for, then?” he asked.
David sighed, stretching his legs out. “I’m weary of sniping back and forth at one another. It’s beneath us, and tedious besides. I don’t even know what sparked your antipathy toward me in the first place. If possible, I’d prefer to find some sort of middle ground.”
Leighton dropped his head back and laughed. “Do you know, Westwood, this situation perfectly encapsulates my dislike of you. You simply can’t bear not being liked, can you? Oh, no—not you. Everyone likes you, worthless fribble that you are.” He tossed back a swallow of his whisky.
“You must be joking,” David said, surprised. “I’ve been, as you’ve said, a worthless fribble for years and years. No one admires me.”
“Who said a damn thing about admiration?” Leighton scowled. “People like you, Westwood. They always have. Your vaunted charm, your damned pretty face—you’ve always been a darling of the Ton no matter what scrapes you’ve gotten yourself into. You’ve led a charmed life, you are whole, unbroken—” He broke off abruptly with a snarl, raking his free hand through his hair.
“No,” David said, though he hadn’t a clue as to what Leighton had meant by that bit of nonsense. “Do go on.”
“You’ve never given a single thought to how lucky you have been,” Leighton hissed. “The privileged life you’ve led. You take for granted the people who care for you, the ease with which you navigate life.” He paused before the fireplace and cast his glass into it, the resounding crash breaking the stillness. “I thought being forced into marriage with that dowdy spinster would take you down a peg or two, but somehow you’ve made a little beauty of her.”
“Poppy was always a beauty,” David said. “I didn’t make her anything.”
“You weren’t supposed to win,” Leighton snapped. He cast his hands into the air, a helpless gesture of rage and frustration. “Elaine didn’t even want me,” he admitted. “I asked her why she’d accepted me, and do you know what she said?” A reckless laugh forced itself from his throat. “She said there were no dukes available. She didn’t choose me over you—she settled for me because she couldn’t have a bloody duke this Season, and becoming a duchess when my father finally passes on would be better than nothing.”
David stifled a wince. “Have you considered breaking the engagement?”
“Oh, yes,” Leighton said. “Making myself into a jilt would do wonders for my reputation.”
“Of course it’s your decision,” David said, “but I imagine a pristine reputation would be cold comfort when saddled with a wife who doesn’t want you. Did you even want her?”
Leighton shrugged, his shoulders slumping to a fatigued position, as if he’d spent the whole of his fury. “She’s beautiful,” he said resentfully. “I thought it would be enough to be envied, to have gotten the better of you. I thought she’d be a pleasant enough diversion at least.” He reclaimed his chair, sinking into it with a weary sigh, even if he still carried a shade of bitterness in his eyes.
David had the sense that Leighton had wanted his hatred, that something in Leighton would have been satisfied had David been goaded into an answering anger. By failing to respond to it, he’d taken the wind from Leighton’s sails.
But Poppy’s words had flitted through his head. What purpose is served in repaying unkindness for unkindness? Leighton was an ass, but he, like David, could be better.
“Unfortunately for you,” David said, “by taking Elaine, you did me a service. I think I would have been miserable if I’d married her. And you will, too.” He lifted himself to his feet. “I’d advise against marrying her. She’ll land on her feet if you let her go.”
“I’d find myself shunned if I did,” Leighton said, scrubbing his hand over his face, slumping in his chair as if the weight of the world rested upon his shoulders. And probably, to his mind, it did. He’d spent so long stewed in resentment that he’d gotten himself into an untenable situation, one that would result in a great deal of misery all around. What had happened to the man, that he had taken refuge in lashing out at the world, as if railing against an unjust fate?
David shrugged. “I’ll tell Poppy and Jilly to keep you on their invitation lists,” he said. “And I imagine Lady Ravenhurst would follow suit if requested. There’ll be a bit of a scandal, but not an insurmountable one, I expect.”
Leighton narrowed his eyes, doubt glinting in them like shards of glass. “Why?” he snapped. “Why would you bother with me?”
Because Poppy would approve. Because she made him want to be better than he had been. Because it was such a small thing, but even small things could have far-reaching effects.
David sighed. “We might not be friends, but we don’t need to be enemies.” He held out his hand to Leighton, who stared at it as if it might be a trap of some sort. “For God’s sake, Leighton. Don’t be an ass,” he chided.
After a long moment, at last Leighton reached out and clasped David’s hand. “I still don’t like you,” he said.
“Fair,” David said. “I can’t say I’m terribly fond of you, either.”
“You’ll likely always be a useless sod,” Leighton said. “Don’t think you can erase a decade of dissipation by simply taking up your seat in parliament.” But the words lacked conviction, seeming more an effort born of habit than any true insult.
“I would never.” David grinned. “Besides, whatever bit of cleverness to which I might lay claim is doubtless my wife’s doing. She’s got a great many opinions. You should see about getting yourself one of those, Leighton.”
