She glanced at him with wide eyes, seeming too stunned to reply.
“We won’t have to tell the rest of the family until you’re ready,” Harry said. “But I would rather not hide our relationship when we’re in private. You’re my only family.”
Catherine reached beneath her spectacles to wipe at an escaping tear.
A feeling of compassion and tenderness came over Harry, something he had never felt for her before. Reaching out, he drew her close and kissed her forehead gently. “Let me be your big brother,” he whispered.
She watched in wonder as he went back to the house.
For a few minutes afterward Catherine sat alone on the bench, listening to the drone of a bee, the high, sweet chirps of common swifts, and the softer, more melodious twitters of skylarks. She wondered at the change that had come over Harry. She was half afraid he was playing some kind of game with her, with all of them, except . . . it had to be real. The emotion on his face, the sincerity in his eyes, all of it was undeniable. But how could someone’s character alter so greatly?
Perhaps, she mused, it wasn’t so much that Harry was being altered as he was being revealed . . . layer by layer, the defenses coming off. Perhaps Harry was becoming—or would become in time—the man he had always been meant to be. Because he had finally found someone who mattered.
Chapter Twenty-four
The mail coach had arrived at Stony Cross, and a footman was dispatched to fetch a stack of letters and parcels addressed to Ramsay House. The footman brought the deliveries to the back of the house, where Win and Poppy lounged on furniture that had been brought out to the brick-paved terrace. The largest parcel was addressed to Harry.
“More reports from Mr. Valentine?” Poppy asked, sipping sweet red wine as she curled next to Win on a chaise.
“It would appear so,” Harry said with a self-mocking grin. “It appears the hotel is managing brilliantly in my absence. Perhaps I should have taken a holiday sooner.”
Merripen went to Win and slipped his fingers beneath her chin. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly.
She smiled up at him. “Splendid.”
He bent to kiss the top of Win’s blond head, and sat in a nearby chair. One could see that he was trying to be at ease with the idea of his wife carrying a child, but his concern for her practically radiated from every pore.
Harry took the other chair and opened his parcel. After reading the first few lines of the top page, he made a sound of discomfort and winced visibly. “Good God.”
“What is it?” Poppy asked.
“One of our regular guests—Lord Pencarrow—injured himself late last evening.”
“Oh, dear.” Poppy’s brow furrowed. “And he’s such a nice old gentleman. What happened? Did he take a fall?”
“Not exactly. He slid down the banister of the grand staircase, from the mezzanine level to the ground floor.” Harry paused uncomfortably. “He made it all the way to the end of the balustrade—where he crashed into the pineapple ornament on top of the newel post.”
“Why would a man in his eighties do such a thing?” Poppy asked in bewilderment.
Harry sent her a sardonic smile. “I imagine he was in his cups.”
Merripen was cringing. “One can only be glad his child-siring years are behind him.”
Harry paused to read a few more lines. “Apparently a doctor was summoned, and in his opinion the damage is not permanent.”
“Is there any other news?” Win asked hopefully. “Something a bit more cheerful?”
Obligingly Harry continued to read, this time out loud. “I’m sorry to report another unfortunate incident that occurred Friday evening at eleven o’clock, involving—” He broke off, his gaze skimming swiftly down the page.
Before Harry managed to school his expression into impassiveness, Poppy saw that something was very wrong. He shook his head, not quite meeting her gaze. “It’s nothing of interest.”
“May I see?” Poppy asked gently, reaching for the page.
His fingers tightened on it. “It’s not important.”
“Let me,” she insisted, tugging at the sheet of paper.
Win and Merripen were both quiet, exchanging a glance.
Settling back on the chaise, Poppy glanced over the letter. “. . . involving Mr. Michael Bayning,” she read aloud, “who appeared in the lobby without notice or warning, thoroughly inebriated and in a hostile temperament. He demanded to see you, Mr. Rutledge, and refused to accept that you were not in the hotel. To our alarm, he brandished a—” She stopped and took an extra breath, “a revolver, and made threats against you. We tried to bring him to the front office to calm him in private. A scuffle ensued, and regrettably Mr. Bayning was able to fire a shot before I was able to disarm him. Thankfully no one was injured, although there were many anxious queries from hotel patrons afterward, and the office ceiling must be repaired. Mr. Lufton took a bad fright from the incident and experienced pains in his chest, but the doctor prescribed a day of bed rest and said he should be right as rain tomorrow. As for Mr. Bayning, he was returned home safely, and I took the initiative to reassure his father that no charges would be pressed, as the viscount seemed quite concerned about the possibility of scandal . . .”
Poppy fell silent, feeling ill, shivering even though the sun was warm.
“Michael,” she whispered.
Harry glanced sharply at her.
The carefree young man she had known would never have resorted to such sordid, irresponsible melodrama. Part of her ached for him, and part of her was appalled, and part was simply furious. Coming to her home—for that was how she thought of the hotel—making a scene, and worst of all, endangering people. He might have seriously injured someone, perhaps even killed someone. Dear God, there were children in the hotel—hadn’t Michael spared a thought for their safety? And he had frightened poor Mr. Lufton into apoplexy.
