Tempt Me at Twilight

  “I don’t care,” Poppy said. “I’ll never go through another season again.”

  “You may change your mind. And I want you to have the choice. Which is why you’re going to the ball, Poppy. You’ll wear your prettiest dress, and blue ribbons in your hair, and show them all that you don’t give a damn about Michael Bayning. You’re going to dance and laugh, and hold your head high.”

  “Leo,” Poppy groaned. “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Of course you can. Your pride demands it.”

  “I don’t have any reason to be proud.”

  “I don’t either,” Leo said. “But that doesn’t stop me, does it?” He glanced from Poppy’s reluctant expression to Catherine’s unreadable one. “Tell her I’m right, damn it,” he told her. “She has to go, doesn’t she?”

  Catherine hesitated uncomfortably. Much as it galled her to admit it, Leo was indeed right. A confident, smiling appearance by Poppy at the ball would do much to still the wagging tongues of London parlors. But her instincts urged that Poppy should be taken to the safety of Hampshire as soon as possible. As long as she remained in town, she was in Harry Rutledge’s reach.

  On the other hand . . . Harry never attended such events, where desperate matchmaking mothers with unclaimed daughters scrabbled to snare every last available bachelor. Harry would never lower himself to go to the Norbury ball, especially since his appearance there would turn it into a veritable circus.

  “Please control your language,” Catherine said. “Yes, you are right. However, it will be difficult for Poppy. And if she loses her composure at the ball—if she gives way to tears—it will give the gossips even more ammunition.”

  “I won’t lose my composure,” Poppy said, sounding drained. “I feel as if I’ve cried enough for a lifetime.”

  “Good girl,” Leo said softly. He glanced at Catherine’s troubled expression and smiled. “It appears we’ve finally agreed on something, Marks. But don’t worry—I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Norbury ball was held in Belgravia, a district of calm and quietness in the heart of London. One could be overwhelmed by the bustle and roar of traffic and activity on Knightsbridge or Sloane Street, cross over to Belgrave Square, and find oneself in an oasis of soothing decorum. It was a place of large marble embassies and grand white terraces, of solemn mansions with tall powdered footmen and stout butlers, and carriages conveying languid young ladies and their tiny overfed dogs.

  The surrounding districts of London held little interest for those fortunate enough to live in Belgravia. Conversations were largely about local matters—who had taken a particular house, or what nearby street needed repairs, or what events had taken place at a neighboring residence.

  To Poppy’s dismay, Cam and Amelia had agreed with Leo’s assessment of the situation. A show of pride and unconcern was called for if Poppy wished to stem the tide of gossip concerning Michael Bayning’s rejection. “The gadje has a long memory of these matters,” Cam had said sardonically. “God knows why they attach such importance to things of no consequence. But they do.”

  “It’s only one evening,” Amelia had told Poppy in concern. “Do you think you could manage an appearance, dear?”

  “Yes,” Poppy had agreed dully. “If you are there, I can manage it.”

  However, as she ascended the front steps to the mansion’s portico, Poppy was swamped with regret and dread. The glass of wine she’d had to bolster her courage had pooled like acid in her stomach, and her corset had been laced too tightly.

  She wore a white dress, layers of draped satin and pale blue illusion. Her waist was cinched with a belt of satin folds, the bodice deep and scooped and trimmed with another delicate froth of blue. After arranging her hair in a mass of pinned-up curls, Amelia had threaded a thin blue ribbon through it.

  Leo had arrived, as promised, to accompany the family to the ball. He held out his arm for Poppy and escorted her up the stairs, while the family followed en masse. They entered the overheated house, which was filled with flowers, music, and the din of hundreds of simultaneous conversations. Doors had been removed from their hinges to allow for the circulation of guests from the ballroom to the supper and card rooms.

  The Hathaways waited in a receiving line in the entrance hall.

  “Look how dignified and polite they all are,” Leo said, observing the crowd. “I can’t stay long. Someone might influence me.”

  “You promised you would stay until after the first set,” Poppy reminded him.

  Her brother sighed. “For you, I will. But I despise these affairs.”

