Chapter Seven
Pembroke House blazed with the light of a thousand candles.
The windows shone with quiet certainty, far removed from the Montfort manner, where candles multiplied from enthusiasm and no one could recall whether they had been paid for.
At Pembroke House, footmen moved efficiently. Flowers stood where flowers ought to stand. The upper landings produced no shouting, and the household seemed to contain neither dog, poet, nor suspiciously titled gentleman.
For one unguarded moment, as Poppy stepped into the foyer with Mama beside her and Count Bellarosa behind them, she allowed herself to imagine living in such a house.
A house where the roof did not leak, creditors did not call, and every knock at the door did not require bracing oneself for catastrophe.
Then Mama said, “Darling, do you think Lord Pembroke would mind if we borrowed his footmen? Ours look so tired lately.”
“They are tired because you invite strangers to stay,” Poppy whispered.
Mama frowned, one fingertip tapping the edge of her fan. “That cannot be the only reason.”
“It is the primary reason.”
Mama twirled the fan in the air. “Then we must invent a more flattering one.”
Georgie came sweeping toward them, elegant in pale green silk, her dark hair smooth, her smile steady enough to ease Poppy’s nerves.
“Poppy.” She took both of Poppy’s hands and squeezed them. “You look lovely.”
“Mama insisted upon the blue,” Poppy said, tempted to ask whether she looked marriageable. Or whether Georgie could tell that her gown had been purchased on credit.
“Blue suits your eyes,” Mama said. “Men are simple creatures, sweetie. One must wave the obvious before them.”
“Lady Montague,” Georgie said, dipping into a curtsy with admirable composure. “How good of you to come.”
“Darling, I never refuse a dinner unless the hostess is dull or the wine is known to be poor.”
“How fortunate I have excellent wine,” Georgie replied, laughing.
“And you are not dull,” Mama assured her. “Marriage has improved you immensely.”
Lord Pembroke appeared just then, dark-haired, green-eyed, and looking very much as if he had heard the last part and chosen not to gloat.
“Lady Montague,” he said, bowing. “Miss Montfort.”
“Lord Pembroke,” Poppy said, curtsying.
He gave her a brief, kind smile, one that managed to offer sympathy without pity, and Poppy appreciated that more than she could say.
Then his gaze moved to Count Bellarosa.
There was the slightest pause.
“Count Bellarosa,” Mama announced grandly. “Or something very near it.”
The count bowed as if bestowing a favor upon the marble beneath him. “My lord. Your house is quite grand. I forgive it for lacking more velvet.”
Poppy nearly choked. But just then, in the doorway behind them, Mr. Ashby arrived.
She turned to face him, inordinately glad to see him.
He wore black and white, as he had other times, but evening dress made his restraint look less like severity and more like temptation behaving itself.
His cravat was immaculate. His coat fit beautifully.
Propriety itself could not have assembled a more devastating instrument of disapproval.
Mr. Ashby bowed to Georgie and Lord Pembroke, then to Mama, then to Poppy.
“Miss Montfort,” he intoned.
“Mr. Ashby,” she replied.
Mama leaned toward Georgie and whispered, quite audibly, “Handsome, is he not?”
“Mama,” Poppy whispered, nudging her mother in the ribs with her elbow.
“What? I am assisting,” Mama replied.
“You are not,” Poppy told her.
Mama lifted her nose into the air. “I am providing color.”
“You are providing mortification,” Poppy told her.
Mr. Ashby’s gaze flicked to Poppy’s face, and she had the distinct impression he was trying not to smile.
Bea arrived moments later with Lord Vanover. She took in Count Bellarosa, Mr. Ashby, Mama’s expression, Poppy’s expression, and the entire arrangement of the foyer in one swift glance. “Ah,” she said to Poppy. “Excellent. I see you have acquired an entourage.”
“One does like to make an entrance,” Poppy murmured.
Bea squeezed her hand. “You look beautiful.”
“You are all very intent upon saying that,” Poppy replied.
“Because it is true,” Georgie added.
Bea pulled Poppy and Georgie to the side. “Lord Vanover has made inquiries,” Bea said. “There are three or four gentlemen who might be suitable, provided they possess sense, courage, and a constitution strong enough to withstand Lady Viva.”
“An impossible combination,” Poppy nearly whispered.
“Difficult,” Georgie allowed. “Not impossible.”
Bea’s expression turned thoughtful. “There is also Lord Caldermere, though Nicholas says one does not simply toss the Marquess of Caldermere into a matchmaking scheme and hope for the best.”
“That sounds ominous,” Poppy said.
“There are rumors,” Bea replied. “He may be a later measure. For tonight, Lord Rillington has arrived, and he is looking this way.”
