He laughed. The sound of it, oddly loud in the cramped bedroom, make Poppy jump.
‘I do not see what there is to laugh about.’
‘Neither do I. Everything is atrocious.’ Grancourt looked quickly at the bed, before looking determinedly at the window. ‘But perhaps you are right. Perhaps I glower… make mountains out of molehills.’
‘You do. I am always right.’ Poppy blinked. ‘But… but this does seem a little more of a molehill than usual.’
She sat on one corner of the bed, looking a little more downcast. Grancourt, a flood of sudden, wrenching sentiment weakening him, gently sat down on the opposite corner of the bedspread. Alone, in a bedroom, with Poppy Maldon… it felt more different, and more dangerous, than he had ever thought it would.
‘Do you think the innkeeper and his wife will realise their mistake?’ Poppy idly traced along the bedclothes with one finger.
‘Perhaps. In time.’ Grancourt cleared his throat, knowing he had to broach the most difficult subject. ‘They will find a girl sleeping very comfortably in the bed, and a ferociously scowling man failing to sleep on the ground.’
‘Woman.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You called me a girl. I am twenty-one years old—that makes me a woman.’ Poppy spoke quietly, but decisively. ‘Even if I am under your protection here, it hardly makes me a helpless girl.’
He couldn’t think of her as a woman. If he thought of her as a woman, his desire for her would become ever-more untenable. Grancourt, with a tight nod, hoped against hope that Poppy would simply stop talking for the foreseeable future.
‘I am sorry that I kissed you.’ Poppy looked at him with wide, plaintive eyes. ‘I know that it was wrong of me.’
God’s blood. Grancourt, realising that none of his most sane hopes would be coming true, stood abruptly. Trying to summon up as much froideur as possible, aware that he probably looked like an angry scarecrow, he folded his arms as he looked down at Poppy.
‘Look. We are not going to discuss anything of this nature—you are tired, and shaken from the accident, and unsure about the circumstances that await us tonight. I understand that, and will attempt to aid and comfort you in any way I—what the bloody hell are you doing? Where did you find that?’
He watched, astonished, as Poppy examined the small leather-bound hip-flask she had produced from her skirts. Opening the cap, taking a genteel sniff, she rolled her eyes as she looked at Grancourt.
‘Well I’m not going to listen to you pretending to be my father. You are dreadfully silly when you try to lord it over me, you know.’ She looked down at the flask, a small smile on her face. ‘I stole this from inside the carriage. It was hidden under the seat—it only came out when it broke down.’
‘You did what?’ Grancourt blinked. ‘What on earth possessed you?’
‘Well I wasn’t going to leave it for the coachman. He was going to whip that horse until it bled, until you stopped him. I don’t think he deserved whisky.’ Poppy sniffed. ‘Quite frankly I think the man deserved to be left out there in the rain until he drowned, but I understand why we couldn’t do that.’ She looked at Grancourt, a clear challenge in her eyes. ‘I am going to drink all of his whisky, though. I have never really known what it is to be drunk, but I am going to start this evening.’
No, you are damn well not. The urge to upbraid her, to tell her what to do, was immensely strong; Grancourt gritted his teeth, looking down at Poppy as she took another experimental sniff. ‘This is what you wish to do? Discover the pleasures of alcohol, in an anonymous room in a badly-run inn, with your brother’s irascible friend for company?’
‘Yes. With food, of course—you will have to find us some.’ Poppy smiled, her voice wavering. ‘I intend to do everything I possibly can that could result in at least a little danger. After all… I am completely safe, with you.’
Completely safe. Grancourt swallowed, self-loathing dampening his lust.
‘Fine. Drink up.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘But if you cast up your crumpets in here, Poppy Maldon, I will throw you out into the rain.’
After half a flask of whisky, Poppy was extremely certain of one thing. The best person on earth to drink with, illicitly or not, was His Grace the Duke of Colbrooke, Henry Grancourt. Henry Grancourt, her favourite person to tease, who was treating her with a courtesy she would never had dared to expect after her impetuous kiss.