  “As do I,” Miss Marks surprised them all by saying grimly, surveying the gathering as if it were enemy territory.

  “My God. Something else we agree on.” Leo gave the companion a half-mocking, half-uneasy glance. “We have to stop doing this, Marks. My stomach is starting to turn.”

  “Please do not say that word,” she snapped.

  “Stomach? Why not?”

  “It is indelicate to refer to your anatomy.” She gave his tall form a disdainful glance. “And I assure you, no one has any interest in it.”

  “You think not? I’ll have you know, Marks, that scores of women have remarked on my—”

  “Ramsay,” Cam interrupted, giving him a warning glance.

  When they had made it through the entrance hall, the family dispersed to make the rounds. Leo and Cam went to the card rooms, while the women headed to the supper tables. Amelia was instantly captured by a small group of chattering matrons.

  “I can’t eat,” Poppy commented, glancing with revulsion at the long buffet of cold joints, beef, ham, and lobster salads.

  “I’m starved,” Beatrix. said apologetically. “Do you mind if I have something?”

  “Not at all, we’ll wait with you.”

  “Have a spoonful of salad,” Miss Marks murmured to Poppy. “For appearance’s sake. And smile.”

  “Like this?” Poppy attempted to turn the corners of her mouth upward.

  Beatrix regarded her doubtfully. “No, that’s not pretty at all. You look like a salmon.”

  “I feel like a salmon,” Poppy said. “One that’s been boiled, shredded and potted.”

  As the guests queued at the buffet, footmen filled their plates and carried them to nearby tables.

  Poppy was still waiting in line when she was approached by Lady Belinda Wallscourt, a pretty young woman she had befriended during the Season. As soon as Belinda had come out into society, she was pursued by several eligible gentlemen, and had quickly become betrothed.

  “Poppy,” Lady Belinda said warmly, “how nice to see you here. There was uncertainty as to whether you would come.”

  “The last ball of the Season?” Poppy said with a forced smile. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “I’m so glad.” Lady Belinda gave her a compassionate glance. Her voice lowered. “It’s terrible, what happened to you. I’m dreadfully sorry.”

  “Oh, there’s nothing to be sorry about,” Poppy said brightly. “I’m perfectly fine!”

  “You’re very brave,” Belinda replied. “And Poppy, remember that someday you will meet a frog who will turn into a handsome prince.”

  “Good,” Beatrix said. “Because all she’s met so far are princes who turn into frogs.”

  Looking perplexed, Belinda managed a smile and left them.

  “Mr. Bayning is not a frog,” Poppy protested.

  “You’re right,” Beatrix said. “That was very unfair to frogs, who are lovely creatures.”

  As Poppy parted her lips to object, she heard Miss Marks snicker. And she began to laugh as well, until they attracted curious glances from the queue at the buffet.

  After Beatrix had finished eating, they wandered to the ballroom. Music fluttered downward in continuous drifts from the orchestra playing in the upper gallery. The massive room glittered in the light of eight chandeliers, while the sweetness of abundant roses and greenery thickened the air. br />
  Locked in the unforgiving bondage of her corset, Poppy filled her lungs with strained breaths. “It’s too warm in here,” she said.

  Miss Marks glanced at her perspiring face, quickly produced a handkerchief, and guided her into one of the many cane openwork chairs at the side of the room. “It is quite warm,” she said. “In a moment, I will locate your brother or Mr. Rohan to escort you outside for some air. But first let me see to Beatrix.”

  “Yes, of course,” Poppy managed, seeing that two men had already approached Beatrix in hopes of entering their names on her dance card. Her younger sister was at ease with men in a way that Poppy could never manage. They seemed to adore Beatrix because she treated them as she did her wild creatures, gently humoring, showing patient interest.

  While Miss Marks supervised Beatrix’s dance card, Poppy settled back in her chair and concentrated on breathing around the iron prison of her corset. It was unfortunate that in this particular chair, she was able to hear a conversation from the other side of a garlanded column.

  A trio of young women spoke in low tones that oozed with smug satisfaction.

