Page 54 of The Wallflower Takes All

“What? He knows he is handsome. Men always know, darling. They merely wait to see whether women will be bold enough to mention it.”

Mr. Ashby’s face did not change, but Poppy had the distinct impression he was wishing himself back among ledgers, where figures at least had the decency not to comment upon his clothing.

Georgie pressed Poppy’s hand in farewell. “Tomorrow,” she whispered. “We shall regroup.”

Bea, standing just beyond her, nodded. “And Rillington is not the last titled man in England.”

“No,” Poppy said. “Only the first to run away very quietly.”

Bea’s eyes softened. “Poppy?—”

“Don’t worry. I am fine.”

“I don’t believe you,” Bea said.

Poppy sighed. “Neither do I.”

That earned the faintest smile, which was precisely why Poppy had said it. If she could make Bea smile, then perhaps she was not as close to tears as she felt.

The drive home was short, but Mama managed to fill it with opinions on Lord Rillington’s cravat, Count Bellarosa’s posture, Lady Pembroke’s footmen, the quality of the wine, Italian opera, and whether Mr. Ashby’s coat had been cut by a tailor of uncommon talent.

Poppy answered, “Yes, Mama,” seven times. She meant it perhaps once.

When the carriage came to a stop before the Montfort town house, Mr. Ashby descended first and offered his hand.

Poppy placed her gloved fingers in his.

The contact should have been nothing. Leather against leather. Courtesy. Balance. Yet his hand closed around hers, firm and steady, and for one suspended moment, as she stepped down from the carriage, she was aware of nothing else.

Then Mama swept past them in a rustle of silk.

“Jenkins,” Lady Viva called as the front door opened, “tell me whether there is cake. I have survived a promissory note, a nearly deaf baronet, and a disappointing amount of champagne. I require consolation.”

Jenkins bowed. “I believe there is seed cake, my lady.”

“Seed cake is not consolation, darling. It is penance masquerading as refreshment.”

“I shall inquire whether Cook has anything else, my lady.”

“Do, sweetie. And if she has nothing better, tell her I admire her diligence but question her priorities.”

“Mama,” Poppy warned.

Lady Viva paused on the bottom stair and turned back. “Yes, yes. I know. Now thank Mr. Ashby for being useful and handsome. One must encourage men when they manage both.”

Heat climbed Poppy’s neck. “Good night, Mama.”

“Good night, darling. I am going upstairs before anyone attempts to discuss prudence with me. I feel a megrim coming on.”

She disappeared up the stairs, one hand trailing along the banister, her voice floating back down as she asked Jenkins whether seed cake could be improved by soaking it in brandy.

Poppy closed her eyes briefly.

When she opened them, Mr. Ashby stood just inside the threshold, hat in hand, the open front door behind him giving onto the lamplit street. Cool night air slipped into the foyer and stirred the ribbons of Poppy’s bonnet against her cheek.

Jenkins hovered near the hall table.

“That will be all, Jenkins,” Poppy said.