Page 118 of The Wallflower Takes All

From the drawing room came Lady Viva’s voice. “Freddie, darling, if you steal a dying man’s poem, you must at least admire the rhyme!”

Mr. Loxley responded faintly, “It was unfinished. Much like my life.”

“Your life appears increasingly well provisioned,” Gabriel called before he could think better of it.

There was a pause.

Then Lady Viva laughed. “Mr. Ashby has come, sweetie. Now you may die legally.”

Mr. Loxley groaned. “Never legally. It removes the poetry.”

Poppy appeared in the drawing room doorway, one hand resting against the frame. She wore a soft green morning gown, and her red hair had been gathered into a careless knot that was already coming loose. The sight of her sent Gabriel’s carefully ordered thoughts astray.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

“Mr. Ashby,” she said.

“Miss Montfort.”

The names landed between them with all the formality they had abandoned on a sofa less than twelve hours ago.

Her mouth curved slightly, though not quite into a smile. “You have come about the cottage.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go to the study.”

He inclined his head because there was no safe answer to that. He guessed she did not want Lady Viva to hear about the arrangements before she’d had a chance to deliver the news more gently.

She led him into the study and left the door ajar.

The room had changed again. Not greatly, perhaps, but enough to make Gabriel resent every alteration. A snuff cabinet had been placed against the wall like an occupying force. A folded length of shiny green fabric lay across one chair, hideous enough to confirm Lord Montague’s poor taste. A list of instructions sat on the desk in Mr. Pritchard’s neat hand, and the late viscount’s portrait seemed to watch it all with smiling uselessness.

The house was being claimed before Poppy had left it. Gabriel hated that.

She crossed to the desk and then turned sharply to face him. “Have you found a suitable cottage?”

So that was how she meant to do it. She would set aside what had passed between them and speak to him in that brisk, practical tone, as if he were only her solicitor once more. He could hardly blame her.

Gabriel drew the cottage notes from inside his coat. “I have found one possibility.”

Poppy held out her hand. “Only one?”

“I found three. Two were unsuitable.”

“And this one?”

“Possible.”

She took the paper and read.

Gabriel watched her face. She had become good at guarding it, but he guessed at the way her lashes lowered at the rent, the way her mouth tightened at the address, the way she moved too quickly past the description of the village.

“It is affordable,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And the roof is sound?”