Tempt Me at Twilight

  She was breathtaking in the violet gown, her slender neck encircled with diamonds, her hair rich with dark fire. Nature had blessed her with abundant beauty. But it was her smile that made her irresistible, a smile so sweet and brilliant that it warmed him from the inside out.

  Harry wished she would smile at him like that. She had, in the beginning. There had to be something that would induce her to warm to him, to like him again. Everyone had a weakness.

  In the meantime, Harry stole glances of her whenever he could, his lovely and distant wife . . . and he drank in the smiles she gave to other people.

  The next morning Harry awoke at his usual hour. He washed and dressed, sat at the breakfast table with a newspaper, and glanced at Poppy’s door. There was no sign of her. He assumed she would sleep late, since they had retired long after midnight.

  “Don’t wake Mrs. Rutledge,” he told the maid. “She needs to rest this morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harry ate his breakfast alone, trying to focus on the newspaper, but his gaze kept dragging to Poppy’s closed door.

  He had gotten used to seeing her every morning. He liked to start his day with her. But Harry was aware that he had been nothing less than boorish the previous night, giving her jewelry and demanding a demonstration of gratitude. He should have known better.

  It was just that he wanted her so damned badly. And he had become accustomed to having his way, especially where women were concerned. He reflected that it probably wouldn’t hurt him to learn to consider someone else’s feelings.

  Especially if that would hasten the process of getting what he wanted.

  After receiving the morning managers’ reports from Jake Valentine, Harry went with him to the basement of the hotel to assess the damage from some minor flooding due to faulty drainage. “We’ll need an engineering assessment,” Harry said, “And I want an inventory of the damaged storage items.”

  “Yes, sir,” Valentine replied. “Unfortunately there were some rolled-up Turkish carpets in the flooded area, but I don’t know if the staining—”

  “Mr. Rutledge!” An agitated housemaid descended to the bottom of the stairs and rushed over to them. She could barely speak between labored breaths. “Mrs. Pennywhistle said . . . to come fetch you because . . . Mrs. Rutledge . . .”

  Harry looked at the housemaid sharply. “What is it?”

  “She’s injured, sir . . . took a fall . . .”

  Alarm shot through him. “Where is she?”

  “Your apartments, sir.”

  “Send for a doctor,” Harry told Valentine, and he ran for the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. By the time he reached his apartments, full-scale panic roared through him. He tried to push it back enough to think clearly. There was a congregation of maids around the door, and he shouldered his way through them into the main room. “Poppy?”

  Mrs. Pennywhistle’s voice echoed from the tiled bathing room. “We’re in here, Mr. Rutledge.”

  Harry reached the bathing room in three strides, his stomach lurching in fear as he saw Poppy on the floor, reclining against the housekeeper’s supportive arms. Toweling had been draped over her for modesty’s sake, but her limbs were naked and vulnerable looking in contrast to the hard gray tiling.

  Harry dropped to his haunches beside her. “What happened, Poppy?”

  “I’m sorry.” She looked pained and mortified and apologetic. “It was so silly. I stepped out of the bath and slipped on the tiles, and my leg went out from beneath me.”

  “Thank heavens one of the maids had come to clear the breakfast dishes,” Mrs. Pennywhistle told him, “and she heard Mrs. Rutledge cry out.”

  “I’m all right,” Poppy said. “I just twisted my ankle a bit.” She gave the housekeeper a gently chiding glance. “I’m perfectly capable of getting up, but Mrs. Pennywhistle won’t let me.”

  “I was afraid to move her,” the housekeeper told Harry.

  “You were right to keep her still,” Harry replied, examining Poppy’s leg. The ankle was discolored and already beginning to swell. Even the light brush of his fingers was enough to make her flinch and inhale quickly.

