Chapter Twenty
The Marquess of Caldermere ought to have been the answer to every prayer Poppy had not quite dared to utter aloud.
He was handsome. Not merely respectable in profile, as so many titled gentlemen managed by virtue of good coats and favorable lighting, but genuinely handsome, with dark hair, an intelligent face, and the assured manner that came from generations of Caldermeres entering rooms without once wondering whether they belonged in them.
She already knew he was wealthy enough that Mama would not trouble his steward beyond a raised brow or two.
His title was old enough to render gossip almost harmless.
If Lady Viva called a footman darling, invited a fraudulent count to supper, or attempted to finance an opera before pudding, Society would no longer laugh quite so loudly.
Society had a remarkable gift for discovering charm in eccentricity when sufficient rank endorsed it.
And best of all, Caldermere did not appear alarmed by the Montfort household.
That alone placed him above nearly every gentleman Poppy had met during the past several days. Of course, Poppy vaguely remembered Bea saying something about rumors surrounding the marquess, but clearly, at this point, the rumors were of little concern.
He offered her his arm, and she accepted it.
As she did, Poppy smoothed one gloved hand over the morning gown she had put on before anyone expected a marquess to appear in the hall.
It was a perfectly charming gown for receiving legal advice and rescuing stolen gloves, less obviously suited to becoming a possible marchioness. But there was no help for it.
As they crossed the passage toward the drawing room, Poppy felt Gabriel behind them with an awareness she could not dismiss.
She did not hear him move. She did not turn to look.
Yet the space between her shoulders prickled as though every one of his thoughts had fixed upon the gloved hand resting on Caldermere’s sleeve.
Good.
The small, uncharitable satisfaction arrived before she could prevent it.
Gabriel had kissed her and touched her in the drawing room, then drawn away as if their intimacy had been a mistake. He had arrived this morning prepared to help her move to the countryside or marry someone else. He had made restraint sound like honor and sacrifice sound like sense.
Let him dislike the result of his own plan.
The drawing room merely confirmed that the Montfort household treated disorder as a governing principle.
Mr. Loxley, at least, had improved dramatically since the arrival of additional cake. He sat upright on the sofa with a plate balanced upon one knee, pale enough to inspire concern but not so pale as to neglect the cake.
Lady Viva reclined opposite him, one slipper peeping from beneath her violet skirts. Beside Mama sat Count Bellarosa, of all unwelcome people. What was he doing here?
Mama looked up. Her gaze passed over Lord Caldermere, lingered appreciatively upon him, then returned to the fop at her side.
“Poppy, darling,” she said, “introduce the count to your terribly handsome young man.”
Lord Caldermere’s mouth shifted by a fraction. “Why, thank you for the compliment, my lady.”
Poppy closed her eyes while the introductions were made. Afterward, Lady Viva tapped her fan against the count’s sleeve. “He has been telling me about Italy.”
“Yes. I have been telling Lady Montague about the delights of Naples,” Count Bellarosa said.
“I have already learned a great deal about Italian wine,” Lady Viva told Poppy.
“That concerns me,” Poppy said. “You have not asked her to invest in a winery, have you?”
Count Bellarosa laughed.
Mama beamed, clearly prepared to accept personal credit for the success of the exchange.
Poppy glanced back. Bea had entered behind Gabriel and now surveyed the room with brisk alertness.
She clearly had no intention of leaving this final attempt at matchmaking to chance…
or the whims of the Montfort household. Gabriel stood near the door with the cottage particulars still in one hand, his expression composed.
Too composed.
Poppy had begun to recognize the signs. The precise set of his shoulders. The care with which his gaze touched Lord Caldermere, then retreated before it could reveal too much.
A flicker of pleasure moved through her.
It was immediately followed by irritation. Wanting her was not the same as choosing her. She had learned that lesson well enough.
“Do sit down,” Lady Viva said. “Mr. Loxley is attempting not to expire until after luncheon, which gives us time for introductions.”
“I did not say after luncheon,” Mr. Loxley murmured.
“No, sweetie, but you accepted a second slice of cake, and one must allow digestion a reasonable interval.”
Caldermere bowed over Lady Viva’s hand with admirable composure. “Lady Montague.”
“Lord Caldermere,” Mama said. “You are excessively handsome. I hope it has not spoiled you.”
