Page 55 of The Wallflower Takes All

The butler’s gaze flicked once to Mr. Ashby, then to the open door, then back to Poppy. If he disapproved of leaving her in the foyer with a gentleman, he was too well trained—or too accustomed to Montfort irregularity—to show it.

“Very good, miss.”

He withdrew.

And Poppy remained in the foyer with Mr. Ashby. They were not alone. Not precisely. The front door remained open. The street lay beyond Mr. Ashby’s shoulder. Somewhere above, Mama continued to discuss cake. A footman moved in the passage behind the stairs.

It only felt like being alone.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke.

That was the difficulty with silence. When shared with the wrong person, it was awkward. When shared with Mr. Ashby, it became something charged and impossible to ignore.

At length, he said, “Again, I am sorry for what happened in front of Lord Rillington. I should have reached Lady Montague sooner.” His gaze moved over her face, lingering a fraction too long on her mouth before he seemed to force it back to her eyes. “I was distracted.”

Poppy’s breath caught because there was no possible way to misunderstand him.

“Yes,” she said. “You mentioned that.”

Mr. Ashby’s face hardened. “He should not have looked at you as he did.”

Poppy’s fingers tightened together. “How did he look at me?”

“Like you had become a calculation.”

The quiet force of his anger made the words feel less like observation than confession.

She looked past him to the dark street beyond the open door and sighed. “Perhaps I am a calculation. I have certainly become quite good at sums.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“No.” Poppy made herself look at him again. “It is what Lord Rillington meant though. A man would be a fool not to calculate before marrying me.”

He frowned. “A fool?”

“Or a saint. Possibly both.” She tried for a smile. “I come with debts, an unruly mother, a rambunctious puppy, several alarming acquaintances, and more than a whiff of desperation. That is hardly a romantic inventory.”

Mr. Ashby’s nostrils flared. “You are not an inventory.”

“Everything is an inventory if one is desperate enough.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Mr. Ashby’s gaze held hers in the dim foyer. The hall lamp touched his cheek, his mouth, the uncompromising line of his jaw, and made him look less severe than he ought to have looked.

Or perhaps she was growing accustomed to his severity, which was not at all sensible.

“I have been reviewing the marriage contract you prepared,” he said after a moment.

Ah. Safer ground. Mr. Ashby always returned them to papers before feeling could make an unwelcome appearance.

“And?” she asked.

“It is better than I expected.”

Her brows shot up. “Is that praise?”

“It is an assessment.”

“From you, I shall take what I may.”