Page 48 of The Wallflower Takes All

“I am the fortunate one, my lord,” Poppy replied.

Despite herself, she glanced toward Mr. Ashby. He remained nearby, apparently listening while Lord Vanover said something to him. But his gaze had found her.

Poppy looked back at Lord Rillington quickly.

“Lady Pembroke warned me your wit is sharp enough to require caution,” Lord Rillington said.

Wit? Apparently, Bea had spoken of her wit. She must be witty. “I try to use it responsibly.”

“Then I shall endeavor to avoid boring you with nonsense.”

“Please do not make extravagant promises so early, my lord. I shall expect you to keep them.” Had that been witty enough?

When Lord Rillington laughed with genuine amusement, hope lifted another tenuous fraction inside of her.

Poppy exhaled, but before she could dwell on her victory, Lord Pembroke invited them all into the dining room, where dinner proceeded better than she had dared hope.

Lord Rillington was seated beside her, no doubt by Georgie’s careful hand, and he proved attentive enough to be gratifying. His questions were pleasantly ordinary: music, the Season, whether she preferred town or country. Dowries and family rumors stayed blessedly absent, and his attention remained on her instead of wandering toward a richer prospect.

Twice, he made her laugh.

Once, he looked so pleased with himself afterward that Poppy decided she liked him for it. The evening was going well enough to frighten her.

Across the table, Mama held court between Count Bellarosa and an elderly baronet who appeared bewildered but delighted. The count spoke at length about Naples, Palermo, Vienna, betrayal, sapphires, and bloodlines. Mama listened as though he had brought her a bouquet made entirely of scandalous tales. Her favorite sort of tales, of course.

Mr. Ashby sat several places away, quiet, controlled, and watchful. Although he had promised to keep an eye on Mama, his attention returned again and again to Poppy.

Every time Lord Rillington leaned nearer, Mr. Ashby’s expression became even more perfectly composed, and every time it did, Poppy became more certain that composure was the most deceptive thing about him. She could feel his attention as surely as a touch against the bare skin between her shoulder blades.

She told herself she was imagining it.

She knew she was not.

After dinner, the party moved to the drawing room, where Georgie had arranged for music. There was not room for a full dance floor, but enough space had been cleared for a couple to partake if anyone wished it. A musician was ensconced at the pianoforte.

Lord Rillington was briefly claimed by Lord Pembroke, and Mama had drawn Count Bellarosa toward an elderly baronet whose hearing appeared unequal to the count’s confidence.

Poppy took the opportunity to breathe.

It lasted three seconds.

Mr. Ashby appeared beside her, so quiet and sudden that she nearly startled.

“Lady Montague is safe for the moment,” he said.

Poppy glanced across the room. “You sound certain.”

“She is speaking, the count is performing, and both appear to be behaving themselves.”

Poppy arched a brow. “That is your legal assessment?”

“My practical one.”

Despite everything, Poppy smiled. “Then your practical assessment is appreciated.”

“I am glad to be of use.”

“Thank you,” she said. “But I am not certain whether to be grateful or mortified that my mother requires supervision at dinner.”