Chapter Fourteen
For one suspended instant, Mr. Ashby stood utterly still. Wait. No. Not Mr. Ashby. Gabriel. She’d kissed the man, for heaven’s sake. She ought not to call him Mr. Ashby any longer.
Poppy remained before him with one hand curled in the lapel of his coat, Freddie’s wet ribbon looped around the other, and her entire sensible future hanging somewhere beyond recall.
She had told him to kiss her again. She had said the words aloud. More astonishing still, she felt no regret. The tiny kiss in the foyer had been a crack in the glass. This was the shattering.
Gabriel searched her face, as if offering her one final chance to become prudent before both of them abandoned the effort.
Poppy lifted her chin. “Do you want to kiss me?”
His eyes darkened. “More than is wise.”
“Then I am glad wisdom has disappointed us.”
The last of his restraint broke.
His hand returned to her cheek, and he kissed her again. This kiss was nothing like the restrained brush in the foyer. There, he had stolen a breath and fled from the theft. Here, his mouth settled over hers with deliberate hunger.
Poppy had dreamed of kisses before. Of course she had.
Long before Papa died, before unpaid bills and melancholy poets and letters smelling of snuff, she had imagined some handsome gentleman drawing her onto a moonlit terrace and kissing her until the ballroom, the music, and every other person in London ceased to matter.
She had expected romance to feel graceful.
It did not.
It felt like losing her balance and discovering she had no wish to recover it.
Her fingers tightened in his coat. His thumb moved lightly along her cheek, then slipped beneath the brim of her bonnet to the sensitive place near her ear.
The touch sent a shiver down her spine, and when her lips parted on a breath, he made a low sound that seemed dragged from somewhere beneath all that careful restraint.
The sound thrilled her.
Gabriel—grave, correct, relentlessly sensible Gabriel—was kissing her with every rule he had spent his life arranging into neat columns thoroughly abandoned.
Poppy wanted to know what else he might forget.
She leaned closer. The movement brought her against his coat for one charged moment, breast to chest, silk to wool, her breath caught between them.
His free hand came to her waist. At first, it was only steadiness.
Then his fingers tightened, and the careful gentleman who had spoken to her of contracts, creditors, and consequence gave himself away entirely.
Poppy felt the change in him.
He wanted her. Badly. The knowledge struck through her with such force that she nearly swayed.
The world beyond them remained stubbornly present.
Leaves stirred overhead. Ducks protested somewhere near the water.
The curricle stood visible through the trees, and the groom remained near the horse with his back turned so resolutely that Poppy suspected he had developed a sudden and consuming interest in harnesses.
They should stop.
Instead, Poppy kissed Gabriel back with every bit of longing she had never been given occasion to spend.
His mouth softened, then deepened again.
He angled her face gently beneath his hand, and Poppy felt the difference between being kissed and being cherished even in this reckless, stolen moment.
He was not careless with her. He could not seem to be careless, even now.
Every touch carried restraint beneath the hunger, an effort not to frighten or overwhelm her when she had no intention of being frightened and would not have minded being overwhelmed a little.
Freddie barked.
Neither of them moved.
The puppy tugged sharply at the ribbon in Poppy’s hand and succeeded only in winding himself around her skirts.
Gabriel drew back a fraction, his forehead nearly touching hers. “Your dog objects,” he said, his voice rougher than she had ever heard it.
“Freddie objects to many things. I should not place too much weight upon his judgment,” she breathed.
Gabriel’s mouth curved.
Poppy felt the smile beneath her own lips before he kissed her again.
This kiss was briefer, and somehow more intimate. His thumb brushed the curve of her cheek, and something in her chest opened painfully wide.
Then he drew back with visible effort.
For a heartbeat, he only looked at her. The polished solicitor was gone. In his place stood a man with uneven breath, disordered hair, and eyes dark with feeling he had spent far too long attempting to govern.
“Poppy,” he said.
The sound of her name undid her nearly as much as the kiss.
“Yes?”
His throat moved. “I cannot pretend this is merely imprudent.”
She tightened her hand in his coat. “Then do not pretend.”
“I want you.” His voice was low, scraped almost bare. “That is the truth. I want you, and I have wanted you longer than I have permitted myself to admit.”
Her heart lurched.
