As a maid came silently forward to move her breakfast things, Poppy drifted reluctantly to the table where her brother held court. Richard was still full of the pleasures of newly married life; he was talking happily to his mother, his wife and assembled aunts and cousins with more vigour than he had ever displayed when unattached. Ellen, sitting next to him and delicately drinking coffee, seemed a little more out-of-place… but perhaps that was simply Poppy’s sisterly prejudice. Not to mention a slight touch of jealousy at the fact that Ellen had fitted so seamlessly, so easily, into the fabric of family life.
‘Good morning, dear.’ The Dowager Duchess smiled, accepting her daughter’s kiss with grace. Poppy sat down, smiling woodenly at the assembled company as she waited anxiously for her breakfast. ‘Have you enjoyed the morning?’
For all her worrying about what her mother thought of Maldon’s unusual business interests, not to mention the insecure social standing of Matilda and other wedding guests, Poppy had never seen her look anything less than delighted at gaiety of any kind. ‘Yes, Mother. It has been wonderful.’
‘Good.’ The Dowager Duchess nodded as coffee and rolls were placed in front of Poppy. ‘The do try to look a little happier.’
Did she look unhappy? It had to be her confusion. Poppy let the contented morning conversation around the table wash over her, trying to sift through her chaotic thoughts and find something approaching clarity.
Why had she kissed Grancourt? Because she had wanted to; Poppy knew that there was little sense in lying to herself about that. But… why had she wanted to?
Had she wanted to before? She couldn’t remember ever feeling that precise urge; she had been pushed to tease him, make jokes at his expense, follow him and Maldon as they had run about the house… yes, being around Grancourt had always felt urgent in some way. Necessary, somehow. The moment with the flower bud had been the first time they had been alone together. Alone, at night, with no-one nearby to spy, and poke, and make assumptions.
Poppy, her skin paling a little, wondered if that was why she had kissed him. Because, practically speaking, it was the first time she had ever had the chance.
No wonder the poor man hadn’t appeared this morning. She had been unspeakably embarrassing. Grancourt had never cared about social niceties, but Poppy was grateful that he had allowed her a morning of normality by hiding himself away.
Her coffee tasted bitter as she swallowed it. Thanks to an impulsive moment of pleasure, taken for reasons which were still unclear even to herself, she had probably earned the everlasting displeasure of the one man whose company she found more necessary than any other.
‘Well, Poppy?’ Richard’s voice brought her back to the breakfast table somewhat abruptly. ‘What about Grancourt?’
For a deeply unpleasant moment, Poppy thought her brother had managed to read her thoughts. ‘Excuse me, brother?’
‘Grancourt. He made himself scarce quite early yesterday—he is never the most social of butterflies, but it was a little unlike him just to vanish.’ Maldon bit into a roll, raising an eyebrow as he chewed. ‘He was part of the last game that you were all playing, though, was he not? Did he drink too much?’
‘Oh no. I do not believe I saw him drink anything.’ Ellen delicately buttered her roll, smiling cautiously at Poppy. ‘Do you remember seeing him yesterday evening, Poppy?’
‘Oh, no.’ Poppy took a quick sip of coffee; she saw no malice or calculation in Ellen’s happy gaze, but one couldn’t be too careful. ‘Apart from during the games, of course. But I really cannot remember him at all.’
The morning, apparently aware that wedding celebrations had ended, was considerably colder than those of the previous days. Matilda Weatherbrooke, shivering valiantly on the drive of the Maldon house as she waited for the carriages, thanked her previous self for spending the night packing instead of indulging in merriment.
With Poppy at her side, her ready friendship acting as a barrier to the worst of the stares and comments, Matilda had found the wedding and subsequent celebrations rather enjoyable. It was only now, with the breeze turning a little colder and preparations for packing now thoroughly in motion, that she had begun to sense the bared teeth of the ton. Better that she wait here alone, rather than get caught up in the whirl that was surely about to descend.