He had helped her to remove her muddy boots, when her cold fingers had refused to make short work of the buttons. He had removed his sodden greatcoat to build and light a fire in the grate, when it became evident that no maid was coming to light it; he had even found a basin of water somewhere, bringing it back into the bedroom with a finger to his lips and a determinedly innocent expression. Poppy, astonished already at these feats of consideration, thought she would die of happiness when he managed to procure two plates of lamp chops and potatoes from the far-off kitchen.
‘I am going to eat with great appetite and very little elegance.’ She stared hungrily at the food, looking at Grancourt with a slight touch of shame. ‘I hope you are prepared to see me devour things.’
Grancourt’s face had shown a lot less disgust than she had expected. None at all, in fact. If anything, she had caught him watching her eat more than once as they had both attacked the lamp chops together… and his mouth had twitched as Poppy had licked a drop of sauce off of her fingers. Twitched in a way that didn’t seem mocking at all.
The carriage ride had been awkward. Terribly awkward. But whisky had a way of making everything seem terribly easy; talking to Grancourt, laughing with him, simply being around him. What normally emerged as a desire to tease the man, to poke and prod and pry, had emerged from its normal awkwardness to present itself as what it really was; a desire, however simple, to be close to him.
Yes. Poppy could neatly blame all of it on the whisky—even if in reality she was nowhere near as deep in her cups as she had expected to be. But Grancourt apparently excused, or accepted, any excesses as simple side-effects of what she had drunk… which was terribly convenient as the evening wore on, and the desire to talk to Grancourt became the desire to touch him.
If unmarried ladies and gentlemen weren’t meant to ride in carriages together, and weren’t meant to accept rooms meant for married couples when both parties were decidedly unmarried, then they definitely weren’t meant to touch one another except in moments of life-endangering distress. Poppy was perfectly aware of this; a hundred flasks of whisky would have to be drunk before she forgot such a salient fact. However, the half-flask of whisky she had drunk convinced her, by virtue of its warm, comforting glow, to simply ignore the most important of the rules.
Grancourt had stiffened when she had first thrown his arms around his neck, hugging him as she laughed over some witticism that she had uttered. That was expected; Poppy had also expected him to push her away, or tell her in his best hectoring tone not to forget herself. But… but he hadn’t. He didn’t, even when she hugged him again.
It became normal. It didn’t feel normal; every time she did it, Poppy knew that she shouldn’t. But she shouldn’t be alone with Grancourt, and she shouldn’t be alone in a bedroom with Grancourt, and she shouldn’t be alone and in a bedroom and drinking whisky with Grancourt… really, when all was said and done, shouldn’t in no way outweighed the fact that she wanted to be alone, in a bedroom, drinking whisky, and touching Grancourt. She wanted all of those things very much.
And now, contrary to all previous predictions, they were on the bed. They were laying on the soft, blanket-covered bed, fully-clothed but touching, laughing as Grancourt attempted to teach Poppy how to expertly throw playing cards into a hat resting on a nearby table. Poppy was enthusiastic but clumsy at the best of times; with the whisky loosening her movements, her card throws became more and more impressionistic until she threw the pack down with a giggle.
With a soft, contented sigh that touched on all the pleasures of the evening, she re
sted her head against Grancourt’s strong shoulder. Only as she breathed in the clean, comforting scent of him did Poppy realise that leaning against him was something else she wasn’t meant to do… but Grancourt wasn’t moving, and Poppy did not want to move either.
Not entirely true. She snuggled into his shoulder a little more; with a sigh Grancourt lifted his arm, allowing Poppy to rest her weary head against his chest. His arm settled over her bare shoulder, sending small, dancing sparks of sensation over her skin.
‘I believe I adore whisky.’ Poppy spoke without thinking; Grancourt’s deep, gruff burst of laughter rippled through her own body, making her laugh too. ‘I am madly in love with it.’
‘Many people have thought the same thing. In the end, they all discover that whisky is a cruel master.’ Reaching down, Grancourt gently plucked the hip-flask from Poppy’s hands; his fingers brushed against hers, and Poppy felt another spur of trembling sensation. ‘Rarely a good idea to fall in love with it.’
