Page 103 of The Wallflower Takes All

“How thoughtful of him,” Bea murmured.

“He said his feelings are involved,” Poppy said, because if she delayed, she might lose the courage to say it at all. “He said he cannot advise me properly about marriage, suitors, or anything affecting my future. He said desire has made him partial.”

Bea’s brows rose. “At least he has enough wit to know it.”

Poppy looked into her tea. “He also said continuing as our solicitor would be improper.”

Georgie’s hand tightened around hers. “That sounds honorable.”

“It is,” Poppy said. “That is why I cannot even enjoy being angry.”

“And how do you feel about that?” Georgie asked kindly.

“He was doing the honorable thing,” Poppy said, “but I wanted him to stop doing it.”

Bea leaned back, studying her. “Do you want him to remain your solicitor?”

Poppy opened her mouth. Then closed it. She stared at her hands.

There was the miserable, shining truth of it.

“I wanted him to choose me,” she said quietly. “Before the title, before the house, before any solution. I wanted him to look at all of it—Mama, Freddie, Algernon, the debts, the impossible mess—and say he wanted me enough to step into it.”

Neither friend spoke for a moment.

Then Bea said, with unusual softness, “I understand.”

“It feels humiliating,” Poppy replied.

“It’s not though,” Georgie said. “You have every right to your feelings.”

Poppy gave a watery little laugh. “Do I? Because my feelings have become so tangled lately.”

Bea’s face grew serious. “Poppy, tell us plainly. What do you want?”

Poppy looked toward the window, where late afternoon light slanted over the green silk draperies and turned Archer House into a place that looked incapable of collapse.

“I think,” she said, slowly, “I may be falling in love with him.”

There. It was out. Terrible and beautiful and utterly inconvenient.

Georgie’s hand closed over hers. Bea said nothing, which was never a good sign.

Poppy looked up at her. “Say it.”

Bea exhaled. “You cannot afford to fall in love with a solicitor.”

The words hurt, though not because they were cruel. Because they were exactly what Poppy had told herself.

Bea reached across the tea table and seized Poppy’s other hand. “Listen to me. I do not mean because he is a solicitor. I am not being a snob, though I realize I sound like every dreadful dowager we have ever mocked. I mean because you have five days, no confirmed home, a mother who needs protection, and a new viscount eager to install a snuff cabinet in your hall. Love cannot be the whole plan. Unless…”

“Unless what?” Poppy murmured.

Bea shrugged. “Did Mr. Ashby offer for you?”

The sick, roiling feeling that had been gathering in Poppy’s stomach all afternoon intensified. “No.”

“You need an offer,” Bea continued.