He had said he appreciated her.
Now he had said this.
He had spoken of her wit, her loyalty, her courage. He had looked at her and seen first the very things everyone else overlooked. And now his face told her, with devastating clarity, that he wanted the woman attached to all of it.
No gentleman had ever done that.
Lord Rillington had admired her wit until Mama embarrassed him.
Lord Ketterham had admired her practicality until he understood it came attached to a household requiring patience.
Gabriel had seen the whole of it.
And he had kissed her regardless…or perhaps even because he knew.
The thought made her bold. Her hand slid from his lapel to the side of his neck, where the edge of his cravat met warm skin. His pulse beat hard beneath her fingertips.
Poppy stilled. So did he. For one breathless moment, they looked at one another. The knowledge of it passed between them quietly. And she had a perfectly delicious thought. He was not composed…not entirely…not with her.
A delightful sense of power unfurled low in Poppy’s stomach. “Your cravat is still very orderly,” she whispered.
His brows lifted. “Is that a criticism?”
“I had begun to wonder whether anything could disturb it.”
Something heated in his eyes. “Poppy.”
Her name in that tone sounded almost like a warning. Poppy gave him a wicked smile. “Gabriel.”
His eyes flared and he kissed her again before she could say anything more.
This time, his restraint frayed. His hand tightened at her waist, drawing her closer with an urgency that made her breath catch.
His mouth moved over hers, warm and certain and far too persuasive.
Poppy had the wild thought that she might happily stand on this path until nightfall, kissing a solicitor beside a muddy spaniel while half of London passed within view.
Then Gabriel released her.
Not entirely. His hands remained upon her for one heartbeat longer, his body slower than his conscience to surrender the contact.
He stepped back.
Poppy felt the loss of him at once. The cool air touched her face. Her lips tingled. Her pulse raced so violently she wondered whether it could be seen beneath her pelisse.
He glanced toward the curricle. His groom continued studying the horse with heroic concentration.
Gabriel dragged one hand over his mouth, then seemed to realize what he had done and lowered it sharply. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “For taking a liberty.”
Poppy’s delight dimmed. “A liberty I specifically requested.”
“I should not have obliged you.”
Poppy plunked her hands on her hips. “You cannot kiss me twice—”
“More than twice,” he said before he could stop himself.
Poppy’s nostrils flared. “You cannot kiss me more than twice, then hide behind propriety while implying it was nothing more than a simple mistake.”
His mouth tightened. “That is not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
For a moment, he said nothing.
The wind stirred the trees above them. Freddie had abandoned his objections and begun sniffing the grass with fierce investigative purpose. Somewhere across the water, a child laughed.
Gabriel looked at Poppy with the grim air of having reached the end of every sensible argument. At last, he said, “I have behaved badly.”
Poppy blinked. “Have you?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you behaved rather well.”
He ignored her jest and paced away from her. “The truth is I have developed a regard for you that is no longer appropriate to my position.” He delivered the words stoically, with the grim solemnity usually reserved for the greatest sin imaginable.
The fragile happiness inside her stilled.
His words were careful, but she saw the cost of them in his face. Every syllable seemed drawn through restraint.
“I have attempted to persuade myself otherwise,” he continued.
“I told myself my concern was professional. That I wished only to assist you until Lord Montague’s arrival because leaving your affairs unsettled would be irresponsible.
That attending Lady Pembroke’s dinner was necessary because Lady Montague required protection from men such as Count Bellarosa.
That offering to drive you in the park was for…
” He paused, visibly dissatisfied with himself.
“I have not yet devised a respectable explanation for that.”
Poppy could not help it. “Fresh air?”
His gaze warmed despite himself. “An unconvincing argument.”
“I thought so.”
“But the truth is plain enough now.” His expression sobered. “My feelings have become involved.”
The words should have delighted her. And they did. But they also frightened her, because he spoke them like a man announcing a disaster requiring immediate containment.
Poppy’s fingers closed more tightly around Freddie’s ribbon. “And that is terrible?”
“It is a risk.”
“To whom?”
“To you.”
She stared at him.
He continued before she could object. “You are in a vulnerable position. You have five days before Lord Montague arrives. You require a titled husband capable of offering you and Lady Montague security. I am your solicitor. I know the particulars of your household affairs. I know precisely how urgent your circumstances are. For me to continue acting for you while allowing this…” His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before lifting again.
