“Rebecca—”
The door crashed open, and Lavinia framed the doorway, a light rose-colored gown draped over her arm. She affected a dramatic pause when she saw Poppy.
“Why was I not invited to this tête-à-tête?” she asked with a light laugh. However, her eyes were curious and deeply assessing. “Is everything well, Rebecca?”
Their younger sister hurriedly wiped away the remnants of her tears. “Why, yes, of course. I am but nervous and excited for tonight’s ball.”
Concern rushed through Poppy, and she turned to Lavinia. “What you are asking Rebecca to do is beyond the pale and—”
“No!” Rebecca cried, hurrying to Poppy's side, grasping her hand, and squeezing. “I am quite fine, thank you, Poppy, for checking in on me. I would like to be alone now.”
“Rebecca—”
“Please leave!”
Poppy responded to the desperate plea in her sister’s eyes and voice and excused herself. Once outside, she leaned against the door and heard Rebecca explain she had a migraine, and Poppy helped. She understood her sister’s position. Rebecca was afraid to go against their mother and Lavinia and earned their displeasure. How could she when Rebecca had no power or position of her own?
Poppy went to her room only a few doors down, walked over to the fireplace and held out her hands to warm them. The day had been unexpectedly chilly, and a similar coldness wormed inside her heart. Her stepmother’s scheme was beyond improper and outlandish. It was also cruel.
“And why should I care?” Poppy whispered, pacing.
The memory of the hot, urgent kisses James had pressed to her mouth bloomed in her memory and sent heat curling low in her belly. “Oh! I must stop thinking of him in this manner. We are friends, nothing more.” Friends who sometimes kissed each other so wonderfully and passionately.
Swallowing down the groan, she hurried to the armoire and picked out a coat and a hat. She searched until she found a veil. There was not a moment to waste. Her sisters and mother had already set out to the ball. The earl was normally late in arriving at any ball he showed up at. Poppy could only hope tonight would be the same.
Hurrying down the winding staircase, she went out the kitchen and the back entrance. She would head to James’s house and warn him of the terrible plot afoot. If he was not there, then he would be left to his own devices to escape her sister and stepmother’s machinations.
Chapter 13
I cannot afford such sentiments, nor do I hunger for them.
What a load of crock, and he had been the one to say them. He had to. In Poppy’s eyes, he had seen the very sentiments that stirred violently in his heart. James was failing to stay away from Poppy. He was failing in falling for her. He was bloody failing. James’s duty was clear and simple. Save his family’s estate and restore it to its former glory. That would take hard work and several more years, but he would leave an inheritance to his sons and daughters he would be rightfully proud of.
Secondly, he must honor Henry’s oath. That would see James married and fulfilling another duty of getting his heir. He could feel the flames eating away at his well-laid plans. Poppy had ruffled the calm waters of his existence, casting him into a state of unwelcomed restlessness and constant longing.
Worse, James did not understand fully what he felt for her.
I cannot afford such sentiments, nor do I hunger for them.
He pushed from behind his desk, walked over to the sideboard and poured brandy into a glass. James then downed the contents in one long, burning swallow. “What if I have fallen in love?” he muttered, thinking on her softly spoken words the last time he held her in his arms.
I am going to miss you, Poppy, I already do.
Pressing his palm against the cool windowpane, James hung his head. “Damn it all to hell, am I not already there?”
James constantly wished to lift the burdens from her shoulders and see Poppy smile. Was that love?
Her lively sense of humor and quick wit were rather endearing. He hungered to kiss her always and even shamelessly to do more. His dreams of her could be explicitly carnal in nature, and even when he berated himself in the mornings, the very next night, the same dream would recur. Poppy splayed naked before him on silken sheets, her curves on wanton display and those beautiful eyes dark with need. And he would touch and kiss her all over until she was wild and sobbing for him.
There were times when around her James felt like the basest of creatures. She was all softness. Every delectable inch of her. And her mouth, the taste of her should be outlawed and banished. The woman was pure temptation. It had taken every ounce of restraint he possessed to not succumb to the artless temptation in her gaze and kiss and ravish her without thoughts of consequences.
Other times he simply wanted to sit with her and listen to the softness of her voice, the laughter lurking there while she told him an anecdote. Or he just wanted to ride with her or sit and have a conversation. Should he cast his worries on her, James knew she would listen and offer insight. Her kindness was dependable.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, James glanced at the pile of paperwork on his desk. He had been working since morning, tallying the returns from several investments. Over twenty-five thousand pounds would come to him at the end of the month, and with a few strokes of his pen, it had all gone into the estate, creditors, and some toward Poppy’s dowry.
A quick glance at his watch showed it was barely ten p.m. He had promised Daphne to attend some ball tonight, but James was not in the mood. Yet a promise was a promise. And for the first time, he wished Henry had found another means to save their estate.
James did not want to marry Miss Winters when she came of age. Even if she came with another one hundred thousand pounds and already promised to be an uncommon beauty. Whom he wanted was Miss Poppy Ashford, and he could not have her.
Swallowing down another drink, James set the glass down with a clink. He would ring his valet and make himself presentable for the ball. He was certain Poppy would be there, and he would do his damnedest to stay away from her. Or dance with her one last time.
No, bloody hell no. That was what he had said two nights ago, and he had taken that final dance. James had done his duty there. He had seen the bucks staring at her the last time he danced with her, practically salivating and tripping over themselves to ask her to the dancefloor. It always astonished him how damn stupid his own sex could be, as if he would ever need someone else to show him that Poppy was a rare and beautiful treasure only because someone else paid her attention.
Hurrying from his study and down the long hallway, James skidded to a halt in the doorway at the veiled lady his butler had only just allowed entry.
“Who should I inform His Lordship has called?” his butler asked, glaring at her veil.
There was no doubt she had badgered the man to gain admittance. James would recognize that slight sensual shape anywhere, and the way she walked—confident and as if she were always in a hurry, proclaimed his mysterious visitor to be Miss Poppy Ashford. A quick glance did not reveal that she was hurt or suffering from any injuries. Relief sliced through him, and then the reality of the situation truly sank in his bones.
Bloody hell. She was here. Under his roof. Alone with him. A loud roar filled James’s head, and his loins grew heavy on a painful rush of desire.