Thrown into confusion, Poppy focused on the simple knot of his white cravat. At another time, in another situation, she would have been extraordinarily flattered. At the moment, however, she was too absorbed in her despair over Michael.
With sneak-thief adroitness, Harry extricated her from the aggregate of dancers and led her to the row of French doors opening onto the terrace. She followed blindly, hardly caring if they were seen or not.
The air outside was a brace of coolness, dry and sharp in her lungs. Poppy breathed in rapid gasps, grateful to have escaped the smothering atmosphere of the ballroom. Hot tears slid from her eyes.
“Here,” Harry said, guiding her to the far side of the balcony, which extended nearly the full width of the mansion. The lawn below was a quiet ocean. Harry brought Poppy to a shadowed corner. Reaching inside his coat pocket, he found a pressed square of fine linen and gave it to her.
Poppy blotted her eyes. “I can’t begin to tell you,” she said unsteadily, “how very sorry I am. You were so kind in asking me to dance, and now you’re k-keeping company with a w-watering pot.”
Looking amused and sympathetic, Harry leaned an elbow on the balcony railing as he faced her. His quietness relieved her. He waited patiently, as if he understood that no words could be an adequate plaster for her bruised spirit.
Poppy let out a slow breath, feeling soothed by the coolness of the night and the blessed lack of noise. “Mr. Bayning was going to offer for me,” she told Harry. She blew her nose with a childlike gust. “But he changed his mind.”
Harry studied her, his eyes catlike in the darkness. “What reason did he give?”
“His father didn’t approve of the match.”
“And that surprises you?”
“Yes,” she said defensively. “Because he made promises to me.”
“Men in Bayning’s position are rarely, if ever, allowed to marry whomever they want. There’s far more to consider than their personal preferences.”
“More important than love?” Poppy asked with bitter vehemence.
“Of course.”
“When all is said and done, marriage is a union of two people made by the same God. Nothing more, nothing less. Does that sound naïve?”
“Yes,” he said flatly.
Poppy’s lips quirked, although she felt nothing close to actual amusement. “I’m sure I’ve read too many fairy tales. The prince is supposed to slay the dragon, defeat the villain, and marry the servant girl, and carry her off to his castle.”
“Fairy tales are best read as entertainment,” Harry said. “Not as a guide to life.” He removed his gloves methodically and tucked them into one of his coat pockets. Resting both his forearms on the railing, he sent her a sideways glance. “What does the servant girl do when the prince abandons her?”
“She goes home.” Poppy’s fingers tightened on the damp ball of the handkerchief. “I’m not suited for London and all its illusions. I want to return to Hampshire, where I can rusticate in peace.”
“For how long?”
“Forever.”
“And marry a farmer?” he asked skeptically.
“Perhaps.” Poppy dried the residue of her tears. “I would make a wonderful farmwife. I’m good with cows. I know how to make hotchpotch. And I would appreciate the peace and quiet for my reading.”
“Hotchpotch? What is that?” Harry seemed to have undue interest in the subject, his head inclined toward hers.
“A harvest vegetable broth.”
“How did you learn to make it?”
“My mother.” Poppy lowered her voice as if imparting highly confidential information. “The secret,” she said wisely, “is a splash of ale.”
They were standing too close. Poppy knew she should move away. But his nearness felt like shelter, and his scent was fresh and beguiling. The night air raised gooseflesh on her bare arms. How large and warm he was. She wanted to match herself against him and burrow inside the haven of his coat as if she were one of Beatrix’s small pets.
“You’re not meant to be a farmwife,” Harry said.
Poppy gave him a rueful glance. “You think no farmer would have me?”
“I think,” he said slowly, “that you should marry a man who would appreciate you.”
She made a face. “Those are in short supply.”
He smiled. “You don’t need a supply. You just need one.” He grasped Poppy’s shoulder, his hand curving over the illusion-trimmed sleeve of her gown until she felt its warmth through the fragile gauze. His thumb toyed with the filmy edge of fabric, brushing her skin in a way that made her stomach tighten. “Poppy,” he said gently, “what if I asked for permission to court you?”
