In the wake of his parents’ abandonment, Harry had taken his meals in the kitchen with the hotel employees. When he was sick, one or another of the maids had taken care of him. He saw families come and go, and he had learned to view them with the same detachment that the hotel staff did. Deep down Harry harbored a suspicion that the reason his mother had left, the reason his father never had anything to do with him, was because he was unlovable. And therefore he had no desire to be part of a family. Even if or when Poppy bore him children, Harry would never allow anyone close enough to form an attachment. He would never let himself be shackled that way. And yet he sometimes knew a fleeting envy for those who were capable of it, like the Hathaways.
The breakfast wore on, with endless rounds of toasting. When Harry saw the betraying droop of Poppy’s shoulders, he deduced she’d had enough. He rose and made a short, gracious speech, offering his thanks for the honor of the guests’ presence on such a significant day.
It was the signal for the bride to retire along with her bridesmaids. They would soon be followed by the general company, who would disperse to attend a variety of amusements for the rest of the day. Poppy paused at the doorway. As if she could feel Harry’s gaze on her, she turned to glance over her shoulder.
A warning flashed in her eyes, and it aroused him instantly. Poppy would not be a complacent bride, nor had he expected her to be. She would try to exact compensation for what he had done, and he would indulge her . . . up to a point. He wondered how she would react when he came to her that evening.
Harry tore his gaze away from his bride as he was approached by Kev Merripen, Poppy’s brother-in-law, a man who managed to stay relatively inconspicuous despite his size and striking appearance. He was a Romany Gypsy, tall and black haired, his austere exterior concealing a nature of dark intensity.
“Merripen,” Harry said pleasantly. “Did you enjoy the breakfast?”
The Rom was in no mood for small talk. He stared at Harry with a gaze promising death. “Something is wrong,” he said. “If you’ve done something to harm Poppy, I will find you and rip your head from your—”
“Merripen!” came a cheerful exclamation as Leo suddenly appeared beside them. Harry didn’t miss the way Leo jabbed a warning elbow against the Gypsy’s ribs. “All charm and lightness, as usual. You’re supposed to congratulate the bridegroom, phral. Not threaten to dismember him.”
“It’s not a threat,” the Rom muttered. “It’s a promise.”
Harry met Merripen’s gaze directly. “I appreciate your concern for her. I assure you, I’ll do everything in my power to make her happy. Poppy will have anything she wants.”
“I believe a divorce would top the list,” Leo mused aloud.
Harry leveled a cool stare at Merripen. “I’d like to point out that your sister married me voluntarily. Michael Bayning should have had the bollocks to come to the church and carry her out bodily if necessary. But he didn’t. And if he wasn’t willing to fight for her, he didn’t deserve her.” He saw from Merripen’s quick blink that he had scored a point. “Moreover, after going through these exertions to marry Poppy, the last thing I would do is mistreat her.”
“What exertions?” the Rom asked suspiciously, and Harry realized that he hadn’t yet been told the entire story.
“Never mind that,” Leo told Merripen. “If I told you now, you’d only make an embarrassing scene at Poppy’s wedding. And that’s supposed to be my job.”
They exchanged a glance, and Merripen muttered something in Romany.
Leo smiled faintly. “I have no idea what you just said. But I suspect it’s something about battering Poppy’s new husband into forest mulch.” He paused. “Later, old fellow,” he said. A look of grim understanding passed between them.
Merripen gave him a curt nod and left without another word to Harry.
“And that was one of his good moods,” Leo remarked, staring after his brother-in-law with rueful affection. He returned his attention to Harry. Suddenly, his eyes were filled with a world-weariness that should have taken lifetimes to acquire. “I’m afraid no amount of discussion would ease Merripen’s concern. He’s lived with the family since he was a boy, and my sisters’ welfare is everything to him.”
“I will take care of her,” Harry said.
“I’m sure you’ll try. And whether you believe it or not, I hope you succeed.”
“Thank you.”
Leo focused on him with an astute gaze that would have troubled a man with a conscience. “Incidentally, I’m not going with the family when they depart for Hampshire on the morrow.”