‘Well there is very little chance of you doing so. I do not think you have drunk a single drop. I have not seen you do it once.’ Poppy looked at him accusingly, her face half-buried in the soft linen of his shirt. ‘Why will you not drink with me?’
‘Because you are determined to dive as deep into your cups as possible, and I must be sober while you do so. Someone needs to be on guard.’ Grancourt’s voice was so nice, even when he was saying the silliest things; Poppy wondered if she could ask him to read a book to her. Read a whole library, perhaps. ‘There cannot be two insensible people in the room.’
‘Insensible? I’ll have you know that I am not insensible. I have exceptional command of every single one of my faculties, thank you very much. If I seem less than rigid, Your Grace, it is because I have chosen to be so.’ Poppy nodded, the effect somewhat marred as she let her head drop dreamily back onto his chest. ‘Why… why I believe you are saying I am drunk purely so you cannot listen to anything I say, and call it sense.’
Grancourt tensed a little; Poppy, not sure as to why he would do such a thing, sighed. With what felt like an immense expenditure of effort, she raised her head to look at him properly.
‘I command that you drink a little. A swallow. A sip.’ She nodded gravely. ‘Only then will I be happy.’
Grancourt’s mouth twitched; Poppy absent-mindedly biting her lip, found herself thinking about what a lovely mouth he had. ‘What makes you think that your happiness is my utmost concern?’
Poppy blinked. ‘Is… is it not?’
‘It is your safety.’
‘I am alone in a room with you.’ Poppy shrugged. ‘How could I not be safe?’
Grancourt’s expression changed. For a moment Poppy felt as if she were on the edge of a precipice; there was a grand realisation to be had, here, something to discover, and she was missing it… but then Grancourt was opening the flask, taking a long draught, and any confusion in her mind was replaced with triumphant happiness.
‘Fine.’ His voice was a little hoarser; Poppy assumed it had to be the whisky. ‘You have me.’
Poppy nodded, more lightly this time. ‘I always do.’
One sip was not enough. One bottle wouldn’t be enough. Grancourt, biting his tongue, was fairly sure that an entire barrel of whisky wouldn’t be enough to calm him. Lying in a bed with Poppy Maldon, the woman he had only just realised he had always wanted, in an inn where everyone had assumed they were married… all the whisky barrels in all the world, full of enough liquid to drown him a hundred times over, wouldn’t bring him a single step closer to contentment.
He was happy, of course. Divinely happy; madly happy. Happy and horrified in equal measure; a man adrift on a tiny piece of Paradise, which happened to be in the centre of Hell. Too happy to tell her that they couldn’t be lying like this, together, unobserved, and too horrified at how happy he was to take it any further.
Maldon would kill him. Would kill him slowly and painfully, if any of this came out. Grancourt tried to keep the risk of his untimely death utmost in his mind, but found himself failing by degrees as the measure of whisky kicked in.
As strong as he was, he was only human. He couldn’t stop himself taking deep, forbidden pleasure in the sound of her voice; the feel of her against him, soft and tired, her curls tickling his nose as she rested her head against his chest. Her scent had been clouding him all evening, soap and roses; Grancourt had to stop himself leaning closer to smell her hair.
His cock was hard enough to cut wood. It had been ever since she had shown him the hip-flask, lessening and strengthening by degrees. Grancourt, half in awe at the sheer staying power of his lust, had been keeping the lower half of his body covered in whatever came to hand.
They had talked about childhood memories. They had talked about dreams, and histories, and things that had moved them; people, places, memories that had played a part in their becoming. His tongue loosened by whisky, his body helpless against the soft, ceaseless onslaught that was Poppy Maldon’s presence, Grancourt found himself revealing things about himself that he had thought he would be taking to the grave.
‘So you really saved all of those ducklings?’ Poppy’s marvelling tone was sweeter than music. ‘How on earth did you manage to conceal them all in your room?’
‘I bribed my valet to keep them corralled and clean while I was out, and spent a lot of time keeping them occupied in a big copper bath when I was indoors. It was an interesting few months.’
