Page 23 of The Wallflower Takes All

I require the full force of The Wallflowers’ Revolt.

Only I don’t wish to avoid marriage.

On the contrary, I mean to secure one.

And quickly.

Chapter Four

By the time Poppy prepared to leave the house, Freddie had eaten the entire calling card, Mr. Loxley had decided his health required plum cake, and Mama had become convinced that the new Viscount Montague’s letter could be answered with “a tone of elegant vagueness.”

“It cannot,” Poppy informed her, tucking the folded letter into her reticule.

Lady Viva reclined upon a sofa in the front salon, apparently untroubled by eviction, solicitors, or correspondence that smelled of snuff. “Darling, elegant vagueness has carried half the aristocracy through the last three centuries.”

Poppy tightened her grip on the strings of her reticule until they bit into her gloves. “And look what it has done for us.”

Mama waved one pale hand, the lace at her wrist fluttering in delicate refusal of poverty, unpleasantness, and the failure of elegant vagueness. “It made us interesting.”

Poppy went very still. “Homeless in ten days is not interesting, Mama. It is desperate.”

For the briefest moment, something flickered across Lady Viva’s face—too quick to name and gone before Poppy could catch it. Then Mama lifted her cup with a sigh. “It depends upon who tells the story, sweetie.”

Poppy drew in a steadying breath and reminded herself that she loved her mother.

She did. Fervently. Exhaustingly. In the marrow of her bones. She loved Mama’s laughter, her generosity, the way she could make a room feel less like a room than a stage upon which something marvelous might happen at any moment.

She did not love that Mama had hidden letters from the man who intended to turn them out of their home. Or that Mama’s present solution seemed to be reclining.

“I am going to see Bea and Georgie,” Poppy said. She had changed into a pale walking dress, a short blue spencer, and a straw bonnet whose ribbons she had tied with more determination than grace. Respectability, she had discovered, often depended upon buttons, starch, and a woman’s ability to look untouched by a morning spent contemplating eviction. “Please do not order anything, promise anything, invite anyone to live or stay here, sell anything, purchase anything, or agree to marry anyone before I return.”

Lady Viva opened her eyes. “That is an ungenerous list.”

“It is a necessary list.”

Her mother lifted her chin. “May I receive callers?”

“Who?”

“Darling, how am I to know who they are until I receive them?”

“That is what cards are for, Mama.”

“What is the fun in calling cards? A lot of paper and ink and dullness, if you ask me.”

In the hall, Freddie barked, sparing Poppy from having to answer that ridiculous question. A moment later, Mr. Ashby appeared from the study, the stack of ledgers in one hand and his hat in the other. He looked as he had earlier—precise, sober, and entirely out of place among the abandoned shawls, wilting flowers, and faint scent of spilled champagne that haunted the Montfort town house no matter how often the windows were opened.

Poppy’s stomach did the small, foolish thing it had already taken to doing whenever she saw him. A sort of half-flip, half-churn that was quite disconcerting. And for some reason, it seemed worse now that she had decided to look for a husband. A sensible woman should not react so vividly to a man who had already told her she required another.

She ignored her stomach with vigor.

“Miss Montfort,” he said, bowing.

“Mr. Ashby.” She curtsied, though it was difficult to look dignified while Freddie attacked the hem of her gown. “You are leaving?”

“For the moment. I have what I need to begin a letter to Lord Montague.”

“Do tell him he is being quite tiresome,” Lady Viva called from the salon.