“While allowing my feelings to influence my judgment would be indefensible.”
Poppy’s first impulse was indignation. Her second was admiration, which was inconvenient. He was not rejecting her because he did not want her. Every strained line of him made that impossible to believe.
He was trying to protect her. From him. The notion was noble, aggravating, and not entirely acceptable. “So what do you mean to do?” she asked.
He straightened his coat. “Remove myself from the matter.”
Poppy’s breath caught. “Remove yourself?”
“I will speak with my father. He may resume the oversight of your affairs temporarily or recommend another solicitor of unimpeachable discretion. I will provide every document, every note, and every relevant fact. You will not be left without advice.”
“Only without you.” The words escaped too quickly.
Gabriel’s face changed. “Poppy.”
“No.” She drew in a breath. “No, you cannot reduce this to another simple line in your notebook. Review settlement. Write Lord Montague. Abandon troublesome client at first opportunity.”
He clenched his jaw. “That is not what I am doing.”
“Is it not?”
“No.” His voice roughened. “Do you imagine this is easy?”
Poppy looked at him. The quiet intensity in his expression stole the next sharp reply from her lips.
“You must understand,” he continued. “I have spent my entire life guarding against precisely this,” he said. “Against letting affection persuade me that compromised judgment is acceptable.”
Poppy nodded sagely. “I see. You think caring for me makes you foolish.”
“No.” The word was quiet, immediate, and rough enough to cost him. “I think remaining in a position of influence when I am no longer impartial would be.”
Poppy wanted to argue. She could not entirely. That only made it worse.
He stepped closer, though not close enough to touch her. “I am not a peer,” he said. “I cannot give you what you require. My practice is respectable, but I do not have a fortune. My family is not your family’s equal in rank. You need safety. A home. A future for Lady Montague as well as yourself.”
She swallowed hard. “I know what I need.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” Her voice sharpened. “And I have spent ten years knowing what everyone needs, too, Gabriel. Mama needs rescuing from men who want money she does not possess. Tradesmen need paying. Lord Montague needs the town house because he has reached one-and-twenty and discovered the intoxicating pleasures of curtains. I am very well acquainted with need.”
Gabriel flinched.
Poppy pressed on because if she stopped, she might cry, and she refused to cry beside the Serpentine while Freddie smelled of pond water.
“What I do not know,” she said, “is what I want. No one has asked me that in quite a long time. Not even me.”
Gabriel looked at her for one searching, painful moment. Then he said, “What do you want, Poppy?”
The question struck somewhere deep. She opened her mouth. Then closed it.
She had wanted a husband. A titled one, preferably. A house Mama could not lose. Bills paid. Coal delivered without negotiation. A future that did not vanish because a young man with a snuffbox wrote a handful of sentences on a piece of paper.
She still wanted those things. She needed those things.
But standing before Gabriel with her lips still tingling from his kisses, she wanted something else too.
Something impossible.
“You,” she said.
The word came softly.
His breath changed.
Heat climbed her cheeks, but she did not look away. “I want you,” she repeated. “Which is inconvenient and impractical and not at all what Bea and Georgie had in mind when they began assembling titled gentlemen in ballrooms. But it is true.”
Gabriel closed his eyes for one moment. When he opened them again, the hunger she had seen earlier remained, but something harder stood behind it. Restraint. Decision. Painfully earned and terribly stubborn. “Don’t you see? That is why I must go,” he said.
Poppy watched him. He bent and gathered Freddie’s ribbon from her hand, not touching her fingers this time. The absence of contact felt deliberate. Cruel because it was careful.
“I will see you safely back home,” he said. “Then I will speak with my father.”
The ordinary words hurt more than any dramatic farewell could have done.
He was leaving. He meant to leave the park, the afternoon, and the intimacy that had unsettled them both.
He meant to place some other solicitor between them, to retreat into professional correctness, and to leave Poppy with five days, a marriage settlement, and a collection of titled men who might give her what she needed while failing to be what she wanted.
She could not tell him he was wrong, because every practical part of her understood the mercy of his retreat. Only the part of her that wanted him wished he had been far less merciful.