Page 59 of The Wallflower Takes All

The words settled between them. Poppy did not know what to do with them.

She found herself looking at his hands, gloved and still at his sides. Competent hands. Careful hands. Hands that had taken a promissory note from Mama’s fingers and helped her down from the coach just minutes ago.

He cleared his throat. “I shall bring the marriage contract in the morning.”

“Yes.” More documents. Another retreat. Poppy folded her hands in front of her. “Thank you.”

“And I will notify you as soon as I receive Lord Montague’s reply.”

She nodded. “Perhaps he will be generous.”

Mr. Ashby said nothing.

Poppy gave a short laugh. “There. You see? I can invent grand comforts as well as anyone.”

“I wish I could give you one.”

The answer undid her more than comfort would have. It reached a place no compliment ever had, beneath vanity and pride, where loneliness had taught her that burdens were temporarily eased only by pretending they did not exist.

Her smile faded. For once, she did not hurry to replace it.

Mr. Ashby looked at her, and the silence altered. It was no longer awkward or polite. It became perilous, drawing the distance between them tighter until the air itself felt thin.

Poppy was aware of the open door behind him, the cool air curling into the foyer, the lamplight on his hair, the clean line of his mouth, and the faint scent of starch and paper. His gaze moved over her face with a restraint that somehow felt more intimate than boldness, as if he were memorizing what he would not allow himself to touch.

His hand lifted, slow enough that she could have stepped back.

She did not.

His fingers touched the knot beneath her chin.

Poppy drew in a quick, unsteady breath. The careful brush of his glove beneath her jaw, sending a breathless shiver through her.

“Your ribbon,” he said, his voice lower than before. “It was coming loose.”

Her gaze met his. “And now?”

His thumb brushed the sensitive hollow beneath her jaw. “Now I am making it worse.”

The words should have made her laugh. They almost did. Then his breath changed, and the fragile humor between them disappeared.

He bent before prudence could stop him.

His mouth touched her cheek, close to the corner of her mouth, a kiss so restrained it should have done no damage. Instead, it sent heat through her in a swift, impossible rush. Apology, want, warning, and hunger, all compressed into one forbidden instant.

Poppy’s fingers caught his sleeve.

That small contact seemed to undo him more completely than any open invitation could have done.

He drew back, color high along his cheekbones. “Forgive me.”

She could not speak at once. Her hand remained on his sleeve, her skin alive where his mouth had touched her.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said.

“There is everything to forgive. I am your solicitor.”

“At present.”