Page 53 of The Wallflower Takes All

“You should not have been,” she said.

“I know.”

“Mr. Ashby?—”

“I know,” he said again, rougher this time.

For one moment, the crowded room seemed to narrow around them. Lord Rillington, Count Bellarosa, Mama, the musician, the flowers, the candles—all of it blurred at the edges.

Then Mr. Ashby looked down at the folded note in his hand. “Are you well?”

The question undid her more than the confession had.

She gave him her brightest smile. “Perfectly, Mr. Ashby.”

His expression did not change. His eyes did. Poppy’s smile faltered.

Across the room, Georgie and Bea had seen everything. Their faces held outrage, sympathy, and immediate strategy.

Poppy lifted her chin another fraction.

The evening was not over. The husband hunt had only just begun.

But Lord Rillington did not ask her for a second dance.

Chapter Eight

Poppy smiled through the final half hour of the evening, thanked Georgie for a lovely dinner, assured Bea that, no, she would not allow her mother to bring Count Bellarosa to the ball, and helped Mama locate her reticule, which had somehow been lost beneath a fern.

Count Bellarosa, who had recovered from the death of his operatic dreams with impressive speed, kissed Georgie’s hand at the door and promised to call upon Lady Viva again with “newer, grander, more immortal opportunities.”

“Please do not,” Poppy said.

The count smiled beatifically. “I adore a woman of firm opposition. It gives destiny something to push against.”

“Mama,” Poppy said, drawing out the word like a warning.

Lady Viva gave a dreamy sigh. “He is absurd, sweetie, but with such excellent posture.”

“He tried to persuade you to sign a note for money we do not have,” Poppy pointed out.

“Artists are notoriously poor with figures,” Mama replied.

“He is not an artist. He is a man in a velvet coat with a large sapphire and several conflicting origins,” Poppy said.

Mama waved her fan in the air. “Darling, that is practically the definition of an artist.”

Poppy might have answered, but Mr. Ashby appeared beside them, dark coat immaculate, expression composed, hat in hand. “Lady Montague,” he said. “Miss Montfort. Lord Pembroke has asked that I see you safely home.”

Poppy looked sharply at him. “That is not necessary.”

“Perhaps not,” he said. “But it is sensible.”

One could not argue with a man who made being sensible sound like an edict.

Mama brightened. “How gallant. I adore gallantry when it arrives in a handsome man wearing a fine coat.”

“Mama.”