Poppy’s throat went tight, anger and misery stinging like pepper. She wished she could go to Michael right then and shout at him. And she wanted to shout at Harry as well, because no one could deny that the incident was a consequence of his perfidy.
Occupied with her roiling thoughts, she wasn’t aware of how much time had passed before Harry broke the silence.
He spoke in the way she most hated: the amused, silky, callous tone of a man who didn’t give a damn about anything.
“He ought to be more clever in his murder attempt. Done properly, he could make a wealthy widow of you, and then you’d both have your happy ending.”
Harry knew instantly that he shouldn’t have said it—the comment was the kind of cold-blooded sarcasm he had always resorted to when he felt the need to defend himself. He regretted it even before he saw Merripen out of the periphery of his vision. The Rom was giving him a warning shake of his head and drawing a finger across his throat.
Poppy was red faced, her brows drawn in a scowl. “What a dreadful thing to say!”
Harry cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said brusquely. “I was joking. It was in poor—” He ducked as something came flying at him. “What the devil—”
She had thrown something at him, a cushion.
“I don’t want to be a widow, I don’t want Michael Bayning, and I don’t want you to joke about such things, you tactless clodpole!”
As all three of them stared at her openmouthed, Poppy leapt up and stalked away, her hands drawn into fists.
Bewildered by the immediate force of her fury—it was like being stung by a butterfly—Harry stared after her dumbly. After a moment, he asked the first coherent thought that came to him. “Did she just say she doesn’t want Bayning?”
“Yes,” Win said, a smile hovering on her lips. “That’s what she said. Go after her, Harry.”
Every cell in Harry’s body longed to comply. Except that he had the feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff, with one ill-chosen word likely to send him over. He gave Poppy’s sister a desperate glance. “What should I say?”
&nbs
p; “Be honest with her about your feelings,” Win suggested.
A frown settled on Harry’s face as he considered that. “What’s my second option?”
“I’ll handle this,” Merripen told Win before she could reply. Standing, he slung a great arm across Harry’s shoulders and walked him to the side of the terrace. Poppy’s furious form could be seen in the distance. She was walking down the drive to the caretaker’s house, her skirts and shoes kicking up tiny dust storms.
Merripen spoke in a low, not unsympathetic tone, as if compelled to guide a hapless fellow male away from danger. “Take my advice, gadjo . . . never argue with a woman when she’s in this state. Tell her you were wrong and you’re sorry as hell. And promise never to do it again.”
“I’m still not exactly certain what I did,” Harry said.
“That doesn’t matter. Apologize anyway.” Merripen paused and added in whisper, “And whenever your wife is angry . . . for God’s sake, don’t try logic.”
“I heard that,” Win said from the chaise.
Harry caught up with Poppy by the time she was halfway to the caretaker’s house. She didn’t glance at him, only glared ahead with her jaw set.
“You think I drove him to it,” Harry said quietly, keeping pace with her. “You think I ruined his life as well as yours.”
That fueled Poppy’s outrage until she wasn’t certain whether she might cry or slap him. Blast him, he was going to drive her mad.
She had been in love with a prince, and she had ended up in the arms of a villain, and it would be so much easier if she could continue to view everything in those simplistic terms. Except that her prince was not nearly as perfect as he had seemed . . . and her villain was a caring, passionate man.
It was finally becoming clear to her that love wasn’t about finding someone perfect to marry. Love was about seeing through to the truth of a person, and accepting all their shades of light and dark. Love was an ability. And Harry had it in abundance, even if he wasn’t ready to come to terms with it yet.
“Don’t presume to tell me what I think,” she said. “You’re wrong on both counts. Michael is responsible for his own behavior, which in this case was—” she paused to deliver a vicious kick to a stray pebble, “—revoltingly self-indulgent. Immature. I’m sorely disappointed in him.”
“I can’t blame him,” Harry said. “I would have done far worse, were I in his position.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Poppy said acidly.
He scowled but remained silent.
Approaching another pebble, Poppy kicked it with a vicious swipe of her foot. “I hate it when you say cynical things,” she burst out. “That stupid remark about making me a wealthy widow—”
“I shouldn’t have,” Harry said quickly. “That was unfair, and wrong. I should have considered that you were distressed because you still care for him, and—”
Poppy stopped dead in her tracks, staring at him with scornful astonishment. “Oh! How a man whom everyone considers so intelligent can be such an imbecile—” Shaking her head, she continued to storm along the drive.
Bewildered, Harry followed at her heels.
“Does it not occur to you,” her words came winging over her shoulder like angry bats, “that I might not like the idea of someone making threats against your life? That I might be just the least little bit bothered by someone coming to our home waving a gun about with the intention of shooting you?”
It took Harry a long time to answer. In fact, they had nearly reached the house by the time he replied, his voice thick and odd. “You’re concerned for my safety? For . . . me?”
“Someone has to be,” she muttered, stomping to the front door. “I’m sure I don’t know why it’s me.”
Poppy reached for the handle, but Harry stunned her by flinging it open, whisking her inside, and slamming it shut. Before she could even draw breath, he had pushed her back up against the door, a bit rough in his eagerness.