She went blank as astonishment swept through her.
Finally, someone had asked to court her.
And it wasn’t Michael, or any of the diffident, superior aristocrats she had met during three failed seasons. It was Harry Rutledge, an elusive and enigmatic man she had known only a matter of days.
“Why me?” was all she could manage.
“Because you’re interesting and beautiful. Because saying your name makes me smile. Most of all because this may be my only hope of ever having hotchpotch.”
“I’m sorry, but . . . no. It wouldn’t be a good idea at all.”
“I think it’s the best idea I’ve ever had. Why can’t we?”
Poppy’s mind was spinning. She could hardly stammer out a reply. “I-I don’t like courtship. It’s very stressful. And disappointing.”
His thumb found the soft ridge of her collarbone and traced it slowly. “It’s arguable that you’ve ever had a real courtship. But if it pleases you, we’ll dispense with it altogether. That would save time.”
“I don’t want to dispense with it,” Poppy said, increasingly flustered. She trembled as she felt his fingertips glide along the side of her neck. “What I mean is . . . Mr. Rutledge, I’ve just been through a very difficult experience. This is too soon.”
“You were courted by a boy, who had to do as he was told.” His hot breath feathered against her lips as he whispered, “You should try it with a man, who needs no one’s permission.”
A man. Well, he certainly was that.
“I don’t have the luxury of waiting,” Harry continued. “Not when you’re so hell-bent on going back to Hampshire. You’re the reason I’m here tonight, Poppy. Believe me, I wouldn’t have come otherwise.”
“You don’t like balls?”
“I do. But the ones I attend are given by a far different crowd.”
Poppy couldn’t imagine what crowd he was referring to, or what kind of people he usually associated with. Harry Rutledge was too much of a mystery. Too experienced, too overwhelming in every way. He could never offer the quiet, ordinary, sane life she longed for.
“Mr. Rutledge, please don’t take this as an affront, but you don’t have the qualities I seek in a husband.”
“How do you know? I have some excellent qualities you haven’t even seen yet.”
Poppy gave a shaky laugh. “I think you could talk a fish out of its skin,” she told him. “But still, I don’t—” She stopped with a gasp as he ducked his head and stole an off-center kiss from her lips, as if her laughter were something he could taste. She felt the imprint of his mouth even after he drew back, her excited nerves reluctant to release the sensation.
“Spend an afternoon with me,” he urged. “Tomorrow.”
“No, Mr. Rutledge. I’m—”
“Harry.”
“Harry, I can’t—”
“An hour?” he whispered. He bent to her again, and she turned her face away in confusion. He sought her neck instead, his lips brushing the vulnerable flesh with half-open kisses.
No one had ever done such a thing, even Michael. Who would have thought it would feel so delicious? Dazed, Poppy let her head fall back, her body accepting the steady support of his arms. He searched her throat with devastating care, touching his tongue to her pulse. His hand cradled her n
ape, the pad of his thumb tracing the satiny edge of her hairline. As her balance faltered, she reached around his neck.
He was so gentle, teasing color to the surface of her skin, chasing little shivers with his mouth. Blindly she followed, wanting the taste of him. As she angled her face toward his, her lips grazed the close-shaven surface of his jaw. His breath caught. “You should never cry over a man,” he said against her cheek. His voice was soft, dark, like smoked honey. “No one is worth your tears.” Before she could answer, he caught her mouth in a full, open kiss.
Poppy went weak, melting against him as he kissed her slowly. The tip of his tongue entered, played gently, and the feel of it was so strange and intimate and tantalizing that a wild tremor ran through her. His mouth lifted at once.
“I’m sorry. Did I frighten you?”
