Page 25 of The Wallflower Takes All

She sat upright near the tea table, golden hair gleaming in a shaft of afternoon light, one brow already arched in command. As usual, she looked like a duke’s daughter, a general in silk, and a woman prepared to form an opinion with no more than a moment’s notice.

“Thank heavens,” Poppy said, the moment the footman withdrew. “You are both here.”

Georgie rose. “Poppy, what is it?”

Bea’s eyes sharpened. “Your note said it was urgent.”

“It is.” Poppy looked between them, and all the speeches she had rehearsed in the carriage promptly deserted her.

How was one meant to begin?

Hello, my dears, I am to be turned out of my home in ten days, and I have concluded that my only reasonable course is to marry a peer with indecent haste. Do have biscuits.

Instead, she’d merely indicated that she must speak to both of them at once.

She opened her reticule and withdrew Algernon’s letter. “The new Viscount Montague is coming to London.”

Bea’s face altered first, subtly but unmistakably. “When?”

“In ten days.”

Georgie’s hand flew to her throat. “So soon?”

Poppy nodded and handed the letter to Bea, who unfolded it with swift, efficient fingers. Georgie leaned over her shoulder to read. The silence that followed was worse than outrage.

Poppy wandered to the mantel because sitting still seemed impossible. There was a porcelain shepherdess there, smiling witlessly down upon a porcelain sheep. Poppy straightened the shepherdess by a fraction. Then the sheep.

Bea finished first. “Neglect?”

“Yes. That was my favorite part as well.”

“This man is insufferable,” Bea said, scowling.

Georgie’s mouth tightened. “And he means to turn you out?”

“He has requested that we vacate before his arrival,” Poppy replied.

“Requested,” Bea repeated, in a tone that practically did violence to the word.

“In the manner of men who know no one can refuse them,” Poppy added.

Georgie shook her head. “What does Mr. Ashby say? Oh, wait. You said the new solicitor was coming today. Did you meet him?”

“Yes,” Poppy said.

Georgie tilted her head. “And?”

“He is Mr. Ashby’s son,” Poppy told her.

“Is that so?” Georgie replied, considering the information.

“And he is young,” Poppy continued, because there seemed no point in pretending otherwise. “And handsome. Vexingly so, considering the circumstances.”

Georgie’s brows rose. “How vexing?”

“Broad shoulders. Blue eyes. Excellent coat. The general demeanor of a man who catalogues his handkerchiefs.”

Georgie’s mouth curved into a smile. “That does sound vexing.”