  “I don’t think I’ll need a doctor,” Poppy said. “If you could just wrap it with a light binding, and perhaps I could have some willow bark tea—”

  “Oh, you’re seeing a doctor,” Harry said, suffused with grim concern. Glancing at Poppy’s face, he saw the residue of tears, and he reached out to her with extreme gentleness, his fingers caressing the side of her face. Her skin was as smooth as fine-milled soap. There was a red mark in the center of her lower lip, where she must have bitten it.

  Whatever she saw in his expression caused her eyes to widen and her cheeks to flush.

  Mrs. Pennywhistle eased up from the floor. “Well,” she said briskly, “Now that she’s in your care, Mr. Rutledge, shall I fetch some bandages and salve? We may as well treat the ankle until the doctor arrives.”

  “Yes,” Harry said curtly. “And send for another doctor—I want a second opinion.”

  “Yes, sir.” The housekeeper fled.

  “We haven’t even gotten a first opinion yet,” Poppy protested. “And you’re making far too much of this. It’s just a minor sprain, and . . . what are you doing?”

  Harry had laid two fingers on the top of her foot, two inches below the ankle, feeling for her pulse. “Making certain your circulation hasn’t been compromised.”

  Poppy rolled her eyes. “My goodness. All I need is to sit somewhere with my foot up.”

  “I’m going to carry you to bed,” he said, sliding one arm behind her back, the other beneath her knees. “Can you put your arms around my neck?”

  She blushed from head to toe, and complied with an inarticulate murmur. He lifted her in a slow, easy movement. Poppy fumbled a little as the toweling began to slip from her body, and she gasped in pain.

  “Did I jostle your leg?” Harry asked in concern.

  “No. I think . . .” She sounded sheepish. “I think I may have hurt my back a little as well.”

  Harry let out a few quiet curses that caused her brows to raise, and he carried her into the bedroom. “From now on,” he told her sternly, “you’re not to step out of the bathing tub unless there’s someone to help you.”

  “I can’t do that,” she protested.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t need help with my bath every night. I’m not a child!”

  “Believe me,” Harry said, “I’m aware of that.” He set her down gently and arranged the covers over her. After easing the damp towel away from her, he adjusted her pillows. “Where are your nightgowns?”

  “The bottom dresser drawer.”

  Harry went to the dresser, jerked the drawer open, and pulled out a white gown. Returning to the bed, he helped Poppy into the nightgown, his face tautening with concern as she winced with every movement. She needed something for the pain. She needed a doctor.

  Why the hell was it so quiet in the apartment? He wanted people running, fetching things. He wanted action.

  After tucking the covers around Poppy, he left the room in rapid strides.

  Three maids were still in the hallway, talking amongst themselves. Harry scowled, and the maids blanched simultaneously.

  “S-sir?” one of them asked nervously.

  “Why are you all standing here?” he demanded. “And where is Mrs. Pennywhistle? I want one of you to find her immediately, and tell her to hurry! And I want the other two of you to start fetching things.”

  “What kind of things, sir?” one of them quavered.

  “Things for Mrs. Rutledge. A hot water bottle. Ice. Laudanum. A pot of tea. A book. I don’t give a damn, just start bringing things!”

  The two maids scampered away like terrified squirrels.

  A half minute passed, and still no one appeared.

  Where the devil was the doctor? Why was everyone so bloody slow?

  He heard Poppy calling for him, and he turned on his heels
and raced back into the apartments. He was at her bedside in an instant.

  Poppy was huddled in a small, motionless heap.

  “Harry,” her voice came from beneath the bedclothes, “are you yelling at people?”

  “No,” he said instantly.

  “Good. Because this is not a serious situation, and it certainly doesn’t merit—”

  “It’s serious to me.”

  Poppy pushed the covers away from her strained face and looked at him as if he were someone she had met before but couldn’t quite place. A faint smile touched her lips. Tentatively her hand crept to Harry’s, her small fingers curving around his palm.

  That simple clasp did something strange to Harry’s heartbeat. His pulse drove in erratic surges, and his chest turned hot with some unknown emotion. He took her entire hand in his, their palms gently pressing. He wanted to hold her in his arms, not in passion, but to give comfort. Even though his embrace was the last thing she wanted.