‘Are you telling me that you, at my age, bathed with ducklings?’ Poppy laughed, one hand over her mouth, her eyes full of impossible glee. ‘I have never bathed with anything quite so adorable.’
‘They grew up and waddled away with time.’ Grancourt didn’t know what was more erotic; Poppy imagining him bathing, or his own visions of Poppy bathing sans ducklings. ‘And Mother and Father certainly never paid enough attention to see the menagerie I was building in my bedroom.’
He hadn’t meant to say that. The absence of his parents, their indifference and their occasional cruelty, was not a fit subject for this delicious bower of improbable things. Poppy, looking up at him with her large doe-eyes, seemed to have noticed his sudden melancholy… but with a bite of her lip, and a gentle shift of her head, she let Grancourt know that she would pry no further.
Why did she have to be so damned considerate when it counted? Grancourt, briefly throwing his eyes to the heavens, felt a surge of stiffness in his cock that was decidedly unwelcome.
‘Henry Grancourt, pursued by ducklings. You know, you are terribly nice. You always are.’ Poppy sighed, snuggling closer, and Grancourt bit his lip so hard he thought he could taste blood. ‘Why are you never nice to anyone else?’
‘I am perfectly nice to any number of people.’
‘Men. You are friendly to all sorts of men. And animals, of course. But you never seem to be interested in any ladies of any sort, even very nice ones…’ Poppy’s voice trailed off; there was something indefinable in the way she paused. ‘Why?’
Grancourt forced himself to speak. ‘I have chosen not to court.’
‘But why?’ Poppy’s eyes widened.
Because I cannot have you, you perfect, half-drunk monster. ‘Why is my business.’
‘Your business is always my business in the end.’ Poppy’s tone was frustratingly smug; Grancourt wished that her words weren’t true. He contented himself with a glare, which was about as effective as treacle against a sword.
‘Ah, yes. The famous Grancourt scowl. That was a most impertinent question, and you had every right to at least call me a name, or pinch me.’ Poppy blew away a strand of hair as it settled on her face; Grancourt watched her, marvelling.‘You are very kind to me, even though I am so very young and you are so very old.’
‘What?’ Grancourt looked down at her genuinely horrified. ‘I am only ten years older than you, you vicious creature. I am hardly in the grave.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Poppy sighed. ‘When one looks at you at certain times of day,
it is very clear that the tomb has begun to beckon you. On cold winter nights, at least...’
‘I—’ Grancourt stared at her, aghast. How had she managed to find one of the deepest, most shameful aspects of his attraction, and drag it into the light? He knew that matches between much younger women and much older men were common enough, but had never envisioned it for himself. At least, not with anyone who wasn’t her…
He looked at her closely. Poppy, despite covering one hand with her mouth, was clearly attempting not to laugh.
‘You… you horror.’ He leant back against the pillows, exhaling a mixture of relief and terror as Poppy giggled. ‘I believed you for a moment.’
‘I know. Was I not terribly convincing?’ Poppy lowered her hand, smiling. ‘I thought you were going to banish me to the corner of the room.’
The idea of moving her even an inch away from him felt like the worst kind of suffering. ‘The corner of the room is cold and dark. I believe you would whine.’
‘No, I would not.’ Poppy tutted. ‘Because I would not move to the corner of the room, however loudly and persistently you ordered me… I am far too comfortable here.’
With a small sigh, she let her head rest against his chest once more. The reality of their closeness, their utterly forbidden proximity, settled upon Grancourt like a shroud. They were not meant to lie like this, not under any circumstances, not even if one of them were dying… but really, wasn’t he dying by degrees against the soft weight of her body, the sound of her laughter as it stroked the air…
‘I lied, before.’ Poppy’s voice was smaller now, but not definite. ‘I lied through my teeth.’
‘About what?’
‘I said that I was sorry for kissing you. I am not.’ Poppy swallowed, but kept speaking all the same. Grancourt knew he should interrupt her, knew he should stop her; why was he so atrociously weak? ‘If… if anything, it was a tremendous help.’
Of all the things Grancourt was expecting Poppy to say, that wasn’t one of them. He looked down at her, hoping his face worked as an effective question in itself.
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