Poppy couldn’t seem to think of an answer. It wasn’t that he had frightened her, more that he had given her a glimpse of a vast erotic territory she had never encountered before. Even in her inexperience, she comprehended that this man had the power to turn her inside out with pleasure. And that was not something she had ever considered or bargained for.
She tried to swallow the heartbeat that had ascended in her throat. Her lips felt stung and swollen. Her body throbbed in unfamiliar places.
Harry framed her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her crimson cheeks. “The waltz is over by now. Your companion is going to turn on me like a rat terrier for bringing you back late.”
“She’s very protective,” Poppy managed to say.
“She should be.” Harry lowered his hands, setting her free.
Poppy stumbled, her knees astonishingly weak. Harry grabbed her in a swift reflex, pulling her back against him. “Easy.” She heard him laugh softly. “My fault. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that.”
“You’re right,” she said, her sense of humor tentatively reasserting itself. “I should give you a set-down . . . slap you or something . . . what is the usual response from ladies you’ve taken liberties with?”
“They encourage me to do it again?” Harry suggested in such a helpful manner that Poppy couldn’t help smiling.
“No,” she said. “I’m not going to encourage you.”
They faced each other in darkness relieved only by the slivers of light shed by upper-floor windows. How capricious life was, Poppy thought. She should have been dancing with Michael tonight. But now she was Michael’s castoff, and she was standing outside the ballroom, in the shadows with a stranger.
Interesting, that she could be so in love with one man and yet find another so compelling. But Harry Rutledge was one of the most fascinating people she had ever met, with so many layers of charm and drive and ruthlessness that she couldn’t fathom what kind of man he really was. She wondered what he was like in his private moments.
She was almost sorry she would never find out.
“Give me a penance,” Harry urged. “I’ll do whatever you ask.”
As their gazes caught and held in the shadows, Poppy realized that he actually meant it. “How large a penance?” she asked.
Harry tilted his head a little, studying her intently. “Ask for anything.”
“What if I wanted a castle?”
“Done,” he said promptly.
“Actually, I don’t want a castle. Too drafty. What about a diamond tiara?”
“Certainly. A modest one suitable for daytime wear, or something more elaborate?”
Poppy began to smile, when a few minutes earlier she had thought she would never smile again. She felt a surge of liking and gratitude. She couldn’t think of anyone else who would have been able to console her in these circumstances. But the smile turned bittersweet as she looked up at him once more.
“Thank you,” she said. “But I’m afraid no one can give me the one thing I truly want.”
Rising on her toes, she pressed her lips sweetly to his cheek. It was a friendly kiss.
A good-bye kiss.
Harry looked down at her intently. His gaze flicked to something beyond her, before his mouth came down over hers with smoldering demand. Confounded by his sudden aggression, thrown off balance, she reached out for him reflexively. It was the wrong reaction, the wrong time and place . . . wrong to feel a surge of pleasure as he tasted and sweetly delved inside her mouth . . . but, as she was discovering, there were some temptations impossible to resist. And his kisses seemed to wring a helpless response from every part of her, a bonfire of feeling. She couldn’t catch up with her own pulse, her own breath. Her nerves lit with sparks of sensation, while stars cascaded all around her, little bursts of light striking the tiles of the terrace floor with the sound of breaking crystal . . .
Trying to ignore the harsh noise, Poppy leaned harder against him. But Harry eased her away with a quiet murmur, and guided her head to his chest as if he were trying to protect her.
Her lashes lifted, and she went cold and still as she saw that someone . . . several someones . . . had come out to the balcony.
Lady Norbury, who had dropped a glass of champagne in her surprise. And Lord Norbury, and another elderly couple.
And Michael, with a blonde woman on his arm.
They all stared at Poppy and Harry in shock.
Had the angel of death appeared at that moment, complete with black wings and a gleaming scythe, Poppy would have run to him with open arms. Because being caught on the balcony kissing Harry Rutledge was not just a scandal . . . it would be the stuff of legend. She was ruined. Her life was ruined. Her family was ruined. Everyone in London would know by sunrise.
