Page 113 of The Wallflower Takes All

“When I was older and earning a little money helping my father between school terms, I went back to the shop. I left coin on the counter and walked out again. Far more than the sweet had cost. I knew even then that it could not repair anything. Still, I paid it.”

Poppy’s throat tightened. “And ever since, you have been trying to keep everything in order so nothing can be taken from you again.”

His gaze met hers. “Yes. I suppose you’re right.”

“Does the order help?” she whispered.

“Sometimes.”

“And other times?” she asked.

His hand tightened slightly at her back. “Other times it only arranges the loss more neatly.”

Poppy understood then that his order was not coldness. It was vigilance, penance, and love turned into something so controlled it had almost forgotten how to ask for joy. Her heart ached for the boy he had been and for the man who still believed every happiness must be paid for before he dared reach for it.

The dance had slowed to almost nothing. They were no longer counting.

Freddie had settled by the sofa with his chin upon his paws, bored by any activity that did not require his involvement.

Gabriel’s hand remained at Poppy’s back. Her hand rested upon his shoulder. Near enough to feel the restrained power in him. Near enough to remember what his mouth had done to hers beside the Serpentine.

“You should not look at me like that,” he whispered.

She blinked at him slowly. “How am I looking at you?”

“Like you want me to forget myself.”

Poppy’s fingers tightened at his shoulder. “Would that be so terrible?”

“Yes.”

The word came out rough, but he did not step back. His hand settled more firmly at her waist, and the space between them seemed to vanish.

His gaze dropped to her mouth.

Then he kissed her.

There was no surprise this time, no shock of discovery. Only the deep, almost painful relief of a thing both of them had been denying since he entered the room. His hand at her back drew her closer, and Poppy went willingly, her body understanding before her mind could caution otherwise.

The kiss began with restraint.

It did not remain there.

Poppy lifted both hands to his shoulders, then to his cravat, that beautifully ordered knot that had haunted her thoughts. She caught the linen between her fingers and tugged.

Gabriel made a sound against her mouth. It was low, rough, and entirely unlike the composed Mr. Ashby who corrected promissory notes and wrote letters to obstinate viscounts.

Poppy tugged again.

The knot loosened.

His restraint slipped with it.

He kissed her more deeply, one hand remained at her waist, the other rising to her hair. His fingers slid into it, seemingly relieved to surrender an argument he had been losing for days. Poppy’s back met the sofa. She did not know whether he had guided her there or she had planned it. It hardly mattered. She sat, and he followed, one knee against the edge of the cushion, his coat brushing her skirts, his cravat loosened, his hair no longer perfectly ordered.

A wicked, delighted part of her thought simply…good.

He wanted her. It was obvious. He wanted the woman beyond the problem, beyond the client’s daughter, beyond the useful manager of a household no one else could bear to manage.