Page 42 of The Wallflower Takes All

“But he has already arrived.”

“Then he may leave.”

Lady Viva stood and gathered her shawl with every appearance of imminent disobedience. “One cannot abandon a guest in one’s own hall.”

Poppy scowled. “One can if one did not invite him.”

“I did invite him.”

“Mama.”

Lady Viva waved her hand, and her fan flapped against her wrist. “I invite many people to many things. It keeps conversation nimble.”

Poppy turned and marched from the room before she said something ungenerous. Halfway down the stairs, she spotted Count Bellarosa in the foyer.

He was difficult to miss.

He wore deep blue velvet, a waistcoat embroidered with gold thread, and a cravat pin that looked large enough to anchor a small ship. His dark curls had been arranged in shining waves, and he held a silver-topped cane he plainly did not need. Every line of him suggested grandeur in search of an audience. He was exactly the sort of ostentatious man Mama loved to befriend.

Jenkins stood before him with a blank expression that did not quite conceal despair.

Mr. Ashby stood near the study door, a document in one hand, Freddie at his side.

He looked at the count. Then at Poppy. Then back at the count.

The ensuing silence had the careful precision of a legal document.

The moment Count Bellarosa saw her, he swept into a bow. “Miss Montfort. At last. Your esteemed mother has spoken of you with great tenderness, great pride, and great affection.”

“How kind,” Poppy said, still descending the stairs.

“I am Bellarosa, of the ancient Bellarosas of Naples, Palermo, and, when history insists, Vienna.”

Poppy reached the bottom step with her brow furrowed. “How is Vienna involved?”

Mr. Ashby made a small sound like throat clearing and looked down at the document in his hand.

The count smiled magnificently, accepting the question with all the satisfaction of applause. “A lady of wit. Excellent. Wit improves beauty, though beauty is always welcome to attempt the journey alone.” He laughed at his own jest.

Poppy stared at him.

Mama appeared at the top of the stairs. “Isn’t he marvelous, darling?”

“He is certainly something,” Poppy said.

Mr. Ashby’s mouth quirked.

Poppy did not look at him, because if she did, she might laugh, and if she laughed, she might forgive Mama, which would be premature.

“Count Bellarosa,” Poppy said, “I fear there has been a misunderstanding. Lady Pembroke’s dinner is a private gathering.”

“Private?” The count placed one hand to his chest. “Madam, privacy leads to loneliness.”

“That may be so,” Mr. Ashby said, lifting his gaze, “but invitations are not philosophical.”

The count turned to him with the delayed interest one might grant an unfamiliar footstool. “Remind me… You are?”

“Mr. Ashby.”