Chapter Twenty-One #2
Gabriel watched the understanding enter her eyes, followed too quickly by disappointment.
“She advised that you ask him plainly what he expects.”
Poppy lifted her chin. “How thoughtful of her.”
“Poppy—”
Her nostrils flared. “What would you have me do with this information?”
“Ask questions before you accept him.”
“He has not offered.”
“Not yet.”
“And if his answers satisfy me?”
Gabriel’s chest tightened. “The decision is yours, of course.”
“How generous.”
“This is not generosity.”
“No?” She left the tray and crossed toward the window. “Lord Rillington vanished when Mama nearly financed an opera. Lord Ketterham wanted quiet. Lord Caldermere is the first man who has not fled, and you arrive before his call to explain that he may be unsuitable.”
Gabriel tugged at his coat. “He may be.”
“He can house Mama. He can pay every creditor. He can keep Algernon from casting us out. He can give me a place no one may take away.” Her voice did not rise. That made the hurt in it sharper. “And still you object.”
“I do not—”
“Stop.” Poppy put up a hand.
Gabriel had spent the carriage ride building a reasoned argument. It collapsed beneath that one syllable.
Her voice softened. “In what capacity are you telling me this?”
He said nothing.
“As my solicitor?” she asked.
He held her gaze.
“As my friend?”
Still, he could not answer.
She took one step toward him. “Or as the man who kissed me on the sofa the other night and then behaved as though wanting me was an error in judgment?”
The words struck precisely where she aimed them. Gabriel felt the last of his composure fray. “Wanting you was not an error.”
“You said you should not have done it.”
“I meant I should not have allowed my desire to outpace my honor.”
She turned away from him sharply. “Your honor appears remarkably determined to push me into the arms of other men.”
“Because they can offer you what I cannot.”
“A title?”
“Yes.”
“A large house?”
“Yes.”
“A place for Mama and all her foibles?”
His jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“And what do you offer, Gabriel?”
The question hung between them.
He thought of his office, respectable but ordinary. His father’s old desk with the ink stain and the arrears Lady Viva might never pay. The respectable but far from grand house he and Father lived in.
“Not enough.”
Poppy’s eyes flashed. “I did not ask you to decide that.”
“No. You asked what I offer.”
“I asked because I wanted you to say something true.”
The words undid him. Something broke loose inside his chest, old restraint giving way under a pressure that had been building since the moment he saw her standing in a chaotic hall with egg on the carpet and laughter held too tightly in her mouth.
“You want truth?” he said, his voice growing hoarse.
She swiveled to face him again and her eyes flashed. “Yes.”
“I want you.”
Her breath caught.
The room seemed to narrow around them. The flowers, the tea tray, the waiting cakes, Lord Caldermere’s expected call—everything faded beneath the stark honesty he could no longer contain.
“I want you with a selfishness I do not recognize in myself,” he said.
“I want to be the man who gives you a home. I want to be the person you look for when the room grows too loud. I want to stand beside you when Lady Viva invites another impossible guest, when Freddie steals something, when creditors knock, when some fool sends another scented note, when Mr. Loxley prepares to die after supper and recovers before cake.”
Her eyes brightened with tears.
He continued because stopping now would be another lie.
“I want the letters, the unpaid bills, the false counts, the poets, the ridiculous dog. I want all of it because all of it is attached to you, and I cannot seem to want you without wanting the life you have carried.”
Poppy crossed the distance between them. She grabbed his hand. “Then choose me.”
The words struck with the force of a verdict. Before he could answer, Jenkins appeared in the doorway. The butler’s composure was intact, though something in his face had gone tight with worry.
“Forgive me, miss.”
Poppy turned at once. The charged air between her and Gabriel vanished beneath swift concern. “What is it?”
“I cannot locate Lady Montague.”
Gabriel’s attention sharpened at once.
Poppy crossed to the door. “What do you mean, you cannot locate her?”
“She was in her chamber after breakfast. Her maid says she complained of a megrim and asked not to be disturbed.”
“Mama never asks not to be disturbed.”
“No, miss.”
Jenkins held out the scented letter. Freddie trotted beside him, sniffing at it with renewed suspicion.
“A similar note arrived earlier,” Jenkins said. “Her ladyship read it and went upstairs.”
Poppy took the paper.
“You said it was from Bellarosa?” Gabriel asked.
“That was my understanding,” Jenkins replied. “The scent is unmistakable.”
Gabriel stepped closer. “Where is Lady Montague’s maid?”
“In the hall, sir.”
They moved together, argument suspended by crisis. Lady Viva’s maid waited near the staircase, twisting her apron between nervous fingers.
“Mary,” Poppy said, “when did you last see Mama?”
“Not quite an hour ago, miss. Her ladyship said she wished to lie down. She dismissed me.”
“And?”
Mary swallowed. “When I went back, she was gone. Her rose traveling cloak is missing. The small valise too.”
Poppy’s face went very still.
Gabriel looked toward Jenkins. “Was a carriage called?”
“Not by me, sir.”
“A hackney from the square, perhaps,” Poppy said. “Or—”
Freddie leapt up against the hall table, caught the scented letter in his teeth, and tugged.
“Freddie!” Jenkins reached for him.
The spaniel yanked again. A folded sheet slipped from inside and fell to the floor.
Poppy snatched it up. The scent was unmistakably Bellarosa. The hand was not.
“It is from Mama,” she said.
Gabriel watched her read. All the color left her face.
“What does it say?” he asked.
Poppy swallowed and read aloud.
My darling Poppy,
Do not be angry. Or be angry if you must, but only temporarily, as anger is most unbecoming when permitted to settle.
I have gone to solve all our difficulties. You have been so brave, sweetie, and far too burdened by things that ought never to have been yours to carry. You shall not have to marry anyone in haste. I know precisely what I am doing.
With love, Mama.
Silence filled the hall.
Poppy stared at the note, then at the empty staircase above them.
“Gabriel,” she said, her voice terrifyingly calm, “with Mama, ‘I know precisely what I am doing’ may be the most alarming sentence in the English language.”