Dumbstruck by the sheer awfulness of the situation, Poppy looked helplessly up at Harry. And for one confusing moment, she thought she saw a flicker of predatory satisfaction in his eyes. But then his expression changed.
“This might be difficult for us to explain,” he said.
Chapter Ten
As Leo made his way through the Norbury mansion, he was privately amused as he saw some of his friends—young lords whose debauchery had put even his past exploits to shame—now starched and buttoned up and impeccably mannered. Not for the first time, Leo reflected how unfair it was that men were allowed to get away with so much more than women.
This business of manners, for example . . . he had seen his sisters struggling to remember hundreds of inane points of etiquette that were expected of upper-class society. Whereas Leo’s main interest in the rules of etiquette was how to break them. And he, as a man with a title, was unfailingly excused for nearly anything. Ladies at a supper party were criticized behind their backs if they used the wrong fork for the fish course, while a man could drink to excess or make some off-color remark, and everyone pretended not to notice.
Nonchalantly, Leo entered the ballroom and stood to the side of the triple-width doorway, surveying the scene. Dull, dull, dull. There was the ever-present row of virgins and their chaperones, and clusters of gossiping women that reminded him of nothing so much as a hen yard.
His attention was snared by the sight of Catherine Marks, standing in the corner and watching as Beatrix and her partner danced.
Marks looked tense as usual, her slender dark-clad figure as straight as a ramrod. She never missed an opportunity to disdain Leo and treat him as if he had all the intellectual prowess of an oyster. And she was resistant to any attempts at charm or humor. Like any sensible man, Leo did his best to avoid her.
But to his chagrin, Leo couldn’t stop himself from wondering what Catherine Marks would look like after a good, thorough tupping. Her spectacles cast aside, her silky hair loose and tumbled, her pale body released from the contraption of stays and laces . . .
Suddenly nothing at the ball seemed quite so interesting as his sisters’ companion.
Leo decided to go bother her.
He sauntered to her. “Hello, Marks. How is the—”
“Where have you been?” she whispered violently, her eyes flashing furiously behind her spectacles.
“In the card ro
om. And then I had a plate of supper. Where else should I have been?”
“You were supposed to have been helping with Poppy.”
“Helping with what? I promised I would dance with her, and here I am.” Leo paused and glanced around them. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
He frowned. “How can you not know? You mean to say you’ve lost her?”
“The last time I saw Poppy was approximately ten minutes ago, when she went to dance with Mr. Rutledge.”
“The hotel owner? He never appears at these things.”
“He did this evening,” Miss Marks said grimly, keeping her tone low. “And now they’ve disappeared. Together. You must find her, my lord. Now. She is in danger of being ruined.”
“Why haven’t you gone after her?”
“Someone has to keep an eye on Beatrix, or she’ll disappear as well. Besides, I didn’t want to draw attention to Poppy’s absence. Go find her, and be quick about it.”
Leo scowled. “Marks, in case you hadn’t noticed, other servants don’t snap out orders to their masters. So if you don’t mind—”
“You’re not my master,” she had the nerve to say, glaring insolently at him.
Oh, I’d like to be, Leo thought in a quick, angry flush of arousal, every hair on his body standing erect. Along with a certain feature of his anatomy. He decided to leave before her effect on him became obvious. “All right, settle your feathers. I’ll find Poppy.”
“Start looking in all the places where you would take a woman to compromise her. There can’t be that many.”
“Yes, there can. You’d be amazed at the variety of places I’ve—”
“Please,” she muttered. “I’m feeling nauseous enough at the moment.”
Casting an assessing glance around the ballroom, Leo spied the row of French doors at the far end. He headed for the balcony, trying to go as fast as possible without appearing to be in a hurry. It was his cursed luck to be snared in two separate conversations on the way, one with a friend who wanted his opinion of a certain lady, the other with a dowager who thought the punch was “off” and wanted to know if he’d tried it.