Ellen had been deemed acceptable. She spoke well, dressed plainly, and everyone knew that she had been a governess to Lady Abington; it was far easier for them to believe that she had, in fact, been working in the building next door to Maldon’s brothel, rather than working in the pleasure-house as a secretary of sorts. Now that she was the Duchess of Portman, she had enough money to nip any nasty rumours firmly in the blood. Matilda, on the other hand, had never dressed plainly in her life… and even though she spoke well, thanks to a strict convent school on the Continent, she had worked in the pleasure-house for far too long for anyone to mistake her for anything other than what she was, under close enough examination.
Best to leave now, before the others arrived. Matilda didn’t particularly like the idea of standing in a crowd of watching eyes and gossiping tongues, trying to avoid faces that she recognised from her working life. It would only be a matter of time before someone said something unacceptable, or a gentleman tried to take her into a stairwell—and Matilda knew without a doubt that if such a thing occurred, she would be blamed for it.
The stiffening of hairs on the back of her neck let her know that she was being watched. Swallowing, trying to put on her proudest face despite fear plaguing her, Matilda turned.
The man on the steps wasn’t looking at her. Neither was he determinedly ignoring her. He was taking a cigar from his pocket, gently going through the motions of lighting it; Matilda watched his hands move, his every gesture full of a kind of economic grace.
He looked kind. Matilda could read men quickly; it was a talent in a pleasure-house, and a way to survive on a dimly-lit street. She let her eyes travel over the man, his well-cut clothes, the grey hair at his temples, trying to find clues that could damage her original impression, but came up short.
Yes. A kind man, a quiet one; so considerate of others that he chose to smoke outside in the cold breeze. Not young, not flashily handsome, but tall and solid in a way that suggested safety. Matilda knew that she should stop looking at him, given that he didn’t appear to have noticed her… but standing on the drive, the breeze rustling her skirts, she realised that she didn’t want to.
There was no harm in looking at a man, was there? Looking as a woman, and not as a professional. Enjoying the way a man looked, without worrying about if he would pay her or not. She could pretend, just for a moment, that taking pleasure in the look of a man was something she was allowed to do. Something that she, Matilda Weatherbrooke, would not be condemned for.
She had heard his name in the crowded ballroom, she was sure of it. Harding… yes, Maldon had called him Harding. But everyone else had called him Your Grace.
Harding looked up. Matilda looked away quickly, knowing that her cheeks were flaming scarlet.
Well, that had done it. Now he would assume that she was here for a reason; that she had placed herself here in the morning sunshine as bait, hoping to hook a duke. She couldn’t look back at him now—she certainly couldn’t speak to him. It would only make her seem desperate, or calculating; Matilda had been desperate, and could be very calculating indeed, but only when absolutely necessary.
Please do not approach me. Please do not speak to me. She knew that it was considered impolite for gentlemen to be silent when in the same space as a lady—but she was not a lady, and she did not wish to be further embarrassed. If Harding did take it upon himself to speak to her, she would know that her original impressions of him had been completely mistaken.
One minute passed, then two. Matilda was sure she could feel Harding’s eyes on her back, travelling over her; her skin awoke at the thought. He had such kind eyes; would be be looking at her with kindness? With contempt? With something
else entirely?
‘Thank goodness you are here. You are the only possible person who could share my current dilemma.’
Matilda jumped, startled out of her reverie. She looked at James Selby, Duke of Salcotte, as he walked silently through the large gate that led to the kitchen gardens. Placing himself next to Matilda, his hands on his hips, Selby sighed.
‘I am not even going to tell you what the matter is. I am sure you know already.’
Matilda looked at Selby with her usual blend of surprise and appreciation. She had never spent any significant length of time with a gentleman that expressed no carnal interest in her whatsoever—apart from the men who frequented the Lavender Rooms in Maldon’s pleasure-house, but their lack of interest could be expected. Selby, from what she could gather, did not prefer gentlemen to ladies… but when it came to herself, he treated her with such a comradely lack of sexual interest that it was almost startling.
It was deeply strange, being friends with a man. They had spoken at length to one another over the days of celebration, and had discovered a deeply similar mode of both looking at the world and laughing at it. It was clear that the man was mysterious; Matilda, with her enormous knowledge of gentlemen’s habits, wondered why on earth his older friends hadn’t immediately marked him, spy… but then, she was famously discreet when it mattered, and it seemed that Selby knew it.