She had never seen him look quite this way, incredulous, anxious, yearning.
His body crowded hers, his breath falling in swift strikes against her cheek. She saw a visible pulse in the strong plane of his throat. “Poppy . . . Are you . . .” He was forced to pause, as if he were fumbling to speak in a foreign language.
Which he was, in a way.
Poppy knew what Harry wanted to ask, and yet she didn’t want him to. He was forcing the issue—it was too soon—she wanted to beg him to be patient, for both their sakes.
He managed to get the words out. “Are you starting to care for me, Poppy?”
“No,” she said firmly, but that didn’t seem to put him off at all.
Harry leaned his face against hers, his lips parting against her cheek in a nuzzling half kiss. “Not even a little?” he whispered.
“Not the slightest bit.”
He pressed the side of his cheek to hers, his lips playing with the wisps of hair at her ear. “Why won’t you say it?”
He was so large and warm, and everything in her wanted to surrender to him. A fine trembling started inside her, radiating outward from her bones to her skin. “Because if I did, you wouldn’t be able to run from me fast enough.”
“I would never run from you.”
“Yes, you would. You’d turn distant and push me away, because you’re not nearly ready to take such a risk yet.”
Harry pressed the front of his body all along hers, his forearms braced on either side of her head. “Say it,” he urged, tender and predatory. “I want to hear what it sounds like.”
Poppy had never thought it was possible to be amused and aroused at the same time. “No, you don’t.” Slowly, her arms went around his lean waist.
If only Harry knew the extent of what she felt for him. The very second she judged that he was ready, the moment she was certain it wouldn’t cause their marriage to lose ground, she would tell him how dearly she loved him. She could hardly wait.
“I’ll make you say it,” Harry said, his sensuous mouth covering hers, his hands going to the fastenings of her bodice.
Poppy couldn’t control a shiver of anticipation. No, he wouldn’t . . . but for the next few hours, she would certainly enjoy letting him try.
Chapter Twenty-five
To the Hathaways’ general surprise, Leo elected to return to London the same day as the Rutledges. His original intention had been to stay in Hampshire the remainder of the summer, but he had decided instead to take on a small commission to design a conservatory addition to a Mayfair mansion. Poppy wondered privately if his change of plan had anything to do with Miss Marks. She suspected they had quarreled, because it seemed they were going to great extremes to avoid each other now. Even more than usual.
“You can’t go,” Merripen had said in outrage when Leo told him he was heading back to London. “We’re preparing to sow the turnip crop. There is much to be decided, including the composition of the manure, and how best to approach the harrowing and plowing, and—”
“Merripen,” Leo had interrupted sarcastically, “I know you consider my help to be invaluable in these matters, but I believe that somehow you’ll all manage to drill turnip seed competently without my involvement. As for the manure composition, I can’t help you there. I have a very democratic view of excrement—it’s all shit to me.”
Merripen had responded with a volley of Romany that no one except Cam could understand. And Cam refused to translate a word of it, claiming there were no English equivalents and that was a good thing.
After making his farewells, Leo left for London in his carriage. Harry and Poppy were slower to depart, having a last cup of tea, a last lingering glimpse of the green summer-dressed estate.
“I’m almost surprised you’re letting me take her,” Harry said to Cam after handing his wife into the carriage.
“Oh, we voted this morning, and it was a unanimous decision,” his brother-in-law replied in a matter-of-fact tone.
“You voted on my marriage?”
“Yes, we d
ecided you fit in with the family quite well.”
“Oh, God,” Harry said, just as Cam closed the carriage door.
After a pleasant and uneventful journey, the Rutledges arrived in London. To discerning outsiders, particularly the hotel employees, it was clear that Poppy and Harry had acquired the mysterious and intangible bond of two people who had made a promise to each other. They were a couple.
Although Poppy was happy to return to the Rutledge, she had a few private concerns about how her relationship with Harry would proceed—if perhaps he might slip back into his former habits. To her reassurance, Harry had firmly set a new course, and he seemed to have no intention of deviating from it.
The differences in him were observed with gratified wonder by the hotel staff the first full day of his return. Poppy had brought back gifts, including jars of honey for the managers and everyone in the front office, a length of bobbin lace for Mrs. Pennywhistle, cured Hampshire hams and sides of smoked bacon for Chef Broussard and Chef Rupert and the kitchen staff, and for Jake Valentine, a sheep hide that had been tanned and polished with smooth stones until the material had been worked into butter-soft glove leather.
After delivering the presents, Poppy sat in the kitchen and chattered animatedly about her visit to Hampshire. “. . . and we found a dozen truffles,” she told Chef Broussard, “each one nearly as large as my fist. All at the roots of a beech tree, and barely a half inch beneath the soil. And guess how we discovered them? My sister’s pet ferret! He ran over to them and started nibbling.”
Broussard sighed dreamily. “When I was a boy, I lived in Périgord for a time. The truffles there would make one weep. So delicious and dear, they were usually only eaten by nobles and their kept women.” He looked at Poppy expectantly. “How did you prepare them?”