“An opinion?”
“An opinionated wife,” David corrected.
“Heaven forefend.” Leighton pulled a face of true horror, and David laughed himself all the way out the door.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Something was wrong with Poppy. Or at least something was not quite right. Victoria and Isobel had assured David that Poppy frequently became immersed in her writing, and it was not altogether unusual for her to stay up the whole night—but recently she had done it for the first time since they’d been married.
He’d gone in search of her, of course, when she’d failed to return to her room by two in the morning. He’d found her in the library, slumped over the desk, her head in her hands, surrounded by dozens of discarded papers. She hadn’t heard him approach this time, hadn’t noticed him at all until he’d come up on her left side and touched her shoulder. Then she’d practically jumped out of her chair.
“Don’t you think it’s time to come to bed?” he’d asked.
She’d managed a hesitant, exhausted smile. “In a bit,” she said. “I’ve just got to work this out first. It shouldn’t take long.” But she’d failed to meet his eyes, and when he’d taken his leave of her, she’d resumed her slump, not noticing that he’d scraped up several of the crumpled little balls and crammed them into the pockets of his robe.
And when he’d unfurled them in the privacy of his room, there had been n
othing at all to read of them, as she’d simply scratched her pen through the rejected words until they were all but obliterated. Whatever struggle Poppy’s heroine was currently embroiled in, not even Poppy could figure out how to get her out of it.
He’d seen the hopelessness in the slump of her shoulders, in the dejected sigh she’d heaved, and for a moment she had looked so…lost.
In a bit had turned out to be sometime after dawn. He’d waited for her in her room, but he’d fallen asleep in the interim, only to wake when she’d collapsed in bed at last. He doubted she’d even noticed his presence—she’d simply turned her face into the pillow and curled up in a little ball, as if she would throw herself away like one of her discarded drafts.
The weak strains of first light had peeked through the bed curtains, and she’d looked so small and morose. He’d wanted to comfort her, to ask if there were anything he could do for her—but it had taken only a moment for her to fall asleep, and asleep she had remained for the rest of the day.
And when she had finally awoken, she had retreated to the library once more, unreachable, entirely engrossed in whatever quandary it was that she’d concocted for herself.
∞∞∞
The evening of the twins’ ball arrived along with a fierce cold snap, and David hadn’t seen Poppy all day. In fact he’d seen little enough of her in the past week or so, as she seemed to be always either coming or going, and she kept such late hours that he felt uncomfortably like a nagging wife, impatiently waiting for a neglectful husband to return home.
She hadn’t come to his bed the previous night. In fact, it had struck him rather abruptly that she’d never come to his bed—either he’d gone to hers, or he’d taken her into his room. But he hadn’t truly made the connection until the first night had passed without her in his bed. She had gone to her own bed and just…stayed there on her own. He had thought they’d had an understanding of sorts, but perhaps she had misunderstood their understanding. Or he had. He couldn’t quite be certain, because every time he tried to unravel it in his mind, he grew so frustrated that he felt rather like sulking in the library with a glass of whisky.
But he couldn’t, because Poppy was in there, and she’d no doubt cast balled-up bits of tragedy at his head until he was so stricken with guilt he’d have cast himself before her and begged forgiveness for crimes he hadn’t even committed. And so he was consigned to his study, which had neither fireplace nor sideboard.
Somehow he’d convinced himself that having a wife was going to be a pleasant state of affairs after all. How wrong—and stupid—he’d been.
Victoria careened into the room, her eyes alight with excitement. “David, will you please escort us to Jilly’s? Poppy’s too busy at the moment, and we desperately must begin getting ready.”
He blinked. “Why can you not get ready here?”
“Our dresses will wrinkle in the carriage!” Isobel appeared in the doorway beside Victoria, carrying a traveling bag that no doubt contained every accessory the girl owned, lest she change her mind about what to wear with her gown and not have it immediately to hand. “You wouldn’t want us to look anything but our best at our own ball, would you?” Isobel gave a practiced flutter of her lashes and a glowing smile.
David suppressed a snort. The girls would no doubt lead some poor gentlemen a merry chase sooner or later. He supposed he’d have to reconcile himself to fielding offers and vetting their suitors. It was a situation he’d not expected—he hadn’t even been put in such a position with Jilly, as Rushton hadn’t offered to marry her so much as he’d been obligated to do so. Doubtless Poppy would insist on being included, since she’d all but raised her sisters.
“Please, David?” Victoria employed an affecting pout, and Isobel followed suit, and David heaved a monumental sigh.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll have to send the carriage back for your sister. I’ll send for the carriage—you two go find Vivian and make certain she knows to remind Poppy when it’s time for her to get ready.”
With tiny shrieks of excitement, the girls went scampering away, and just a few minutes later David found himself waiting as the carriage was loaded up with all sorts of feminine fripperies, the twins, their lady’s maid, and finally, though he had to squeeze to fit, himself.
