Page 52 of The Wallflower Takes All

Lady Viva stopped. And for a moment, the room seemed to stop too.

Lord Rillington’s smile remained, but it had become painfully polite. “How admirable,” he said.

Poppy’s cheeks burned.

Mr. Ashby looked at her then. In his face, she saw the thing she had least wanted. It was not pity. Thank God. But it was sympathy, carefully held in check, which was nearly as unbearable.

She lifted her chin and smiled…because that is what she did when things were dire. “How kind of you to say so, my lord,” she said to Lord Rillington.

Lord Rillington bowed. “If you will forgive me, I see Lord Chesterfield. I must speak with him before the evening ends.”

“Certainly,” Poppy replied.

He left with polished composure, too well bred to let even retreat look hurried. Men like Lord Rillington withdrew with manners, and manners gave one nothing solid enough to object to.

Lady Viva’s fan stilled.

Count Bellarosa murmured something about art enduring persecution.

Mr. Ashby still held the promissory note in one hand.

Poppy turned to Mama and managed a smile that felt brittle enough to cut her mouth. “Why don’t you two dance?” she suggested through clenched teeth.

Mama’s eyes searched her face. Something like remorse flickered there, helpless and brief. “Yes,” Lady Viva said. “Perhaps we should. Dancing improves all spaces.”

Count Bellarosa offered his arm with injured magnificence. Lady Viva took it, though, for once, she did not immediately speak.

As they moved away, Mr. Ashby stepped closer. “Miss Montfort.”

Poppy became aware of the heat of him at her side, the crisp scent of starch and evening air, and the promissory note in his hand. Tonight, rescue and temptation had arrived in the same dark coat.

“Please do not say it,” she murmured.

“I failed you.”

That was so far from what she had expected that she looked at him. “You stopped her from signing it.”

“Too late.”

“No money was lost.”

“Only Lord Rillington.”

The name struck with humiliating precision.

Poppy looked toward the place where Lord Rillington now stood laughing with another gentleman, his attention safely elsewhere. “He was never mine to lose.”

“No,” Mr. Ashby said, his voice low. “But I was asked to watch Lady Montague.”

“And?”

His jaw tightened. “I was watching you.”

The words slipped beneath her defenses with troubling ease.

She should have been angry. Perhaps she was. He had come tonight because she had asked for help, and Mama had nearly signed a promissory note while Mr. Ashby watched another man dance with her.

Anger would have been easier if the confession had not made her feel wanted.