Page 159 of The Wallflower Takes All

“No, darling. Merely an observation.”

Mr. Pritchard followed with his portfolio. And Gabriel remained one step behind Poppy, close enough that she felt the steadiness of him without a touch.

Ostensibly, he was here to supervise the transfer and ensure Algernon claimed nothing beyond his rights. In front of the household, he was Mr. Ashby again, sober, correct, entirely professional.

Only Poppy knew what lay beneath the immaculate cravat. Only Poppy knew how his restraint could break. Her skin remembered with mortifying ease.

She handed Freddie to Jenkins. “Please keep him away from Lord Montague.”

“I shall attempt it, miss.”

Freddie twisted in the butler’s arms and barked toward the stairs.

“His objections are noted,” Gabriel said.

Poppy drew one breath. “Shall we follow?”

Gabriel inclined his head. “Yes.”

They ascended together, Lady Viva trailing behind them with commentary.

By the time they arrived at the top of the staircase, Algernon had reached the blue bedchamber. He stood in the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back, examining the curtains with grave dissatisfaction. “They are too heavy.”

Poppy looked at the curtains. “They have always been there.”

“Yes. That is the difficulty. They appear tired.”

Mama leaned toward Poppy and whispered, “Darling, imagine being judged by Algernon for looking tired.”

Poppy bit the inside of her cheek.

Gabriel looked toward the window and narrowed his eyes before his composure failed him.

Algernon walked into the room and drew one curtain aside. “The light is not properly filtered.”

“It is morning,” Gabriel pointed out. “The light will behave differently later.”

Algernon looked at him, clearly startled to discover solicitors were permitted humor.

Poppy was not certain whether Gabriel had intended the remark as humor, which made it even better.

Mr. Pritchard made another note. “Curtains to be examined.”

“The blue counterpane may remain,” Algernon said. “For now.”

“How generous,” Mama murmured. “The counterpane will be relieved.”

Poppy turned away under the pretense of checking a trunk. She would not laugh. She would not cry. Both impulses seemed equally possible.

They proceeded through the rooms Algernon had decided required immediate review. The library, already stripped of many books, nearly broke her. Empty spaces marked the shelves where Papa’s personal volumes had stood. Outside the study, the covered portrait leaned against the doorframe, waiting for the wagon.

Algernon pointed to it. “That belongs on the north wall.”

Poppy kept her face blank. “We are taking it with us.”

Algernon stamped his foot. “It will remain in the house.”

“No,” Gabriel said, stepping nearer. His tone was quiet, but it left no room for argument. “That is Lady Montague’s personal portrait, and it will be going with her.”