Page 127 of The Wallflower Takes All

Poppy drew a breath. She risked offense by asking, but she needed the answer. “Why me, my lord? You could have your pick of debutantes.”

Caldermere paused beside the lilac. “I thought you might be curious about that.”

“I am.”

“Most debutantes would require a longer courtship. Weeks, perhaps longer, depending upon families, settlements, expectations, and the thousand little performances Society insists upon before allowing people to do what they meant to do from the start.”

Poppy nodded.

“As I understand it, you are in haste, because of your cousin’s imminent arrival.” His voice did not turn pitying. “So am I.”

Poppy took a deep breath. Any woman might wish to be chosen for reasons other than urgency, competence, and mutual practicality. But Lord Caldermere’s candor did not insult her. He had not pretended passion where none existed. He did not offer false romance as a veil for negotiation.

He was giving her the gift of truth.

“Lord Montague arrives quite soon,” he continued. “Your position requires clarity, not an extended courtship performed for Society’s entertainment. If our next conversation confirms the impression I have formed today, I should like to speak with Lady Montague formally.”

Poppy forgot how to breathe.

It was not a proposal. Not yet. But the shape of one rose unmistakably between them.

A marquess. A town house with room for Mama. Perhaps a dower house at Caldermere Park. Security so complete that Algernon’s snuff cabinet became silly rather than terrifying.

Poppy ought to have felt relief. Instead, she felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

She managed a smile. “You are quite direct, my lord.”

He nodded once. “I hope I have not offended you.”

“No.” She meant it. “You have not.”

He bowed over her hand with polished care. “Then I shall hope for the privilege of calling tomorrow.”

Poppy walked beside him back toward the drawing room, her mind full of some relief, much alarm, a bit of possibility, and a stubborn ache that had nothing to do with the man at her side.

Gabriel was standing near the windows when they entered. He had been watching the garden. Poppy knew it before their eyes met.

For one suspended moment, no one else in the room mattered: Bea, alert and hopeful upon the sofa; Mama, still flirting cheerfully with the ridiculous count; Mr. Loxley, who had recovered sufficiently to request yet another slice of cake.

Only Gabriel.

His expression remained composed. His hat rested in one hand. The cottage particulars lay folded beneath the other.

Poppy wondered whether he saw the answer in her face.

Perhaps he did.

Something closed behind his eyes.

Lord Caldermere turned to Bea. “Lady Vanover, you have my thanks for the introduction.”

Bea’s gaze moved swiftly from him to Poppy. “I am glad of it.”

Caldermere bowed to Lady Viva and took his leave of everyone else, including the count, who remained behind. Unfortunately.

The moment the front door closed, Bea crossed the room. “Well?”

Poppy looked at her friend. “He intends to call again tomorrow.”