His friendship, odd as it was, was pleasant. Almost like having an older brother, albeit a sarcastic one. Matilda, looking at Selby’s slyly humorous gaze, knew that he was already thinking along the same lines as she was.
‘So. My sweet young companion, and your horrible bear of a gentleman friend.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Must we suffer this for the rest of our lives, or is there something to be done?’
‘The bear, as you so aptly call him, is more stubborn than anyone I have ever met. Any form of open attack will be strictly rebuffed.’ Selby raised an eyebrow. ‘I think I could get him roaring drunk, tie him up and bruise him soundly with a carpet-beater, and he would still never admit the depth of his passion.’
‘Odd. Your chosen torture methods are requested by certain gentlemen—our discipline mistress commands a very high price for a similar routine.’ Matilda laughed as Selby chuckled. ‘Poppy is slightly less stubborn, but far too scared to admit anything. Even to herself.’ Her tone darkened a little. ‘She is terribly worried about what Maldon would think, I wager.’
Selby showed no reaction at Matilda’s free use of Maldon’s name; he seemed to look at all titles with placid indifference. ‘Maldon is currently more content than he has ever been in his life. If ever there was a time to admit an attraction, it would be now.’
‘It is difficult to admit something that has barely been expressed.’
‘I know.’ Selby sighed, his face briefly clouded with exasperation. ‘All they do is look at one another, and snipe. Sometimes I wonder how the curtains don’t catch fire.’
‘Not entirely true.’ Matilda looked sidelong at Selby, lowering her voice a little as a chattering group of ladies passed. ‘There has been a kiss.’
‘Really?’ For the first time, Matilda saw shock on Selby’s face. ‘Not instigated by my bear. I’ll wager twenty pounds on it.’
‘Alas, you are correct. It was my sweet friend.’ Matilda couldn’t resist a smile. ‘I am terribly proud of her.’
‘Then things are beginning.’ A small smile had appeared on Selby’s face. ‘Perhaps we shall not have to interfere at all.’
‘I suppose.’ Matilda idly trailed a well-shod foot on the polished flagstones. ‘But… well…’
‘Weddings are dreadfully boring.’ Selby smiled wider. ‘Are they not?’
‘Dreadfully.’ Matilda clapped her hands with glee. ‘If you are to prevent me from slipping away in the morning light, then let us be good fairies to our friends, please. I shall be ever so diverted. It may even dull the sting of being stared at.’
‘I have never met a soul that delights in schemes as much as you.’ Selby’s eyes narrowed, Matilda knew that the wheels in his mind were beginning to turn. ‘Now… how can they be given a portion of time alone?’
As Selby began to explain his plan, Matilda let her gaze drift to the steps of the house once more. To her deep disappointment, Harding had disappeared.
The carriages would be ready soon. Grancourt walked brusquely out into the cold, standing stiffly on the steps of Maldon House, the worsening breeze ruffling his hair as he glared at everyone who approached. People were waiting to return to London in happy, companionable groups; Grancourt, whenever he looked as if he were in danger of being swept up in one, retreated further and further into the shadow of a pillar.
He was in no fit condition to speak to anyone. He was in no fit condition to speak at all; he was fairly sure that if he opened his mouth, nothing but a hoarse series of confused sounds would emerge. He was also in no fit condition to think, his thoughts a treacherous, all-consuming whirl… but as he stared from the shadows at Poppy Maldon, standing in the centre of a laughing crowd as she gestured and twirled, he began to draw certain uncomfortable conclusions.
Poppy Maldon had never been irritating. He knew that now. The sentiment that he had so readily described as irritation had been something very different, and much more dangerous. If he were to be honest with himself, brutally honest, he had always felt desire for Poppy Maldon… and now that she had kissed him, kissed him with all the enthusiastic, clumsy passion of a woman discovering what pleasure felt like, Grancourt knew that the desire would only grow.
‘Bloody hell.’ He murmured it to himself, his hands drawing into fists so tight that he could feel his nails digging into his palms, turning the flesh white.