  “Of course Bayning wouldn’t have her,” one of them said. “She’s pretty, I’ll allow, but so mal-adroit, in the social sense. A gentleman I know said that he tried to talk to her at the private art viewing at the Royal Academy, and she was prattling about some ridiculous topic . . . something about a long-ago French balloon experiment when they sent a sheep up into the air in front of King Louis something-or-other . . . can you imagine?”

  “Louis the sixteenth,” Poppy whispered.

  “But what would you expect?” came another voice. “Such an odd family. The only one good enough for society is Lord Ramsay, and he is quite wicked.”

  “A scapegrace,” the other one agreed.

  Poppy went from being overheated to chilled. She closed her eyes sickly, wishing she could disappear. It had been a mistake to come to the ball. She was trying to prove something to everyone . . . that she didn’t care about Michael Bayning, when she did. That her heart wasn’t broken, when it was. Everything in London was about appearances, pretenses . . . was it so unforgivable to be honest about one’s feelings?

  Apparently so.

  She sat quietly, knitting her gloved fingers together until her thoughts were diverted by a stir near the main entrance of the ballroom. It seemed that some important person had arrived, perhaps royalty, or a military celebrity, or an influential politician.

  “Who is he?” one of the young women asked.

  “Someone new,” the other said.

  “And handsome.”

  “Divine,” her companion agreed. “He must be a man of consequence—otherwise there wouldn’t be such a to-do.”

  A light laugh. “And Lady Norbury wouldn’t be fluttering so. See how she blushes!”

  Curious despite herself, Poppy leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the newcomer. All she could make out was a dark head, taller than the others around him. He walked further into the ballroom, talking easily with his companions while the stout, bejeweled, and beaming Lady Norbury clung to his arm.

  Recognizing him, Poppy sat back in her chair.

  Harry Rutledge.

  She couldn’t fathom why he would be here, or why that made her smile.

  Probably because she couldn’t help recalling the last time she had seen him, dressed in fencing whites, trying to skewer a misbehaving monkey. Tonight Harry was forbiddingly handsome in full evening attire and a crisp white cravat. And he moved and conversed with the same charismatic ease that he appeared to do everything.

  Miss Marks returned to Poppy, while Beatrix and a fair-haired man disappeared into the whirl of waltzing couples. “How do you—” she began, but stopped with a sharply indrawn breath. “Damn and blast,” she whispered. “He’s here.”

  It was the first time Poppy had ever heard her companion curse. Surprised by Miss Marks’s reaction to Harry Rutledge’s presence at the ball, Poppy frowned. “I noticed. But why do you—”

  She broke off as she followed the direction of her companion’s gaze.

  Miss Marks wasn’t looking at Harry Rutledge.

  She was looking at Michael Bayning.

  An explosion of pain filled Poppy’s chest as she saw her former suitor across the room, slim and handsome, his gaze fixed on her. He had rejected her, exposed her to public mockery, and then he had come to a ball? Was he searching for a new girl to court now? Perhaps he had assumed that while he danced with eager young women in Belgravia, Poppy would be hiding in her hotel suite, weeping into her pillow.

  Which was precisely what she wanted to be doing.

  “Oh, God,” Poppy whispered, staring into Miss Marks’s concerned face. “Don’t let him talk to me.”

  “He won’t make a scene,” her companion said softly. “Quite the opposite—a pleasantry or two will smooth the situation over for both of you.”

  “You don’t understand,” Poppy said hoarsely. “I can’t do pleasantries right now. I can’t face him. Please, Miss Marks—”

  “I’ll send him away,” her companion said softly, squaring her narrow shoulders. “Don’t worry. Collect yourself, dear.” She moved in front of Poppy, blocking Michael’s view, and went forward to speak to him.

  “Thank you,” Poppy whispered, even though Miss Marks couldn’t hear. Horrified to feel the sting of desperate tears, she concentrated blindly on a section of floor in front of her. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t—

  “Miss Hathaway.” Lady Norbury’s jovial voice intruded on her frantic thoughts. “This gentleman has requested an introduction, you fortunate girl! It is my honor and delight to present Mr. Harry Rutledge, the hotelier.”