It was an uncomfortable, if brief, ride to Jilly’s residence. He’d somehow acquired Isobel’s traveling bag; it sat on his lap and the various things within it shifted and bounced with each turn of the carriage.
The carriage stopped before Jilly’s house at last, and the butler, Bartleby, opened the door as the girls went scampering toward it. Jilly appeared in the foyer, which was wreathed in an abundance of silky stalks of blue hyacinths, looking frazzled.
“Oh, good,” she said, brushing back a loose coppery curl. “Girls, Bartleby will take you upstairs to begin getting ready.” She peered over David’s shoulder as the girls rushed by on their way up the staircase. “But where is Poppy?” she asked.
“Busy,” he said brusquely, edging his way into the drawing room and away from the foyer, through which footmen carted the contents of his carriage. “I’m worried about her,” he said. It hadn’t been what he’d intended to say, but it had slipped out nonetheless, a niggling, uncomfortable thought that had burrowed in his brain until it could no longer be contained.
“Oh?” Jilly sidled into the room, a little frown etched on her face. “How so?”
“Her book,” he blurted out. “It seems like—it seems to me that lately what she writes mirrors how she feels.”
Jilly’s brows lifted in interest. “You’ve read it, then?”
“No,” he said. “No, just those drafts she tosses everywhere. I’ve got a drawer full of them.” He raked his hand through his hair, helpless to articulate the strange, sinking feeling that settled in his gut whenever he thought of them. “I heard the two of you arguing over her ending,” he said, aware of the dull sound of his voice. “That she meant to end it unhappily.”
Jilly gave a tentative nod, pursing her lips into a flat line. “It’d be the first time,” she said. “Perhaps she’s simply…experimenting with her style.”
It was possible, but he didn’t think so. “It feels like an omen,” he said on a sigh. “I think she’s unhappy. And I haven’t a clue what I ought to do about it. She doesn’t talk to me. Not about that sort of thing.” It had not occurred to him until just lately. They talked of so much else, but never that. It seemed wrong, somehow, though he couldn’t articulate precisely why.
Canting her head to one side, Jilly folded her arms over her chest and regarded him with a keen, speculative stare. “Are you happy?”
He had been. Happier than he’d expected to be as a married man. Somehow, Poppy had become a comfortable addition to his household. Marriage to her hadn’t been the ordeal he’d imagined it to be—he liked having her close by, enjoyed her presence, her conversation, her dry wit and the rousing debates they’d engaged in. He liked slipping into her bed and into her arms, that her curiosity always won out over her inhibitions. He liked that she was brimming over with a wealth of knowledge about the mundane facets of running estates and that she delighted in sharing her knowledge with him.
It was her withdrawal that had sent him reeling. Somehow, somewhere, the lines he’d thought to establish between them had become blurred, or perhaps he’d crossed them himself—but at any rate, his old, comfortable solitude fit poorly now. Somewhere along the way, his idea of happiness had grown to include her.
“I was,” he said tersely, averting his gaze. “I was.” But what he was now, he didn’t know.
∞∞∞
Poppy hadn’t intended to let so much time slip away from her. She had secluded herself away in the library almost the moment she’d risen, but it seemed as though she’d hardly touched pen to paper before Vivian had intruded upon her to inform her that the time had come to prepare for the ball.
The house had been so quiet. David and the girls had gone on ahead, or so Vi
vian had told her, but without the comforting sounds of the girls flittering about she felt too much alone with her thoughts. Normally it would be a desired state, a perfect opportunity to sift through her plans and sort them into some semblance of order, to organize her plot until the pieces clicked into place and her story could flow from her pen with relative ease. But just lately she felt pulled in too many directions, and reality clashed painfully with fantasy. It had been so much easier to write when her imagination had been unencumbered, when there had been such a clear delineation between what was and what could be.
David had ruined that for her. It wasn’t fair of her to place the blame for it on his shoulders, but sometimes she wished—she wished he’d left her to her quiet little world, where everything had been neatly ordered, and she had known precisely who she had been and what she had wanted. She wished he’d never made her want for more than he could give. She had never considered herself to be a greedy, grasping sort of person, but it seemed that she had become one.
It had been one thing to write happily ever afters when she’d been content with her own company, when she’d never let herself long for one of her own. But now it felt as though she was taunting herself with it, and she knew she would have to shut it out, pack it neatly into a box and hide it away. She knew she had to face her own reality, to accept what was and what was not and could never be. She could be content. It was more than she’d expected from marriage, really.
Less than she wanted, perhaps, but that was only her own foolishness.
As she climbed into the carriage at last, she flicked the curtains back from the windows, peering out into the night. In the distance the clouds slid across the darkened sky, and in a rare pocket of clear night, a bright light streaked across the inky blackness, hot and brilliant and gone in the space of a heartbeat.
She turned her face away. There was no such thing as a wishing star, after all.
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