Page 26 of The Wallflower Takes All

“It is not relevant,” Poppy retorted.

“No,” Bea agreed gravely. “Handsome men rarely are.”

Poppy ignored them both. “Mr. Ashby says he can write to Algernon. Perhaps negotiate a little more time. But the town house belongs to the estate, as does Brambleberry Court. Algernon is of age now, and apparently young gentlemen with titles enjoy taking possession of things.”

Bea made a snort of disgust.

“Perhaps it gives them purpose,” Poppy added.

“Purpose,” Bea replied, “is wasted on most men.”

“Not all, though,” Georgie said softly.

A faint color touched her cheeks, and Poppy’s heart twisted with affection. No, not all. Lord Pembroke had put his nose where it did not belong and given Georgie a life she had chosen. Lord Vanover had begun as Bea’s enemy and become the man who would set the world on fire if it meant keeping her safe.

Poppy had been there for both revolts. She had planned, conspired, encouraged, watched. She had clapped her hands and believed in their impossible happy endings because believing for someone else was always easier than believing for oneself.

Now both of her friends looked at her with the same fierce attention she had once given them.

It was unbearable.

“What else did Mr. Ashby say?” Bea prodded.

Poppy shrugged. “That if Algernon insists, Mama and I may have a few months in a small cottage in the country, provided we spend almost nothing.”

Georgie’s face fell.

Bea’s expression turned dark. “No,” she said simply.

Poppy blinked. “No?”

“No.” Bea stood. “You and Lady Viva shall come here.”

The words were so swift, so certain, that Poppy’s chest tightened. “Bea?—”

“I am perfectly serious. We have room. We have more room than any two people require. You and your mother may stay here for as long as you wish.”

Georgie began to answer, reconsidered, then tried again, clearly attempting to prevent kindness from becoming a logistical catastrophe.

“That is quite generous,” Georgie said carefully.

Bea turned. “You say that as if I have offered to house a regiment.”

“No, not that.” Georgie’s gaze flicked to Poppy, tender and apologetic. “Only…you should know…Lady Viva does not always travel alone.”

Poppy nearly laughed. She nearly cried. Both seemed equally possible and equally unhelpful. “That,” she said, “is the gentlest description of my mother I have ever heard.”

Georgie winced. “I did not mean?—”

“You meant that if Mama came here, within three days there would be a starving artist in Lord Vanover’s library, a widowed baron in the breakfast room, Freddie in the linen press, and some woman no one had invited asleep in one of the bedchambers.”

Bea pressed her lips together. She did not look eager for any of that to happen. Georgie looked relieved and guilty at once. She had been to Poppy’s house. She knew the extent of the chaos.

“And that,” Poppy continued, because she loved them too much to allow either of them to pretend, “would only be if Mama were making an effort to be restrained.”

Bea’s expression softened. “Poppy, I do not care about the inconvenience. Truly.”

“I know you do not.” That was precisely what made the offer difficult to refuse. “But I care. I could never ask that of you. Either of you. Not when I know exactly what my mother’s version of temporary would become.”