It had always been desire. Ever since he had seen her for the first time, during her first Season; the undisputed belle of the ball. Poppy Maldon, at twenty years old, had always been the most beautiful, witty, gay and goodhearted girl of anyone’s acquaintance… and watching her step forward in her splendid gown, her eyes glittering in the candlelight, Grancourt had felt something grip his heart with tight, everlasting strength.
Given that he was bored of and terrified by sentiment in equal measure, he had simply ignored it. He had refused to name it. Now, of course, all of that careful burial work was coming back to haunt him with a viciousness that went beyond pain.
She was why he had taken no lovers in God-knows how long. She was why he found it difficult even to pleasure himself; whenever he touched himself, he had to blink away memories of a face, a voice, he recognised. She was why, in a burst of revelation that confounded Grancourt as he stood on the steps of the house, he sometimes felt such blinding hostility towards Richard Maldon, his friend of such long association… his best friend, his trusted confidante, and the man who would rightfully murder him if the desire for his younger sister was ever discovered.
You know what Poppy is like. Innocent, joyful—full of merriment, and trust. Grancourt remembered Maldon sighing in the back room of Simpkins, as Bale and Selby nodded sympathetically. She is going to be surrounded by the very worst sort of gentlemen. Those who wish to corrupt that innocence. He had looked at all of them, his voice low and serious. You must protect her. All of you. Or I am going to be driven into an early grave.
Grancourt hadn’t known why that conversation, that afternoon at Simpkins, had thrown him into such a ferociously bleak mood. A mood that had lasted over a week, and had involved a fair about of whisky bottles thrown at walls. Now, looking at Poppy, her face illuminated by a golden ray of sunlight, Grancourt understood his sadness in a way his previous self could not.
He wanted Poppy Maldon. Wanted her in his life, in his bed, in each and every one of his days and nights. And thanks to her brother, and the duty forced upon him by their friendship, he was doomed to never have her. Worse still, to have her just out of reach.
She had kissed him. Kissed him as revenge, as part of a stupid game; a game Grancourt knew that he shouldn’t even have been playing.
He should never have taken the flower to her room—he shouldn’t have kept the flower, the stupid damned flower, even though the fact she had touched it made it precious beyond rubies.
Perhaps he could walk back to London. Perhaps he could walk past London, to the edge of England, and throw himself off of one of those pretty white cliffs that poets were always having rhapsodies about—
‘Oh!’ A small, startled female cry behind him pulled him out of his reverie. ‘Oh, my goodness!’
Grancourt turned instinctively; he saw Victor Bale turn too, his wife Isabella’s eyes widening, and Selby reach out as he started forward. The cry was loud enough to attract the immediate attention of those in the vicinity, but move no further beyond it; the wider crowds, chattering as they waited for their carriages, appeared to have taken no notice.
Only Poppy had noticed. Grancourt watched her move quickly forward, a tug of savage longing almost incapacitating him as she rushed to where the cry had come from.
It was Poppy’s friend, the one everyone was pretending didn’t work in the pleasure-house. Grancourt, even if he didn’t patronise such establishments, could spot a courtesan at twenty paces. She had fallen from a step; her ankle appeared to be giving her extreme pain, if her face was anything to go by… what was her name? Miranda? Margaret?
‘Oh, Matilda.’ Poppy’s voice washed over him. ‘Whatever happened?’
‘Poppy, I am so dreadfully clumsy. I tripped.’ Matilda reached up a hand, holding it to her forehead as she looked beseechingly at the assembled group. ‘Why, I am in such dreadful pain!’
‘My goodness. I saw you fall—I believe it must be a break, or at least a sprain.’ Selby helped Matilda sink to a sitting position on the stairs, assisted by Harding as Maldon strode over to the group. ‘I would not attempt to move without aid.’
‘Oh, goodness. I am so terribly sorry to have caused such a commotion.’ Matilda turned to Richard, her face so deliberately wan and full of untold suffering that Grancourt found himself wondering if her pain was entirely real. No person in real pain would look so very like on of the Madonna sculptures he had seen in Venice. ‘How on earth am I meant to travel all the way to London in this condition?’
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