Page 67 of The Wallflower Takes All

“Then he deserves the disappointment,” Bea replied.

Poppy’s mouth twitched. “That is uncharitable.”

“Perhaps, but it’s true.”

The evening, according to Bea, was “a small ball.” By any reasonable definition, that was a lie. Archer House had been filled with music, flowers, gilt chairs, liveried footmen, trays of champagne, and half the unmarried gentlemen Lord Vanover had not immediately dismissed as fools, rakehells, gamblers, weaklings, or men with unfortunate political opinions.

“This is small for Bea,” Georgie said, appearing at Poppy’s other side in lavender satin. “For anyone else, it would be an event requiring a map.”

“I heard that,” Bea said.

“You were meant to,” Georgie replied in a singsong voice.

Poppy tried to smile, but her gaze strayed again toward her mother. At least Count Bellarosa wasn’t here. That was something. Poppy had forbidden Mama from inviting him, and Lady Viva had obeyed, though with so much sighing that even Jenkins had looked worn down by the time they left the house.

“You are doing it again,” Bea said.

“I am ensuring Mama is not signing anything,” Poppy retorted.

“She is holding a fan and Lord Crampton’s attention. No paper in sight,” Bea said.

“Fans can conceal paper.” Poppy desperately wished Mr. Ashby were here, which was inconvenient, improper, and entirely useless.

As if the wish had acquired a will of its own, Lord Vanover appeared at her elbow and said, “Mr. Ashby has arrived.”

Poppy turned so quickly that Bea’s hand tightened around her arm.

“He has?” Poppy asked.

“I invited him,” Bea said. “After the Bellarosa incident, I refuse to host an evening that includes your mother, champagne, and writing implements without legal reinforcement.”

“That is both insulting and wise,” Poppy replied.

Bea nodded. “Precisely. Now, Lord Ketterham is the most promising on the list.”

Poppy forced herself to listen as Bea began reciting his virtues. Widowed. Titled. Financially sound. Two children, both in the schoolroom. A well-managed estate, according to Lord Vanover. A gentleman who meant to marry again and possessed no known taste for opera fraud.

It was useful information. Crucial information, in fact.

And still, despite every sensible effort, Poppy’s gaze moved past Bea’s shoulder.

She found Mr. Ashby near the ballroom doors, dressed elegantly in black and white, speaking quietly with a footman. He did not belong in Bea’s glittering ballroom, surrounded by silk, candlelight, and titled men who had been born to this world. Yet he did not look diminished by it in the least. He looked even more himself: steady, contained, and so handsome that Poppy briefly forgot Lord Ketterham existed.

Then Mr. Ashby’s attention found her.

The room seemed to sharpen around that single point of contact.

He crossed to where she stood with his usual controlled stride and bowed. “Lady Vanover. Lady Pembroke. Miss Montfort.”

“Mr. Ashby,” Poppy said.

His attention dipped briefly to her pink satin gown before returning to her face. The glance lasted no longer than courtesy allowed. It still warmed her more than it ought.

Beside her, Georgie went very still, and Bea’s brows lifted by the smallest, most damning fraction.

“Lady Montague appears well guarded,” he said.

“Three footmen, one marquess, and an earl,” Bea replied, referring to Nicholas and Jason.