Poppy’s pulse sped up.
Lord Rillington stood near the drawing room doors, tall, fair, and undeniably handsome. He lacked Mr. Ashby’s devastating sort of handsomeness—good heavens, she must stop making that comparison—but he was very pleasing to look upon.
According to Bea, he was also unmarried, solvent, recently returned from abroad, and reasonably young. At present, those qualities placed him among the finest men in England.
“Smile,” Bea whispered.
“I am smiling,” Poppy replied through tightly clenched teeth.
“You look prepared to negotiate with a creditor,” Bea shot back.
“That is my most practiced expression.”
“Try something less practiced.”
Poppy drew in a breath, lifted her chin, and did her best.
Lord Rillington approached, guided by Lord Vanover, who performed the introductions with elegant efficiency.
“Miss Montfort,” Lord Rillington said, bowing over her hand after he’d greeted the others. “I am honored.”
His voice was pleasant. His smile was easy. His eyes lingered on her face in a manner that suggested Mama had been right about the blue gown.
A fragile hope stirred inside of Poppy. “How kind.”
“I am told Lady Pembroke has arranged this dinner in your honor,” Lord Rillington continued.
Poppy’s smile held, though by force. “She is too kind.”
“I am fortunate to have been invited,” he said.
“I am the fortunate one, my lord,” Poppy replied.
Despite herself, she glanced toward Mr. Ashby. He remained nearby, apparently listening while Lord Vanover said something to him. But his gaze had found her.
Poppy looked back at Lord Rillington quickly.
“Lady Pembroke warned me your wit is sharp enough to require caution,” Lord Rillington said.
Wit? Apparently, Bea had spoken of her wit. She must be witty. “I try to use it responsibly.”
“Then I shall endeavor to avoid boring you with nonsense.”
“Please do not make extravagant promises so early, my lord. I shall expect you to keep them.” Had that been witty enough?
When Lord Rillington laughed with genuine amusement, hope lifted another tenuous fraction inside of her.
Poppy exhaled, but before she could dwell on her victory, Lord Pembroke invited them all into the dining room, where dinner proceeded better than she had dared hope.
Lord Rillington was seated beside her, no doubt by Georgie’s careful hand, and he proved attentive enough to be gratifying.
His questions were pleasantly ordinary: music, the Season, whether she preferred town or country.
Dowries and family rumors stayed blessedly absent, and his attention remained on her instead of wandering toward a richer prospect.
Twice, he made her laugh.
Once, he looked so pleased with himself afterward that Poppy decided she liked him for it. The evening was going well enough to frighten her.
Across the table, Mama held court between Count Bellarosa and an elderly baronet who appeared bewildered but delighted.
The count spoke at length about Naples, Palermo, Vienna, betrayal, sapphires, and bloodlines.
Mama listened as though he had brought her a bouquet made entirely of scandalous tales. Her favorite sort of tales, of course.
Mr. Ashby sat several places away, quiet, controlled, and watchful. Although he had promised to keep an eye on Mama, his attention returned again and again to Poppy.
Every time Lord Rillington leaned nearer, Mr. Ashby’s expression became even more perfectly composed, and every time it did, Poppy became more certain that composure was the most deceptive thing about him.
She could feel his attention as surely as a touch against the bare skin between her shoulder blades.
She told herself she was imagining it.
She knew she was not.
After dinner, the party moved to the drawing room, where Georgie had arranged for music. There was not room for a full dance floor, but enough space had been cleared for a couple to partake if anyone wished it. A musician was ensconced at the pianoforte.
Lord Rillington was briefly claimed by Lord Pembroke, and Mama had drawn Count Bellarosa toward an elderly baronet whose hearing appeared unequal to the count’s confidence.
Poppy took the opportunity to breathe.
It lasted three seconds.
Mr. Ashby appeared beside her, so quiet and sudden that she nearly startled.
“Lady Montague is safe for the moment,” he said.
Poppy glanced across the room. “You sound certain.”
“She is speaking, the count is performing, and both appear to be behaving themselves.”
Poppy arched a brow. “That is your legal assessment?”
“My practical one.”
Despite everything, Poppy smiled. “Then your practical assessment is appreciated.”
“I am glad to be of use.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But I am not certain whether to be grateful or mortified that my mother requires supervision at dinner.”
“Both responses seem reasonable.”
She looked at him then, which was a mistake. Evening dress should have made him appear more formal, more distant, easier to treat as the solicitor he insisted upon being. Instead, candlelight had found the gold in his hair and the severity in his face and turned both into something troubling.
“Lord Rillington seems pleasant,” he said.
“He is.”
“And attentive.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”