“Business in London?” Harry asked politely.
“Yes, a few last parliamentary obligations. And a bit of architectural dabbling—a hobby of mine. But mainly I’m staying for Poppy’s sake. You see, I expect she’ll want to leave you quite soon, and I intend to escort her home.”
Harry smiled contemptuously, amused by his new brother-in-law’s effrontery. Did Leo have any idea how many ways Harry could ruin him, and how easily it could be done? “Tread carefully,” Harry said softly.
It was a sign of either naïveté or courage that Leo didn’t flinch. He actually smiled, though there was no humor in it. “There’s something you don’t seem to understand, Rutledge. You’ve managed to acquire Poppy, but you don’t have what it takes to keep her. Therefore, I won’t be far away. I’ll be there when she needs me. And if you harm her, your life won’t be worth a bloody farthing. No man is untouchable—not even you.”
After a maid had helped Poppy change from her wedding garments into a simple dressing gown, she brought a glass of iced champagne and tactfully left.
Grateful for the silence of the private apartments, Poppy sat at her dressing table and unpinned her hair slowly. Her mouth ached from smiling, and the tiny muscles of her forehead felt strained. She drank the champagne and made a project of brushing her hair in long strokes, letting it fall in mahogany waves. The boar bristles felt good against her scalp.
Harry had not yet come to the apartment. Poppy considered what she would say to him once he appeared, but nothing came to mind. With dreamlike slowness, she wandered through the rooms. Unlike the icy formality of the receiving area, the rest of the rooms had been decorated in plush fabrics and warm colors, with abundant places for sitting, reading, relaxing. Everything was immaculate, the windowpanes polished to stunning clarity, the Turkish carpeting clean swept and scented of tea leaves. There were fireplaces with marble or carved wood mantels and tiled hearths, and many lamps and sconces to keep the rooms well lit in the evening.
An extra bedroom had been added for Poppy. Harry had told her that she could have as many rooms for her own use as she wished—the apartments had been designed so that connecting spaces could be opened up with ease. The counterpane on the bed was a soft shade of robin’s egg blue, the fine linen sheets embroidered with tiny blue flowers. Pale blue satin and velvet curtains swathed the windows. It was a beautiful, feminine room, and Poppy would have taken great pleasure in it, had the circumstances been different.
She tried to decide if she was most angry with Harry, Michael, or herself. Perhaps equally with all three of them. And she was increasingly nervous, knowing it wouldn’t be long until Harry arrived. Her gaze fell to the bed. She reassured herself with the thought that Harry would not force her to submit to him. His villainy would not lend itself to crude violence.
Her stomach dropped as she heard someone entering the apartments. She took a deep breath, and another, and waited until Harry’s broad-shouldered form appeared in the doorway.
He paused, watching her, his features impassive. His cravat had been removed, the shirt opened to reveal the strong line of his throat. Poppy steeled herself not to move as Harry approached her. He reached out to touch her shining hair, letting it slide through his fingers like liquid fire. “I’ve never seen it down before,” he said. He was close enough that she could smell a hint of shaving soap, and the tang of champagne on his breath. His fingers smoothed over her chee
k, detecting the trembling within her stillness.
“Afraid?” he asked softly.
Poppy forced herself to meet his gaze. “No.”
“Maybe you should be. I’m much nicer to people who are afraid of me.”
“I doubt that,” she said. “I think the opposite is true.”
A smile touched his lips.
Poppy was disoriented by the complex mixture of emotions he stirred in her, the antagonism and attraction and curiosity and resentment. Pulling away from him, she went to her dressing table and examined a small porcelain box with a gilded top.
“Why did you go through with it?” she heard him ask quietly.
“I thought it best for Michael.” She felt a twinge of satisfaction as she saw how that had annoyed him.
Harry half sat on the bed, his posture informal. His gaze didn’t stray from her. “Had there been a choice, I would have done all this the ordinary way. I would have courted you openly, won you fairly. But you’d already decided on Bayning. This was the only alternative.”
