Chapter Eight #2
“He didn’t stop loving me,” Gabriel continued quietly.
“I never doubted that. But something in him went elsewhere for a time. He became softer in some ways and absent in others. He forgot meals, appointments, letters. He gave away money we ought to have kept because suffering had become impossible for him to refuse.” His mouth tightened.
“I was only a boy, but I remember thinking that if I could keep everything in its proper place, perhaps the house would hold together.”
Poppy’s expression softened.
All at once, the severe lines of him altered in her mind. The punctuality, the ledgers, the exactness, the unyielding insistence upon proper conduct—she had thought them judgment, perhaps even disdain. Now she saw something deeper beneath them.
A boy trying to keep a grieving house from collapsing.
A boy who had learned that meals could be forgotten, letters unanswered, money given away, and grown men rendered helpless by love. No wonder Gabriel clung to rules. No wonder he trusted figures more than feelings, contracts more than promises, order more than hope.
His control was not coldness. It was fear turned into discipline.
“My father loved my mother so deeply. When she died a part of him seemed to follow.”
“That is a lovely way to put it,” Poppy murmured. “Mama loved my father deeply as well. I know she did. I know she still does. And she is not cruel. She has never meant—”
Her voice caught, which was intolerable, so she forced it steady.
“She has never meant to leave so much of life for me to manage.”
“But she did,” he said. “She has.”
Poppy’s eyes stung. Mr. Ashby’s voice had not been harsh. That was the trouble. Harshness would have given her something to resist.
This was only truth.
“Yes,” she said. “She did. She has.”
Somewhere above them, Mama laughed, bright and musical, and already drifting away.
Mr. Ashby’s gaze lifted toward the sound, then returned to Poppy. “My father believes I have too much faith in order,” he said.
Poppy tilted her head, a bit surprised at the unexpected turn. “Do you think you do?”
“Perhaps.”
The answer came so promptly she almost smiled.
“At least you are honest.”
“I try to be,” he said.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It has its uses.”
Poppy took a deep breath. “Does it? Tonight I should have liked dishonesty very much. Something grand and comforting such as, ‘Miss Montfort, you have misunderstood everything. There is a secret fortune, Lord Rillington is enchanted by you, Count Bellarosa is exactly who he claims to be, and your mother would never dream of signing a promissory note she did not have the funds for.’”
Mr. Ashby’s eyes softened. “That would require more invention than I possess.”
Poppy sighed. “A pity. I begin to see invention’s charms.”
“My father has it.”
She lifted her brows. “Invention?”
“Charm.”
Poppy looked at him more closely. He had turned his gaze toward the open door, but she saw the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth.
“You disapprove of that,” she said.
“Not precisely.”
“Mr. Ashby.”
His gaze returned to hers.
“You are a terrible liar for a man who values truth. You disapprove very much.”
He was quiet long enough that she thought he would not answer. Then he said, “My father has a generous heart. Too generous, at times. He allows people too near. He mistakes affection for obligation.”
Poppy felt the words too sharply. “And you do not?”
“I try not to.”
“Because you think affection clouds judgment.”
“Because I know it does.”
His answer was calm. Certain. Sad, perhaps, though Poppy did not think he knew that.
She studied him in the dim light, this careful man with his emotions held behind every button of his coat, this man who had come to a dinner he did not wish to attend because she had asked him to protect her mother from herself. He might not be charming, but he was certainly kind.
“Is that why you intended to be rid of us?” she asked quietly.
The words escaped softly. No accusation. Or not much of one. Only the question that had been sitting in her chest since she had seen his notebook.
Mr. Ashby went still. Then, very slowly, he said, “I ought to have closed the notebook.”
“I ought not to have looked.”
“You did not look deliberately.”
“No.” She managed a small smile. “I stumbled into humiliation by accident, which is my preferred method.”
His face stayed severe, and if anything, the expression deepened. After a moment, she understood that the judgment in it was aimed at himself rather than at her.
