Page 129 of The Wallflower Takes All

“Because Caldermere may be exactly what he appears to be,” Gabriel said. “If so, you should know that. If he is not, you should know that too.”

His voice lowered to a whisper. “And because I cannot give you what he can, but I can make certain you do not choose him in ignorance.”

Poppy swallowed. That was not enough. But she couldn’t bring herself to argue the point. Not here in front of Mama and Bea and Count Bellarosa. She needed time to think.

“Very well,” she agreed. “Tomorrow.” She didn’t bother pointing out that Caldermere had not officially offered yet. She expected it wouldn’t change Gabriel’s decision.

He bowed. “Thank you.”

Then he turned to Mama and Bea with perfect courtesy. “Lady Montague. Lady Vanover.”

“Do come back tomorrow,” Bea said. “Poppy may need you for the marriage contract.”

“I shall help in whatever way Miss Montfort requires,” Gabriel replied stoically.

His eyes returned to Poppy one last time. Public room. Public farewell. Formal address. “Good day, Miss Montfort.”

Then he left.

The door closed behind him.

The worst part was that she still felt him everywhere—in the room, in the silence he left behind, on her skin, in every place his mouth had touched and his hands had made her feel wanted before he remembered all the reasons wanting could never be simple.

Poppy stood in the drawing room with Bea still holding her hands and the possibility of a marquess’s proposal only one day away.

She should have been relieved. She should have been grateful. She should have been imagining Caldermere Park, the London house, and a dower house large enough for Mama to find objectionable.

Instead, she could think only of Gabriel leaving with purpose in every line of his body. And regret in his eyes.

Chapter Twenty-One

The next morning

Lady Cecily Lane did not accuse the Marquess of Caldermere of cruelty.

Cruelty would have been simpler.

Gabriel sat opposite her in the pale blue drawing room of her brother’s town house while Lady Cecily’s aunt worked quietly at her embroidery near the windows, near enough to preserve propriety and distant enough to permit conversation. He had chosen a plain dark coat and a sober dove-gray waistcoat, trying to button restraint into place.

The hour was early for a call, but Gabriel had not come socially. His father had once advised the Lane family in a minor matter, and Lady Cecily had agreed to receive him after Gabriel sent a note explaining that he required her candor on behalf of a client.

Gabriel had told Poppy he would make inquiries, and the promise had kept him awake half the night.

A prudent solicitor could defend the visit. Caldermere’s title, fortune, estates, and reputation made him a tempting solution to an urgent difficulty. Those advantages proved nothing about whether he would make Poppy a suitable husband.

But Gabriel had begun to distrust every neat explanation he gave himself.

He wanted Caldermere examined because Poppy deserved to know the truth before accepting him. He also wanted Caldermere examined because the thought of her belonging to that elegant, titled, perfectly composed man made something possessive and uncivilized move beneath Gabriel’s ribs.

He could not make an offer worthy of her.

He could, at least, make certain the man who could did not hide rot beneath polished manners.

Lady Cecily folded her hands in her lap. She was perhaps three-and-thirty, handsome in a quiet, intelligent way, dressed in lavender silk with very little ornament. Nothing about her suggested a woman ruined by disappointment. Rather, she looked like someone who had examined disappointment carefully, named it, and declined to be governed by it.

“I do not wish to speak unfairly of Lord Caldermere,” she said. “Our engagement ended many years ago. We have both had ample opportunity to forget it.”

“I am not asking for gossip,” Gabriel replied. “Nor do I intend to repeat anything you tell me without permission.”