Page 69 of The Wallflower Takes All

Sensible.

Safe.

Exactly the sort of match she ought to want.

Which made it deeply inconvenient that her mind chose that moment to remember Mr. Ashby’s mouth brushing her cheek and his voice going rough enough to threaten every rule between them.

Poppy forced the memory aside before it could take root. She was not here to think about Gabriel Ashby. She was here to find a titled husband before Algernon Montfort arrived and claimed the only home she had left.

Lord Vanover approached with a gentleman at his side.

Lord Ketterham was perhaps five and forty years of age, brown-haired, clean-shaven, and steady in every visible particular. Serious gray eyes. Composed manner. The general air of a man who valued punctuality, sound judgment, and firm expectations.

He did not dazzle, which Poppy found reassuring.

Dazzling things had a way of proving complicated.

“Lord Ketterham,” Lord Vanover said, “may I present Miss Montfort?”

Poppy curtsied. “My lord.”

Ketterham bowed. “Miss Montfort.”

His gaze did not flick to her empty wrists, her gown, or Mama. It stayed on her face. That was promising.

“I understand Lady Vanover has thrown us all into this room with purpose,” he said.

Poppy blinked, then laughed. “Good heavens. You begin plainly.”

“I prefer plain beginnings. They save confusion later.”

“I suppose that depends upon whether confusion was one’s only advantage,” Poppy replied.

Lord Ketterham’s brow furrowed. “Is it yours?”

“At times.” There. That was sensible, wasn’t it?

“Then I shall proceed with caution,” he said without humor.

There was no flirtation in his tone. No fluttering compliments, no honeyed nonsense, no silly comparison between her eyes and the heavens. Yet there was attention in it. Respect, perhaps. He seemed to be listening to her answer rather than waiting for his own turn to speak.

Poppy allowed herself a little hope, though she kept a firm hand on it after what had happened with Lord Rillington. Hope, she had learned, must be portioned like sugar in a household with bills.

Soon, Lord Ketterham offered Poppy his arm and asked whether she would care to take a turn about the room. She accepted, grateful for motion and the useful privacy of a crowded ballroom.

They spoke of the Season, the press of the room, and the verity of calling any gathering this size small. Lord Ketterham proved dry rather than sparkling, but Poppy liked dry. Dry did not promise to write operas, die on sofas, or invest one’s mother in foreign ventures.

After several minutes, Lord Ketterham looked toward the dancers. “May I have the honor?”

Poppy glanced once at Bea, whose face did not change but whose entire posture seemed to shout yes.

“I should be pleased,” Poppy said.

Lord Ketterham led her to the floor.

He danced competently, with more diligence than grace. Some men moved with effortless confidence, every step carrying the ease of birthright rather than instruction. Lord Ketterham counted the figures under his breath once, caught himself, and gave her a look of such earnest apology that Poppy nearly laughed.

“I am better at figures,” he said.