“That list was written before I understood the full circumstances,” he said.
“But after you understood enough to know we were a great deal of trouble.” The hint of a smile remained on her lips.
“Yes.”
More honesty. It stung. But it also steadied her. “Thank you for not pretending otherwise.”
“I do not wish to leave Lady Montague without proper counsel,” he said.
“Or me?”
The question should not have left her mouth.
Mr. Ashby’s gaze sharpened. For one breath, he said nothing. Then, quietly, “Or you.”
Two words. Not careful enough.
Poppy looked at him. “You do not owe us more counsel,” she said.
“No.”
“You do not owe us anything, really.”
“That is not true.”
“It is. We owe you, in fact.”
“Ashby and Son is not the only account that matters.”
The words settled between them. Poppy did not know what to do with them.
She found herself looking at his hands, gloved and still at his sides. Competent hands. Careful hands. Hands that had taken a promissory note from Mama’s fingers and helped her down from the coach just minutes ago.
He cleared his throat. “I shall bring the marriage contract in the morning.”
“Yes.” More documents. Another retreat. Poppy folded her hands in front of her. “Thank you.”
“And I will notify you as soon as I receive Lord Montague’s reply.”
She nodded. “Perhaps he will be generous.”
Mr. Ashby said nothing.
Poppy gave a short laugh. “There. You see? I can invent grand comforts as well as anyone.”
“I wish I could give you one.”
The answer undid her more than comfort would have. It reached a place no compliment ever had, beneath vanity and pride, where loneliness had taught her that burdens were temporarily eased only by pretending they did not exist.
Her smile faded. For once, she did not hurry to replace it.
Mr. Ashby looked at her, and the silence altered. It was no longer awkward or polite. It became perilous, drawing the distance between them tighter until the air itself felt thin.
Poppy was aware of the open door behind him, the cool air curling into the foyer, the lamplight on his hair, the clean line of his mouth, and the faint scent of starch and paper.
His gaze moved over her face with a restraint that somehow felt more intimate than boldness, as if he were memorizing what he would not allow himself to touch.
His hand lifted, slow enough that she could have stepped back.
She did not.
His fingers touched the knot beneath her chin.
Poppy drew in a quick, unsteady breath. The careful brush of his glove beneath her jaw, sending a breathless shiver through her.
“Your ribbon,” he said, his voice lower than before. “It was coming loose.”
Her gaze met his. “And now?”
His thumb brushed the sensitive hollow beneath her jaw. “Now I am making it worse.”
The words should have made her laugh. They almost did. Then his breath changed, and the fragile humor between them disappeared.
He bent before prudence could stop him.
His mouth touched her cheek, close to the corner of her mouth, a kiss so restrained it should have done no damage. Instead, it sent heat through her in a swift, impossible rush. Apology, want, warning, and hunger, all compressed into one forbidden instant.
Poppy’s fingers caught his sleeve.
That small contact seemed to undo him more completely than any open invitation could have done.
He drew back, color high along his cheekbones. “Forgive me.”
She could not speak at once. Her hand remained on his sleeve, her skin alive where his mouth had touched her.
“There is nothing to forgive,” she said.
“There is everything to forgive. I am your solicitor.”
“At present.”
The words slipped out before she could weigh them.
His face hardened around the struggle he refused to name. “Do not say that.”
“Why?”
“Because I am already having difficulty remembering it.”
From upstairs, Freddie barked.
Gabriel flinched, almost laughed, then stepped back. The retreat looked less like composure than punishment.
“I should go,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied, though she did not mean it.
He bowed. “Good night, Miss Montfort.”
“Good night, Mr. Ashby.”
He turned and walked out into the lamplit street, his stride a little too quick to be untroubled.
Poppy remained in the open doorway until he disappeared.
Then she closed the door and stood with her fingers at her cheek, where his mouth had touched her and where her skin still remembered the shape of his restraint breaking.
A little thrill shot through her.