“Only moderately, my lady.”
Mama looked pleased. “Good. Moderation is dull in excess, but useful in small doses.”
“I agree,” said Count Bellarosa, puffing out his velvet-covered chest.
Caldermere’s gaze returned to Poppy. They settled near the tea table, Bea placing herself with strategic precision, Gabriel remaining nearer the windows than Poppy would have preferred.
Caldermere asked after the household with tact enough to make concern sound courteous rather than investigative.
He did not dominate the room. He did not speak to Poppy as though her youth made her foolish or her circumstances made her pitiable. When she answered, he listened.
It was terribly inconvenient.
If he had been vain, cruel, or visibly appalled by Mama, Poppy could have dismissed him with a clean conscience and gone about packing things for the cottage.
Instead, the marquess offered no obvious reason to hesitate.
She had just met the man. She could hardly declare herself in love with him.
But he was certainly the sort of man she might grow to admire.
Someday. Given the correct conditions. Besides, she was not about to dismiss him after Bea had obviously gone to so much trouble to present him.
Leave it to Bea to find the one eligible gentleman who fulfilled every requirement and was also eager to wed for some reason.
Despite Poppy’s best intentions, her gaze continued to return to Gabriel. She wasn’t entirely certain why he had remained. Unless he merely wanted to witness her interactions with Lord Caldermere, which seemed unnecessary.
Gabriel said little. He did not need to say much. His presence altered the room for her. Whenever Caldermere leaned nearer, Gabriel grew more still. Whenever Caldermere made her smile, something unreadable passed across Gabriel’s face before restraint concealed it again.
Once, Caldermere asked whether she would miss London if she were required to spend part of the year in Kent.
Before Poppy answered, her gaze moved toward Gabriel. His eyes met hers.
A look was not a promise either. It could not keep rain from a cottage roof, make a creditor retreat, or provide Mama with a permanent home. Still, the force of it made Poppy’s pulse quicken.
She turned back to Caldermere. “I think I could be content in the country if London were not entirely forbidden to me.”
“It would not be,” he said. “I spend several months of each year in town.”
Precisely right. Another mark in his favor.
Poppy had begun to suspect Lord Caldermere never gave an answer without considering its proper shape first.
Gabriel did the same.
The comparison arrived unbidden. Caldermere’s restraint felt effortless, the polished ease of command long practiced and rarely challenged.
Gabriel’s restraint cost him. Poppy had felt the cost beneath her hands, tasted it in his kiss, seen it in the moment he stepped back from the sofa, as though wanting her and deserving her had become separate questions.
It was unfair to compare them…but she could not stop.
At last Caldermere set aside his teacup. “I hope you will forgive another plain question, Miss Montfort.”
Poppy smiled faintly. “I begin to suspect forgiveness may become a regular requirement of our acquaintance.”
“I shall attempt to earn it.” He glanced toward Lady Viva, who had persuaded Count Bellarosa to describe the exact shade of the Bay of Naples while she corrected him whenever the color lacked sufficient drama. “Would Lady Montague remain with you after marriage?”
Poppy felt Gabriel’s attention sharpen from across the room.
“Yes,” she said. “Or near enough that I may ensure she is comfortable.”
The words settled firmly inside her. She had chosen the cottage already. Which meant she could afford, at last, to be entirely honest with Lord Caldermere. It was the proper thing to do.
Caldermere nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”
Relief loosened something in her chest. So that had not dismayed him? Excellent.
He continued, “My town house would accommodate her with ease, of course. Caldermere Park has a dower house as well, though I would not presume to suggest any arrangement before understanding Lady Montague’s preference.”
Poppy stared at him.
A town house with room for Mama. A dower house in the country. No dismal cottage. No humiliating scramble. No need to impose upon Bea or Georgie. No desperate hope that Algernon might discover generosity before the week’s end.
Caldermere could solve everything with careless ease, as if he were offering another cup of tea. It was almost too perfect to credit.
“Thank you,” Poppy said softly. “That is generous.”
“It is practical,” Lord Caldermere replied.
Practical.
That was the word around which Poppy had built her life.
Practicality had kept the tradesmen from shouting at the door.
Practicality had preserved Mama’s last fragments of dignity.
Practicality had sent Poppy into ballrooms hoping to secure a titled husband before a dingy cottage became their only refuge.