  “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, striding from the room. He rushed to a sideboard in his private library, poured a small glass of French brandy, and brought it back to Poppy. “Try this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Brandy.”

  She tried to sit up, wincing with every movement. “I don’t think I’ll like it.”

  “You don’t have to like it. Just drink it.” Harry tried to help her, feeling unaccountably awkward . . . he, who had always navigated his way around the female form with absolute confidence. Carefully he wedged another pillow behind her back.

  She sipped the brandy and made a face. “Ugh.”

  Had Harry not been so worried, he might have found some amusement in her reaction to the brandy, a heritage vintage that had been aged at least a hundred years. As she continued to sip the brandy, Harry pulled a chair beside the bed.

  By the time Poppy had finished the brandy, some of the fine-grooved tension had gone from her face. “That actually helped a bit,” she said. “My ankle still hurts, but I don’t think I care as much.”

  Harry took the glass from her and set it aside. “That’s good,” he said gently. “Would you mind if I left you again momentarily?”

  “No, you’re only going to yell at the staff again, and they’re already doing their best. Stay with me.” She reached for his hand.

  That mystifying feeling again . . . the sense of puzzle pieces fitting together. Such an innocent connection, one hand in another, and yet it was enormously satisfying.

  “Harry?” The soft way she said his name caused the hair to rise pleasurably on his arms and the back of his neck.

  “Yes, love?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Would you . . . would you mind rubbing my back?”

  Harry fought to conceal his reaction. “Of course,” he said, striving to keep his tone casual. “Can you turn to your side?” Reaching for her lower back, he found the little reefs of muscle on either side of her spine. Poppy pushed the pillows aside and lay flat on her stomach. He worked up to her upper shoulders, finding the knotted muscles.

  A soft groan escaped her, and Harry paused.

  “Yes, there,” she said, and the full-throated pleasure in her voice went straight to Harry’s groin. He continued to knead her back, his fingers coaxing and sure. Poppy sighed deeply. “I’m keeping you from your work.”

  “I have nothing planned.”

  “You always have at least ten things planned.”

  “Nothing’s more important than you.”

  “You almost sound sincere.”

  “I am sincere. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because your work is more important to you than anything, even people.”

  Annoyed, Harry held his tongue and continued to massage her.

  “I’m sorry,” Poppy said after a minute. “I didn’t mean that. I don’t know why I said it.”

  The words were an instant balm to Harry’s anger. “You’re hurting. And you’re tipsy. It’s all right.”

  Mrs. Pennywhistle’s voice came from the threshold. “Here we are. Hopefully this will suffice until the doctor arrives.” She brought a tray laden with supplies, including rolled linen bandages, a pot of salve, and two or three large green leaves.

  “What are these for?” Harry asked, picking up one of the leaves. He gave the housekeeper a questioning glance. “Cabbage?”

  “It’s a very effective remedy,” the housekeeper explained. “It reduces swelling and makes bruises disappear. Only make certain to break the spine of the leaf and crush it a bit, then wrap it around the ankle before you tie the bandage.”

  “I don’t want to smell like cabbage,” Poppy protested.

  Harry gave her a severe glance. “I don’t give a damn what it smells like, if it will make you better.”

  “That’s because you’re not the one who has to wear a vegetable leaf on your leg!”

  But he had his way, of course, and Poppy reluctantly endured the poultice.

  “There,” Harry said, tying off a neat bandage around it. He drew the hem of Poppy’s nightgown back over her knee. “Mrs. Pennywhistle, if you wouldn’t mind—”

  “Yes, I’ll see if the doctor’s arrived,” the housekeeper said. “And I’ll have a brief talk with the housemaids. For some reason they’re piling the strangest assortment of objects near the doorway . . .”

  The doctor had indeed arrived. Stoic soul that he was, he ignored Harry’s muttered comment that he hoped the doctor didn’t always take so long when there was a medical emergency, or half his patients would probably expire before he ever crossed the threshold.

