Chapter Twenty #2
She could hardly resent Caldermere for offering exactly what she had asked for.
Count Bellarosa stood to refill his teacup, and Mama reached for his sleeve. “You must not leave me yet, darling. You have not explained whether Naples is a city of wine, brandy, or champagne.”
“Madam,” Count Bellarosa said, “Naples is a city of yes.”
Mama smiled brilliantly. “There. You see? The count understands things.”
Lord Caldermere glanced toward them. “Count Bellarosa appears to have excellent taste in company.”
“While Mama,” Poppy said, “tends toward the company of…colorful characters.”
“I had gathered as much.” The marquess’s tone held amusement, and the amusement was kind.
Another measure of relief slipped through Poppy.
Mama leaned toward Count Bellarosa and lowered her voice without making it any less audible. “You must take me to Naples, darling, and we shall sample its delights.”
The count bowed his head. “I should love nothing more.”
For one alarming instant, Poppy pictured Mama sweeping out of London on Count Bellarosa’s arm, bound for Naples, wine, opera, and an international incident. She glanced at Gabriel.
Gabriel glanced back. His expression remained perfectly composed, but his understanding showed all the same. He had pictured it too.
“Mama,” Poppy said in a warning tone.
“What? Naples sounds lovely.”
Poppy glanced down at Freddie. The puppy had fallen asleep in her lap, exhausted by crime and cake crumbs.
Bea set down her cup. “Lord Caldermere, perhaps Miss Montfort might show you the garden.”
Poppy turned toward Bea. Bea’s expression remained innocent.
Too innocent.
A walk in the garden would allow a more private conversation while remaining entirely proper beneath the drawing room windows.
Caldermere rose. “I should be delighted, if Miss Montfort is willing.”
Poppy could hardly refuse. “Certainly.”
She placed Freddie gently upon the sofa beside Mr. Loxley, who regarded the sleeping puppy with suspicion. “If he eats my next poem—” the poet began.
“It will improve his digestion,” Gabriel said.
Poppy looked at him.
His mouth curved by the smallest degree. The private tenderness of it went through her.
Then Caldermere offered his arm, and Poppy accepted.
The Montfort garden was modest, enclosed by a brick wall, and in need of more attention than anyone had given it for several years. The roses climbed where they pleased. Lavender spilled across one edge of the path. A stone bench leaned slightly beneath an overgrown lilac.
Mama had once called the garden charmingly ungovernable.
Gabriel would probably have regarded it as evidence requiring immediate correction.
The thought made Poppy smile.
“You are fond of the garden,” Caldermere said.
“I am fond of its refusal to surrender entirely.”
“A useful quality.”
They walked slowly along the path. Through the open drawing room windows, Poppy could still hear the murmur of voices. Mama laughed at something Count Bellarosa said. Mr. Loxley asked whether Freddie might be moved farther from the cake.
Caldermere looked toward the roses. “I do not intend to trifle with your time, Miss Montfort.”
Poppy’s fingers tightened slightly against his sleeve. “That is considerate.”
“I have spent years avoiding marriage because I had no wish to enter into it merely because Society found my continued bachelorhood inconvenient. But my mother is ill, and her condition worsens by the day. I am eager to ease her final months. She would see me married.”
Ah, so that explained his haste.
The candor settled between them.
Not romantic. But honest.
Poppy appreciated the courtesy. “I understand.”
“I require a wife who appreciates household duty, family name, and difficult responsibilities. Lady Vanover speaks highly of you. Your wit, your loyalty, your competence, your courage.” He paused, his gaze steady. “After meeting you, I understand why.”
Poppy felt the compliment. She could not pretend otherwise. “Bea is loyal.”
“She is also difficult to impress.”
“That too.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “I do not expect any lady to make a decision upon the strength of a single call. Nor would I ask it. But I hope you will permit me to call again tomorrow.”
Poppy’s pulse sped up with the recognition of a door opening. A door large enough to admit Mama, Freddie, every unpaid bill, and every part of the future Poppy had been trying to save.
“Yes,” she said. “I should be pleased. But—”
Caldermere narrowed his eyes. “But what?”
Poppy drew a breath. She risked offense by asking, but she needed the answer. “Why me, my lord? You could have your pick of debutantes.”
Caldermere paused beside the lilac. “I thought you might be curious about that.”
“I am.”
“Most debutantes would require a longer courtship. Weeks, perhaps longer, depending upon families, settlements, expectations, and the thousand little performances Society insists upon before allowing people to do what they meant to do from the start.”
Poppy nodded.
“As I understand it, you are in haste, because of your cousin’s imminent arrival.” His voice did not turn pitying. “So am I.”
Poppy took a deep breath. Any woman might wish to be chosen for reasons other than urgency, competence, and mutual practicality. But Lord Caldermere’s candor did not insult her. He had not pretended passion where none existed. He did not offer false romance as a veil for negotiation.
He was giving her the gift of truth.
“Lord Montague arrives quite soon,” he continued. “Your position requires clarity, not an extended courtship performed for Society’s entertainment. If our next conversation confirms the impression I have formed today, I should like to speak with Lady Montague formally.”
Poppy forgot how to breathe.
It was not a proposal. Not yet. But the shape of one rose unmistakably between them.
A marquess. A town house with room for Mama. Perhaps a dower house at Caldermere Park. Security so complete that Algernon’s snuff cabinet became silly rather than terrifying.
Poppy ought to have felt relief. Instead, she felt as if she couldn’t breathe.