“No, it wasn’t. You could have let me be with Michael.”
“It’s doubtful he ever would have offered for you. He deceived you, and himself, by assuming he could persuade his father to accept the match. You should have seen the old man when I showed him the letter—he was mortally offended by the notion of his son taking a wife so far beneath him.”
That hurt, as perhaps Harry had intended, and Poppy stiffened.
“Then why didn’t you let it all play out? Why not wait until Michael had abandoned me, and then come forward to pick up the pieces?”
“Because there was a chance Bayning might have dared to run off with you. I couldn’t risk it. And I knew that sooner or later you’d realize that what you had with Bayning was nothing but infatuation.”
Poppy gave him a glance of purest contempt. “What do you know of love?”
“I’ve seen how people in love behave. And what I witnessed in the vestry this morning was nothing close to it. Had you truly wanted each other, no force in the world could have stopped you from walking out of that church together.”
“You wouldn’t have allowed it!” she shot back in outrage.
“True. But I would have respected the effort.”
“Neither of us gives a damn about your respect.”
The fact that she was speaking for Michael as well as herself . . . “us” . . . caused Harry’s face to harden. “Whatever your feelings for Bayning are, you’re my wife now. And he’ll go on to marry some blue-blooded heiress as he should have done in the first place. Now all that’s left to decide is how you and I will go on.”
“I would prefer a marriage in name only.”
“I don’t blame you,” Harry said calmly. “However, the marriage isn’t legal until I bed you. And, unfortunately, I never leave loopholes.”
He was going to insist on his rights, then. Nothing would dissuade him from getting what he wanted. Poppy’s eyes and nose stung. But she would have rather died than cry in front of him. She shot him a look of revulsion, while her heart pounded until she felt its reverberations in her temples and wrists and ankles.
“I’m overwhelmed by such a poetic declaration. By all means, let’s complete the contract.” She began on the gilded buttons at the front of her dressing gown, her fingers stiff and shaking. Her breath trembled in her throat. “All I ask is that you make it quick.”
Harry pushed away from the bed with graceful ease and came to her. One of his warm hands covered both of hers, and her fingers stilled. “Poppy.” He waited until she could bring herself to look up at him. Amusement glinted in his eyes. “You make me feel like a vile ravisher,” he said. “It’s only fair to tell you that I’ve never forced myself on a woman. A simple refusal would probably be enough to deter me.”
He was lying, her instincts told her. But . . . perhaps he wasn’t. Damn him for toying with her like a cat with a mouse.
“Is that true?” she asked with offended dignity.
Harry gave her a guileless glance. “Refuse me, and we’ll find out.”
The fact that such a despicable human being could be so handsome was proof that the universe was vastly unfair, or at least very badly organized. “I’m not going to refuse you,” she said, pushing his hand away. “I’m not going to entertain you with virginal theatrics.” She continued to unfasten the buttons of her dressing gown. “And I’d like to have done with this so I won’t have anything to dread.”
Obligingly Harry removed his coat and went to drape it over a chair. Poppy dropped her dressing robe to the floor and kicked off her slippers. The cool air wafted beneath the hem of her thin cambric nightgown and lingered in icy curls around her ankles. She could scarcely think, her head filled with fears and worries. The future she had once hoped for was gone, and another was being created, one with infinite complications. Harry would know her in a way no one else ever had, or ever would. But it wouldn’t be anything like her sisters’ marriages . . . it would be a relationship built on something far different from love and trust.
Her sister Win’s information on marital intimacy had been garnished with flowers and moonbeams, with the barest description of the physical act. Win’s advice had been to trust one’s husband, and to relax, and to understand that sexual closeness was a wonderful part of love. None of that had any relevance to the situation Poppy now found herself in.
The room was utterly silent. This means nothing to me, she thought, trying to make herself believe it. She felt as if she were in a stranger’s body as she undid her nightgown and pulled it over her head and let it fall to the carpeting in a limp heap. Gooseflesh rose everywhere, the tips of her breasts contracting in the chill.