  After examining Poppy’s ankle, the doctor diagnosed a light sprain, and he prescribed cold compresses for the swelling. He left a bottle of tonic for the pain, a pot of liniment for the pulled muscle in her shoulder, and advised that above all Mrs. Rutledge must rest.

  Were it not for her discomfort, Poppy would have actually enjoyed the rest of the day. Apparently Harry had decided that she should be waited on hand and foot. Chef Broussard sent up a tray of pastry, fresh fruit, and creamed eggs. Mrs. Pennywhistle brought a selection of cushions to make her more comfortable. Harry had dispatched a footman to the book-shop, and the servant had returned with an armload of new publications.

  Soon thereafter, a maid brought Poppy a tray of neat boxes tied with ribbons. Opening them, Poppy discovered that one was filled with toffee, another with boiled sweets, and another with Turkish delight. Best of all, one box was filled with a new confection called “eating-chocolates” that had been all the rage at the London Exhibition.

  “Where did these come from?” Poppy asked Harry when he returned to her room after a brief visit to the front offices.

  “From the sweet shop.”

  “No, these.” Poppy showed him the eating-chocolates. “No one can get them. The makers, Fellows and Son, have closed their shop while they move to a new location. The ladies at the philanthropic luncheon were talking about it.”

  “I sent Valentine to the Fellows residence to ask them to make a special batch for you.” Harry smiled as he saw the paper twists scattered across the counterpane. “I see you’ve sampled them.”

  “Have one,” Poppy said generously.

  Harry shook his head. “I don’t like sweets.” But he bent down obligingly as she gestured for him to come closer. She reached out to him, her fingers catching the knot of his necktie.

  Harry’s smile faded as Poppy exerted gentle tension, drawing him down. He was suspended over her, an impending weight of muscle and masculine drive. As her sugared breath blew against his lips, she sensed the deep tremor within him. And she was aware of a new equilibrium between them, a balance of will and curiosity. Harry held still, letting her do as she wished.

  She tugged him closer until her mouth brushed his. The contact was brief but vital, striking a glow of heat.

  Poppy released him carefully, and Harry drew back.

  “You won’t kiss me for diamonds,” he said, his voice slightly raspy, “but you will f
or chocolates?”

  Poppy nodded.

  As Harry turned his face away, she saw his cheek tauten with a smile. “I’ll put in a daily order, then.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Accustomed as Harry was to arranging everyone’s schedule, he seemed to take it for granted that Poppy would allow him to do the same for her. When she told him that she preferred to make her own decisions about planning her days, Harry had countered that if she insisted on socializing with the hotel employees, he would find better uses for her time.

  “I like to spend time with them,” Poppy protested. “I can’t treat everyone who lives and works here as nothing more than cogs in a machine.”

  “The hotel has been run this way for years,” Harry said. “It’s not going to change. As I’ve told you before, you’ll create a management problem. From now on, no more visiting the kitchens. No more chats with the master gardener while he prunes the roses. No cups of tea with the housekeeper.”

  Poppy frowned. “Does it ever occur to you that your employees are people with thoughts and feelings? Have you thought to ask Mrs. Pennywhistle if her hand injury has healed?”

  Harry frowned. “Hand injury?”

  “Yes, she accidentally closed her fingers in the door. And when was the last time Mr. Valentine went on holiday?”

  Harry’s expression went blank.

  “Three years,” Poppy said. “Even the housemaids go on holiday to see their families, or go to the country. But Mr. Valentine is so devoted to his job that he forgoes all his personal time. And you’ve probably never offered a word of praise or thanks for it.”

  “I pay him a salary,” Harry said indignantly. “Why the devil are you so interested in the personal lives of the hotel staff?”

  “Because I can’t live with people and see them day to day and not care about them.”

  “Then you can bloody well start with me!”

  “You want me to care about you?” Her incredulous tone seemed to exasperate him.