Page 46 of The Wallflower Takes All

Then Mama said, “Darling, do you think Lord Pembroke would mind if we borrowed his footmen? Ours look so tired lately.”

“They are tired because you invite strangers to stay,” Poppy whispered.

Mama frowned, one fingertip tapping the edge of her fan. “That cannot be the only reason.”

“It is the primary reason.”

Mama twirled the fan in the air. “Then we must invent a more flattering one.”

Georgie came sweeping toward them, elegant in pale green silk, her dark hair smooth, her smile steady enough to ease Poppy’s nerves.

“Poppy.” She took both of Poppy’s hands and squeezed them. “You look lovely.”

“Mama insisted upon the blue,” Poppy said, tempted to ask whether she looked marriageable. Or whether Georgie could tell that her gown had been purchased on credit.

“Blue suits your eyes,” Mama said. “Men are simple creatures, sweetie. One must wave the obvious before them.”

“Lady Montague,” Georgie said, dipping into a curtsy with admirable composure. “How good of you to come.”

“Darling, I never refuse a dinner unless the hostess is dull or the wine is known to be poor.”

“How fortunate I have excellent wine,” Georgie replied, laughing.

“And you are not dull,” Mama assured her. “Marriage has improved you immensely.”

Lord Pembroke appeared just then, dark-haired, green-eyed, and looking very much as if he had heard the last part and chosen not to gloat.

“Lady Montague,” he said, bowing. “Miss Montfort.”

“Lord Pembroke,” Poppy said, curtsying.

He gave her a brief, kind smile, one that managed to offer sympathy without pity, and Poppy appreciated that more than she could say.

Then his gaze moved to Count Bellarosa.

There was the slightest pause.

“Count Bellarosa,” Mama announced grandly. “Or something very near it.”

The count bowed as if bestowing a favor upon the marble beneath him. “My lord. Your house is quite grand. I forgive it for lacking more velvet.”

Poppy nearly choked. But just then, in the doorway behind them, Mr. Ashby arrived.

She turned to face him, inordinately glad to see him. He wore black and white, as he had other times, but evening dress made his restraint look less like severity and more like temptation behaving itself. His cravat was immaculate. His coat fit beautifully. Propriety itself could not have assembled a more devastating instrument of disapproval.

Mr. Ashby bowed to Georgie and Lord Pembroke, then to Mama, then to Poppy.

“Miss Montfort,” he intoned.

“Mr. Ashby,” she replied.

Mama leaned toward Georgie and whispered, quite audibly, “Handsome, is he not?”

“Mama,” Poppy whispered, nudging her mother in the ribs with her elbow.

“What? I am assisting,” Mama replied.

“You are not,” Poppy told her.