Page 41 of The Wallflower Takes All

“Mama.”

Lady Viva sighed and tipped her head obligingly while Poppy fixed the earbobs. “You are very severe this evening, sweetie.”

“I have cause.”

“Do you? How dreary. Cause is always the death of delight.”

Poppy caught her mother’s gaze in the looking glass. Lady Viva looked radiant in rose silk, her red curls arranged with deceptive care in a brightly colored turban, a fan dangling from one wrist with all the airy innocence of a woman who had never misplaced anything more serious than a handkerchief. No one seeing her would believe they had eight days before they must quit their home. No one would believe there were unpaid bills tucked in the study, a snuff-scented letter folded in Poppy’s reticule, or a solicitor downstairs who had already made plain the law would not save them.

“Mama,” Poppy said more gently, “I am trying to make a good impression tonight.”

“You always make a good impression.”

“That is not what I mean.”

“You mean you hope to gain an offer.”

Poppy’s fingers stilled. “It may be the only way to remain in London.”

Lady Viva’s expression softened by a fraction, and for a moment Poppy saw the mother she remembered from childhood. The one who had brushed her hair by the fire, hummed little songs under her breath, and told Poppy that a girl with red hair and blue eyes and freckles should never apologize for being exactly herself.

Then the softness vanished beneath a too-bright smile.

“Well,” Mama continued, “then you had better make an excellent impression. Something between graceful princess and mysterious heiress. Men like both, I believe.”

Poppy sighed. “Unfortunately, I am neither a princess, nor an heiress.”

“Hence mysterious.”

“That is not helpful.”

“No, but it is accurate, darling, and therefore useful advice.”

At the mention of advice, Poppy glanced toward the door. Mr. Ashby was downstairs in the study, reviewing the draft marriage settlement she had cobbled together that morning in case Georgie and Bea’s plans proved successful sooner rather than later. The settlement was quite premature, of course, but so was needing a husband in eight days. If some titled gentleman was fool enough—or noble enough—to take on the Montfort calamity, Poppy meant to know precisely what she could offer, what she must ask, and what trouble might be waiting in the fine print.

Poppy ought to be grateful Mr. Ashby had agreed to review it.

And she was grateful.

She was also something else, something less definable and far less sensible.

She had spent the entire afternoon thinking of the moment in the study when he had said wanting security was not foolish, wanting to remain in the world she had been born into was not foolish.

No one had ever made her fears feel so reasonable, simply by meeting them with plain, steady seriousness instead of surprise or amusement.

The difficulty was that Mr. Ashby had also told her marriage might not be the worst course.

And tonight she was expected to begin proving it.

Downstairs, the front door opened, then closed. A male voice murmured to Jenkins. It was not Mr. Ashby’s voice. This one was louder, more theatrical—the voice of a man who clearly expected admiration.

Mama clapped her hands together, smiling.

Poppy closed her eyes. “No.”

“Darling—”

“No.”