She went to the bed and turned back the covers and slipped in. Drawing the bed linens up to her breasts, she settled back against the pillows. Only then did she glance at Harry.
Her husband had paused in the act of unfastening a shoe, his foot propped on a chair. He had already removed his shirt and waistcoat, and the muscles of his long back were bunched and tense. He stared at her over his shoulder, his thick lashes half lowered. His color was high, as if sun flushed, and his lips were parted as if he’d forgotten something he’d been about to say. Letting out a breath that wasn’t entirely steady, he turned back to his shoe.
His body was beautifully made, but Poppy took no pleasure in it. In fact, she resented it. She would have preferred a few signs of vulnerability, a touch of softness around the middle, a set of narrow shoulders, anything that would put him at a disadvantage. But he was lean and strong and powerfully proportioned. Still clad in his trousers, Harry came to stand beside the bed. Despite her efforts to appear indifferent, Poppy couldn’t stop her fingers from curling into the embroidered sheets.
His hand went to her bare shoulder, his fingertips drifting to her throat and back again. He paused as he found a tiny, nearly invisible scar on her shoulder—the place a stray shotgun pellet had once lodged. “From the accident?” he asked huskily.
Poppy nodded, unable to speak. She realized he would become familiar with every small and unique detail of her body . . . she had given him that right. He found three more scars on her arm, stroking each one as if he could soothe those long-ago injuries. Slowly his hand went to a lock of hair that lay in a fine mahogany river over her chest, following it beneath the sheets and blankets.
She gasped as she felt his thumb brush over the bud of her nipple, circling, sending runners of heat to the pit of her stomach. His hand left her for a moment, and when he reached for her breast again, his thumb was damp from his own mouth. Another teasing, acute circle, moisture enhancing the caress. Her knees drew up slightly, her hips tilting as if her entire body had become a vessel to contain sensation. His other hand slid softly beneath her chin, tilting her face up to his.
He bent to kiss her, but Poppy turned her face away.
“I’m the same man who kissed you on the terrace,” she heard him say. “You liked it well enough then.”
Poppy could hardly speak with his hand cupping her breast. “Not anymore.” A kiss meant more to her than a simple physical gesture. It was a gift of love, of affection, or at the very least liking, and she felt none of those things for him. He might have the right to her body, but not to her heart.
His hands left her, and she felt him nudge her gently to the side.
Poppy obeyed, her pulse racing as he joined her on the bed. He reclined on his side, his feet extending much farther than hers along the mattress. She forced her fingers to loosen from the covers as he drew them away from her.
Harry’s gaze slid over her slim, exposed body, the curves of her breasts, the clamped seam of her thighs. Heat surfaced everywhere, a flush that deepened as he drew her against him. His chest was warm and hard, with a covering of dark hair that tickled her breasts.
Poppy shivered as his hand moved along her spine, pressing her close. The intimacy of being clasped against a half-naked man, breathing the scent of his skin, was almost more than her dazed mind could comprehend. He pressed her bare legs apart, the fabric of his trousers smooth and cool. And he held her like that, his hand roaming slowly over her back until the teeth-chattering shivers eased.
His mouth traced the taut side of her neck. He spent a long time kissing her there, investigating the hollow behind her ear, the edge of her hairline, the front of her throat. His tongue found the hectic throb of her pulse, lingering until she gasped and tried to push him away. His arms tightened, one hand coming to the bare curve of her bottom, keeping her against him.
“Don’t you like that?” he asked against her throat.
“No,” Poppy said, trying to work her arms between them.
Harry pressed her back to the mattress, his eyes bright with diabolical amusement. “You’re not going to admit to liking any of this, are you?”
She shook her head.
His hand cradled the side of her face, his thumb brushing her closed lips. “Poppy, if there’s nothing else about me that pleases you, at least give this a chance.”
“I can’t. Not when I remember that I should be doing this with . . . him.” As angry and resentful as she was, Poppy couldn’t quite bring herself to say Michael’s name.