Chapter Seven #3
“Mama,” Poppy said. She wanted to stamp her slipper but was convinced it would not be attractive.
Lady Viva sighed. “Oh, very well. No opera.”
The count pressed one hand to his brow. “Then art must starve.”
“Not in this house,” Lord Pembroke said dryly. “The supper room remains open.”
Poppy might have laughed if she had not felt Lord Rillington shift beside her.
Nothing dramatic happened. He did not gasp or draw back, but something in him altered all the same. His gaze moved from the count to Lady Viva, from Lady Viva to Mr. Ashby, and from Mr. Ashby to Poppy.
Calculation entered his eyes, and the worst of it was that the calculation was sensible rather than unkind.
It was the sort that looked at a pretty woman in a blue gown and began quietly subtracting every complication from her charm—a difficult mother, uncertain finances, a flamboyant count, a promissory note, and a solicitor intervening at dinner.
Poppy felt the small hope she’d begun to nurture fold in upon itself.
Mama, apparently unaware she had just set fire to the only promising possible courtship of Poppy’s life, gave Lord Rillington a dazzling smile. “Are you fond of opera, my lord?”
Mr. Ashby turned then and the look of alarm on his face indicated he hadn’t realized Lord Rillington was standing there.
“I enjoy opera on occasion,” Lord Rillington said cautiously. “I just came from Italy, actually, where it was quite popular.”
“Splendid. Poppy adores music,” Mama continued. “And she is so useful with accounts. If you marry her, you must let her manage all your dreadful papers. She has been managing mine for years.”
“Mama,” Poppy said softly, wanting the floor to open and swallow her.
Lady Viva stopped. And for a moment, the room seemed to stop too.
Lord Rillington’s smile remained, but it had become painfully polite. “How admirable,” he said.
Poppy’s cheeks burned.
Mr. Ashby looked at her then. In his face, she saw the thing she had least wanted. It was not pity. Thank God. But it was sympathy, carefully held in check, which was nearly as unbearable.
She lifted her chin and smiled…because that is what she did when things were dire. “How kind of you to say so, my lord,” she said to Lord Rillington.
Lord Rillington bowed. “If you will forgive me, I see Lord Chesterfield. I must speak with him before the evening ends.”
“Certainly,” Poppy replied.
He left with polished composure, too well bred to let even retreat look hurried. Men like Lord Rillington withdrew with manners, and manners gave one nothing solid enough to object to.
Lady Viva’s fan stilled.
Count Bellarosa murmured something about art enduring persecution.
Mr. Ashby still held the promissory note in one hand.
Poppy turned to Mama and managed a smile that felt brittle enough to cut her mouth. “Why don’t you two dance?” she suggested through clenched teeth.
Mama’s eyes searched her face. Something like remorse flickered there, helpless and brief. “Yes,” Lady Viva said. “Perhaps we should. Dancing improves all spaces.”
Count Bellarosa offered his arm with injured magnificence. Lady Viva took it, though, for once, she did not immediately speak.
As they moved away, Mr. Ashby stepped closer. “Miss Montfort.”
Poppy became aware of the heat of him at her side, the crisp scent of starch and evening air, and the promissory note in his hand. Tonight, rescue and temptation had arrived in the same dark coat.
“Please do not say it,” she murmured.
“I failed you.”
That was so far from what she had expected that she looked at him. “You stopped her from signing it.”
“Too late.”
“No money was lost.”
“Only Lord Rillington.”
The name struck with humiliating precision.
Poppy looked toward the place where Lord Rillington now stood laughing with another gentleman, his attention safely elsewhere. “He was never mine to lose.”
“No,” Mr. Ashby said, his voice low. “But I was asked to watch Lady Montague.”
“And?”
His jaw tightened. “I was watching you.”
The words slipped beneath her defenses with troubling ease.
She should have been angry. Perhaps she was. He had come tonight because she had asked for help, and Mama had nearly signed a promissory note while Mr. Ashby watched another man dance with her.
Anger would have been easier if the confession had not made her feel wanted.
“You should not have been,” she said.
“I know.”
“Mr. Ashby—”
“I know,” he said again, rougher this time.
For one moment, the crowded room seemed to narrow around them. Lord Rillington, Count Bellarosa, Mama, the musician, the flowers, the candles—all of it blurred at the edges.
Then Mr. Ashby looked down at the folded note in his hand. “Are you well?”
The question undid her more than the confession had.
She gave him her brightest smile. “Perfectly, Mr. Ashby.”
His expression did not change. His eyes did. Poppy’s smile faltered.
Across the room, Georgie and Bea had seen everything. Their faces held outrage, sympathy, and immediate strategy.
Poppy lifted her chin another fraction.
The evening was not over. The husband hunt had only just begun.
But Lord Rillington did not ask her for a second dance.