  A pair of highly polished black shoes came into her vision. Poppy glanced miserably up into his vivid green eyes.

  Harry bowed, holding her gaze. “Miss Hathaway, how do you—”

  “I’d love to waltz,” Poppy said, practically leaping from her chair and seizing his arm. Her throat was so tight, she could hardly speak. “Let’s go now.”

  Lady Norbury gave a disconcerted laugh. “What charming enthusiasm.”

  Poppy gripped Harry’s arm as if it were a lifeline. His gaze dropped to the clench of her fingers on the fine black wool of his sleeve. He covered her fingers with the reassuring pressure of his free hand, his thumb smoothing over the edge of her wrist. And even through two layers of white gloves, she felt the comfort in his touch.

  At that moment Miss Marks returned, having just dispatched Michael Bayning. Her brows lowered in a scowl as she looked up at Harry. “No,” she said shortly.

  “No?” His lips twitched with amusement. “I haven’t asked for anything yet.”

  Miss Marks gave him a cold stare. “Obviously you wish to dance with Miss Hathaway.”

  “You have objections?” he asked innocently.

  “Several,” Miss Marks said, her manner so curt that both Lady Norbury and Poppy looked askance.

  “Miss Marks,” Lady Norbury said, “I can vouch for this gentleman’s character with all assurance.”

  The companion pressed her lips into a hyphen. She surveyed Poppy’s glittering eyes and flushed face, seeming to understand how close she was to losing her composure. “When the dance is finished,” she told Poppy grimly, “you will take his left arm, insist that he conduct you directly back to me, here, and then he will take his leave. Understood?”

  “Yes,” Poppy whispered, glancing over Harry’s broad shoulder.

  Michael was staring at her from across the room, his face ashen.

  The situation was hideous. Poppy wanted to run from the ballroom. Instead, she would have to dance.

  Harry led Poppy toward the crowd of waltzing couples and settled his gloved hand at her waist. She reached for him, one palm light and trembling at his shoulder, her other hand gripped securely in his. In one astute glance, Harry took in the entire scene: Poppy’s unshed tears, Michael Bayning’s set face, and the slew of curious gazes encompas
sing them.

  “How can I help?” he asked gently.

  “Take me away,” she said. “As far as possible from here. Timbuktu.”

  Harry looked sympathetic and amused. “I don’t think they’re letting in Europeans these days.” He drew Poppy into the current of dancers, swift counterclockwise turns in a clockwise pattern, and the only way to keep from stumbling was to follow him without hesitation.

  Poppy was profoundly grateful to have something to focus on besides Michael. As she might have expected, Harry Rutledge was an excellent dancer. Poppy relaxed into his smooth, strong lead. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re probably wondering why I—”

  “No, I don’t wonder. It was written on your face, and Bayning’s, for everyone to see. You’re not very good at subterfuge, are you?”

  “I’ve never needed to be.” To Poppy’s horror, her throat clenched and her eyes stung. She was about to burst into tears in front of everyone. As she tried to take a steadying breath, the corset squeezed her lungs, and she felt dizzy. “Mr. Rutledge,” she wheezed, “Could you take me out to the terrace for some air?”

  “Certainly.” His voice was reassuringly calm. “One more circuit around the room, and we’ll slip out.”

  In other circumstances, Poppy might have taken pleasure in the sureness of his lead, the music that gilded the air. She stared fixedly at the dark face of her unlikely rescuer. He was dazzling in the elegant clothes, his heavy dark hair brushed back in disciplined layers. But his eyes were underpinned by the ever-present hint of shadows. Windows to a restless soul. He didn’t sleep enough, she thought, and wondered if anyone ever dared mention it to him.

  Even through the haze of numb desolation, it occurred to Poppy that by asking her to dance, Harry Rutledge had singled her out in what could have been construed by many as a declaration of interest.

  But that couldn’t be true.

  “Why?” she asked faintly, without thinking.

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you ask me to dance?”

  Harry hesitated as if torn between the necessity of tact and the inclination toward honesty. He settled on the latter. “Because I wanted to hold you.”