Page 45 of The Wallflower Takes All

“No, I will not forget it.” He moved to the desk and closed the notebook. “I will be there. What time?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“Very well. Allow me to go home and change into the appropriate clothing and I shall meet you there.”

Relief washed through her and for one treacherous heartbeat, Poppy imagined him across Georgie’s dining room beyond the neat categories of solicitor, adviser, and guardian against fraudulent counts. She saw only the man whose eyes had followed her too carefully in the study.

The thought made the evening ahead feel less like a husband hunt and more like a test she was already failing.

“You need not,” she said.

“I know.”

“It is not your responsibility,” she added.

“I know that as well.”

“Then why?—”

“Because Lady Montague should not be left vulnerable to opportunists,” he said, with enough certainty to discourage argument.

Poppy’s throat tightened.

Professional then.

Professional was good. Professional was safe. Professional was precisely what one wanted from a solicitor. She did not need tenderness from Mr. Ashby. She needed competence.

“Thank you,” she said.

He inclined his head. “You are welcome.”

Poppy nodded and turned toward the door.

“Miss Montfort.”

She paused.

His gaze was steady on hers. “I had not yet concluded anything.”

Oh. He was speaking of the notebook then.

Poppy’s fingers curled once at her side before she smoothed them flat against her skirt. “No,” she said lightly. “You merely wrote it down.”

She turned on her heel before he could see how badly she wanted him to deny it. She wanted him to make her believe that one person in England might look at all her difficulties and not immediately plan his escape.

Instead, she left before he could answer.

Chapter Seven

Pembroke House blazed with the light of a thousand candles.

The windows shone with quiet certainty, far removed from the Montfort manner, where candles multiplied from enthusiasm and no one could recall whether they had been paid for.

At Pembroke House, footmen moved efficiently. Flowers stood where flowers ought to stand. The upper landings produced no shouting, and the household seemed to contain neither dog, poet, nor suspiciously titled gentleman.

For one unguarded moment, as Poppy stepped into the foyer with Mama beside her and Count Bellarosa behind them, she allowed herself to imagine living in such a house.

A house where the roof did not leak, creditors did not call, and every knock at the door did not require bracing oneself for catastrophe.