Chapter Nineteen #2
“You still think I should find a husband,” she said.
“I think you should have every available choice.”
“Choice.” She looked down at the cottage paper. “A dismal cottage or a gentleman who deigns to accept Mama. What a lovely choice.”
“Poppy.”
“No. Forgive me.” She pressed one hand to her brow, then dropped it. “You are trying to help. I know you are. But tell me honestly—would you ask me to marry a man I do not love?”
The question pierced him more cleanly than any accusation.
Security mattered. He knew it did. He had seen what happened to women left dependent upon the mercy of careless men and careless law. Poppy needed shelter, money, protection, and a place in the world that could not be stolen by Algernon Montfort and his ridiculous preferences.
But Gabriel had kissed her.
He had held desire and trust in his hands.
How could he now send her toward a man whose chief virtue was not recoiling from her mother?
“No,” he said at last. “I could not advise that.”
Her breath caught.
“But I would not advise you to refuse security merely because it does not arrive in the form you wished.”
She looked away. “That sounds like advising without advising.”
He tugged at his lapel. “It is not meant to.”
Her chin lifted sharply. “What is it meant to be?”
“The truth.”
She laughed softly, without much amusement. “You and your truths.”
“The choice must be yours.”
“And I have made my choice,” she said quietly, placing her hand atop the cottage paper.
Something in her face softened so suddenly that he nearly reached for her.
A light knock sounded at the half-open door.
Jenkins appeared. “Forgive me, miss. Lady Vanover has arrived.”
Poppy turned. “Bea?”
“Yes, miss.” Jenkins hesitated. “She is not alone.”
Gabriel felt the warning before he understood it.
Poppy glanced at him, then moved past Jenkins into the hall.
Gabriel followed. When he saw the gentleman beside Lady Vanover, every sensible objection he had ever made to matchmaking went abruptly silent.
So this was Lady Vanover’s final measure?
The Marquess of Caldermere.
Gabriel knew of him. Everyone did. The marquess possessed one of the oldest titles in England, an estate in Kent, another in Derbyshire, a London house large enough to require its own map, and an income respectable men discussed only after ensuring they could not be overheard envying it.
He had survived the death of his father, an engagement to Lady Cecily Lane ended by what Society politely called mutual consent, a flurry of rumors afterward, and nearly a decade of determined attempts to marry him off since.
He was thirty-eight. Wealthy. Titled. Unimpeachable.
In short, exactly the kind of man Poppy needed.
Gabriel hated him at once.
Caldermere did not look around the hall in alarm. He did not stare at the snuff cabinet. He did not appear to notice Freddie attempting to chew the corner of Mr. Pritchard’s instruction list.
He looked first at Poppy.
“Miss Montfort,” Bea said, a little too brightly. “Forgive the intrusion.”
Poppy’s gaze flicked once to Gabriel. It was a small look. Brief. Almost nothing. But it spoke volumes. Is this what you meant? Continue the search. Complete the marriage contract. Choose security.
Gabriel’s hands curled at his sides before he forced them still.
Bea continued, “May I present Edmund Caldwell, Marquess of Caldermere?”
Caldermere bowed. “Miss Montfort.”
Poppy curtsied. “My lord.”
“I hope you will forgive Lady Vanover for bringing me without warning,” he said. His voice was deep, calm, and mildly amused. “She assured me that if I waited for a formal invitation, the moment might be lost.”
Bea’s chin lifted. “It might.”
“And Lady Vanover is rarely wrong,” Caldermere added.
“Rarely?” Bea repeated.
“Never in my company,” he amended.
Despite herself, Poppy smiled.
Gabriel disliked that too.
Caldermere saw the smile and looked pleased by it, though not in the predatory manner of a fool flattered by his own charm. He seemed, damn him, genuinely interested.
“Lady Vanover has told me a great deal about you,” Caldermere continued. “Specifically that you are looking to marry…with some haste.”
Gabriel kept his face carefully blank. So Caldermere was here plainly looking for a wife? Lady Vanover had chosen well.
Poppy’s eyes widened briefly. “It is true,” she allowed.
“I am as well,” Caldermere said frankly. “And Lady Vanover speaks quite highly of you.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Poppy replied with a small laugh.
“She described your wit, loyalty, competence, and courage. She also said you are not dull, which I value highly,” Caldermere said.
Poppy glanced toward Bea. “Did she say anything unflattering?”
“No,” Bea said.
Just then, Lady Viva’s voice floated from the drawing room. “Someone tell Mr. Loxley that death does not require a third slice of cake!”
Mr. Loxley answered weakly, “Then death and I disagree.”
Caldermere turned his head toward the noise.
Gabriel waited for the calculation. The polite recoil. The careful assessment of what marrying Poppy would require.
But Caldermere merely smiled. “What a lively household,” he said.
Lady Viva appeared at the drawing room door. “Darling, whoever you are, that is the kindest description anyone has given us all week.”
Poppy’s cheeks went pink.
Gabriel’s jaw tightened.
Caldermere bowed to Lady Viva. “Then I am glad to have been of service, my lady.”
“Handsome and polite,” Lady Viva said. “Poppy, do take notice.”
“Mama,” Poppy murmured.
Caldermere did not retreat. He did not look to Bea for rescue. He looked amused, composed, and entirely equal to the scene. He introduced himself to Lady Viva while she appeared to remain utterly charmed.
Gabriel narrowed his eyes. A serious threat then.
He had hoped for weakness. Vanity. Alarm. Some small sign that Caldermere’s excellent coat and ancient title concealed a delicate constitution easily unsettled by Montfort nonsense.
Instead, interest sharpened his expression, giving the impression that he had expected dullness, and something far more promising had opened before him.
Bea’s gaze slid briefly to Gabriel.
She had noticed his reaction. Of course she had.
Caldermere returned his attention to Poppy. “If you are not otherwise engaged, Miss Montfort, might I impose upon you for a few minutes of conversation?”
Poppy hesitated.
Gabriel knew the hesitation was only a moment, but it felt much longer.
Then she curtsied. “I should be pleased to converse with you, my lord.”
Caldermere offered his arm.
Poppy accepted.
Lady Viva beamed. Bea watched with undeniable satisfaction. Freddie dropped the corner of the instruction list and trotted after them, having clearly assumed responsibility for the courtship.
Caldermere looked down at the dog. “And this is?”
“Freddie,” Poppy said. “He is a stern judge of character.”
“I shall endeavor to earn his tolerance.”
“Begin by not carrying ducks.”
Caldermere laughed.
Poppy did too.
They moved toward the drawing room together.
Gabriel remained in the room beside the snuff cabinet, the beetle-colored fabric, Lord Montague’s instructions, and the cottage list still waiting upon the desk.
A possible miracle had arrived wearing an excellent coat and an ancient title.
Gabriel had no right to object.
Every instinct in him did.