Page 4 of The Wallflower Takes All

Poppy was still deciding whether to laugh, cry, or seize the nearest bottle of champagne for herself when a knock thundered through the front hall.

The sound cut through the chatter, through Mama’s half-finished complaint about the decline of civilized hospitality, and through the yapping of Freddie, who clearly believed any knock heralded a visitor sent expressly to see him.

Poppy went still.

The new solicitor was here.

At once, every disorganized detail around her sharpened into horror—the half-empty wineglasses, the houseguests in varying states of dishabille, the poet dying beautifully in the corridor, the puppy with egg on his whiskers, and Mama in wrinkled skirts and disreputable good spirits before luncheon.

The trouble ran deeper than precarious straits, tradesmen waiting in the hall, or creditors hovering like ravens. Everyone she loved, every room she crossed, every account she touched, and every smile she managed existed in a state of beautiful, tottering chaos—and Poppy could not stop it.

“Who is it?” Mama asked idly.

“The new solicitor,” Poppy informed her.

Mama made a face. “Must he come this morning? Morning is such an unflattering hour for legal advice.”

“Yes,” Poppy said grimly. “It appears he must.”

She did not wait for commentary. Instead, she gathered her skirts and marched into the hall, trying with each step to transform herself back into Miss Poppy Montfort, composed, polished, charming, and thoroughly equal to her circumstances.

By the time she made it to the foyer, Jenkins had just opened the front door.

And Poppy sucked in her breath.

The man on the threshold was not at all what she had expected.

For one disorienting moment, Poppy thought Jenkins had admitted the wrong visitor entirely.

This man was tall, broad-shouldered, and unfairly handsome, with sun-gold hair brushed back from a striking brow and eyes a clear, impossible blue. His coat was cut well—not in the peacockish manner of gentlemen who wished to be admired at twenty paces—and he carried himself with quiet confidence.

He did not look like a solicitor. Solicitors were elderly and staid and boring. This man looked more like the sort a lady made the mistake of noticing across a ballroom and then dreamed about for a fortnight.

Poppy stopped so abruptly that Freddie bumped into the back of her legs.

The gentleman’s gaze found hers.

And changed.

It wasn’t a dramatic change. Or one that anyone else would have marked, perhaps. Something in his expression merely sharpened, warmed, lingered. As if he, too, had not expected?—

Well…her.

For one startling instant, the noise of the house receded. Poppy became aware of the deviled egg on her hem, the loosened ribbon at her waist, the rapid beat of her pulse, and the entirely inconvenient fact that this stranger was looking at her with an intensity that made the disorder around them seem to fall away.

“Good morning,” he said.

His voice was low and even and maddeningly pleasant. Worse, it seemed to slide over her skin before it reached her ears, which was an unexpected thing for a voice to do and not at all helpful when she was already attempting to remember how to stand.

Poppy’s heart gave one completely traitorous little flip.

Who was this? Surely not a creditor. Creditors did not possess shoulders like that. Not one of Mama’s strays either. He was too self-possessed, too neat, and far too sober.

Then he removed his gloves, and Jenkins said, with dreadful calm, “Miss Montfort, Mr. Gabriel Ashby.”

The floor did not open and swallow her, though it was very much invited to.

Mr. Gabriel Ashby.