Page 20 of The Wallflower Takes All

Poppy’s stomach dipped. “Mr. Ashby?”

“A small cottage…in the country,” he said. “For some months. Not indefinitely.”

A country cottage.

For some months.

Poppy pictured Mama in a dreary little cottage with no parties, no candles blazing until dawn, no admirers, no distraction from the grief she had spent years outrunning. She pictured herself counting coal and potatoes, fending off creditors, watching Lady Viva wither or rage or turn the village upside down from sheer despair.

It was not that Poppy objected to cottages on principle. Some cottages were charming. Some contained roses around the door and cozy reading nooks. Some were written about in sentimental poems by men who did not have to live in them with widowed mothers who ordered champagne on credit.

But a rented cottage was not safety. It was merely a pause before the next misfortune.

“I see,” she said finally.

Mr. Ashby’s eyes remained on her face. “There is another possibility.”

She looked up too quickly.

His mouth tightened, as if he disliked the words before speaking them. “Marriage.”

Poppy laughed once, and the sound came out all wrong, far too brittle. “Yes. That. My cousin mentioned it. And of course I’ve been…trying.” The last word came out far too high-pitched.

“Miss Montfort?—”

“No, no. It is perfectly reasonable.” She sat straighter. “I am of marriageable age. Lord Montague has already helpfully observed as much, and I have thought of it, of course. But, you see, I have no dowry, no house, no fortune, and a mother with a gift for becoming the chief topic of breakfast conversation across Mayfair. Naturally, gentlemen are not exactly forming queues.”

Mr. Ashby’s brows drew together. “You need not speak of yourself that way.”

Poppy expelled her breath. “Someone must. Everyone else is too polite.”

“I doubt that.”

That startled a small laugh from her. “No. You are right. Everyone else is not remotely too polite.”

Mr. Ashby leaned forward, forearms braced on the desk. “It is not the worst course.”

Poppy arched a brow. “Marriage to a gentleman selected at speed, with all the care one gives to choosing a hackney in the rain?”

Mr. Ashby drew up his shoulders. “I did not say it was ideal.”

“No. Merely not the worst. Quite the endorsement.”

His gaze held hers. “If the gentleman were respectable, titled, and able to provide security for you and Lady Montague, it would answer several urgent difficulties.”

“How comforting. I could make an announcement in the papers. Wanted: respectable, titled gentleman willing to accept a penniless spinster, her mother’s debts, and whatever melancholic houseguest is currently reclining in the salon.”

“Miss Montfort.”

“I am sorry.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “I am being absurd.”

“You are not.”

“I am. But in my defense, I have recently learned I may need to become a wife before Cousin Algernon arrives to complain about the morning light.”

Mr. Ashby’s mouth moved. It was not quite a smile, but nearly. Though the amusement quickly faded. “I do not mean to make light of it,” he said.

“No,” she replied, quieter now. “I know.”