Tempt Me at Twilight by Lisa Kleypas
“Thank you,” Poppy said fervently.
“Do I have to be boring, too?” Beatrix asked Miss Marks, who nodded emphatically.
With a sigh, Beatrix went to a table in the corner and began to empty her pockets.
Poppy’s stomach flipped as she heard a knock at the door. “He’s here,” she said breathlessly.
“I will answer,” Miss Marks said. She gave Poppy a quick smile. “Breathe, dear.”
Poppy nodded and tried to calm herself. She saw Amelia and Cam exchange a glance she could not interpret. The understanding between the pair was so absolute, it seemed they could read each other’s thoughts.
She was tempted to smile as she remembered Beatrix’s comment that rabbits were happiest in pairs. Beatrix had been right. Poppy wanted very much to be loved, to be part of a pair. And she had waited for so long, and she was still unwed when friends her age had already married and had two or three children. It seemed a common fate for Hathaways to find love later rather than sooner.
Poppy’s thoughts were interrupted as Michael entered the room and bowed. A surge of gladness was tempered by the sight of his expression, more grim than she had ever imagined possible. His complexion was pale, his eyes reddened as if he’d had no sleep. He looked ill, as a matter of fact.
“Mr. Bayning,” she said softly, her heart beating like a small animal fighting to free itself from a net. “Are you well? What is the matter?”
Michael’s brown eyes, usually so warm, were bleak as he glanced at her family. “Forgive me,” he said hoarsely. “I hardly know what to say.” His breath seemed to shiver in his throat. “I am in some . . . some difficulty . . . it’s impossible.” His gaze settled on Poppy. “Miss Hathaway, I must speak with you. I don’t know if it would be possible to have a moment alone . . .”
A difficult silence followed the request. Cam stared at the young man with an unfathomable expression, while Amelia gave a slight shake of her head as if to deny what was coming.
“I’m afraid that would not be proper, Mr. Bayning,” Miss Marks murmured. “We have Miss Hathaway’s reputation to consider.”
“Of course.” He passed a hand over his forehead, and Poppy realized that his fingers were trembling.
Something was very wrong indeed.
An icy calm settled over her. She spoke in a dazed voice that didn’t sound quite like her own. “Amelia, perhaps you might stay in the room with us?”
“Yes, of course.”
The rest of the family, including Miss Marks, left the room.
Poppy felt cold runnels of perspiration beneath her chemise, damp patches blossoming at the pits of her arms. She took a place on the settee and watched Michael with dilated eyes. “You may have a seat,” she told him.
He hesitated and glanced at Amelia, who had gone to stand beside the window.
“Please do have a seat, Mr. Bayning,” Amelia said, staring at the street outside. “I’m trying to pretend I’m not here. I’m so sorry you can’t have more privacy than this, but I’m afraid Miss Marks is right. Poppy’s reputation must be protected.”
Although there was no trace of rebuke in her tone, Michael flinched visibly. Occupying the space next to Poppy, he took her hands and bent his head over them. His fingers were even colder than hers. “I had an unholy row with my father last night,” he said, his voice muffled. “It seems one of the rumors reached him about my interest in you. About my intentions. He was . . . outraged.”
“That must have been dreadful,” Poppy said, knowing that Michael rarely, if ever, quarreled with his father. He held the viscount in awe, striving always to please him.
“Worse than dreadful.” Michael took an unsteady breath. “I’ll spare you the particulars. The result of a long, very ugly argument is that the viscount gave me an ultimatum. If I marry you, I will be cut off. He will no longer recognize me as his son, and I will be disinherited.”
There was no sound in the room except for Amelia’s swiftly indrawn breath.
Pain unfolded in Poppy’s chest, crowding the breath from her lungs. “What reason did he give?” she managed to ask.
“Only that you do not fit the mold of a Bayning bride.”
“If you allow time for his temper to cool . . . try to change his mind . . . I can wait, Michael. I’ll wait forever.”
Michael shook his head. “I cannot encourage you to wait. My father’s refusal was absolute. It could take years to change his mind, if ever. And in the meantime, you deserve the chance to find happiness.”
Poppy stared at him steadily. “I could only be happy with you.”
Michael raised his head, his eyes dark and glittering. “I’m sorry, Poppy. Sorry for giving you any reason to hope, when it was never possible. My only excuse is that I thought I knew my father, when apparently I don’t. I always believed I could convince him to accept the woman I loved, that my judgment would be enough. And I—” His voice cracked. He swallowed audibly. “I do love you. I . . . hell and damnation, I’ll never forgive him for this.” Releasing her hands, he reached into his coat pocket and extracted a packet of letters tied with cord. All the letters she had written to him. “I’m honor bound to return these.”
“I won’t give yours back,” Poppy said, taking the letters in a shaking hand. “I want to keep them.”
“That is your right, of course.”
“Michael,” Poppy said brokenly, “I love you.”
“I . . . I can’t give you any reason to hope.”
They were both quiet and trembling, staring at each other in despair.
Amelia’s voice pierced through the suffocating silence. She sounded blessedly rational. “The viscount’s objections needn’t stop you, Mr. Bayning. He can’t prevent you from inheriting the title and entailed properties, can he?”
“No, but—”
“Take my sister to Gretna Green. We’ll provide the carriage. My sister’s dowry is large enough to secure a handsome annuity for you both. If you need more, my husband will increase it.” Amelia leveled a steady, challenging gaze at him. “If you want my sister, Mr. Bayning, marry her. The Hathaways will help you weather what storms may come.”
Poppy had never loved her sister more than she did at that moment. She stared at Amelia with a wobbly smile, her eyes brimming.
Her smile vanished, however, as Michael answered dully. “The title and real estate are entailed, but until my father dies, I would be abandoned to my own resources, which are nonexistent. And I can’t live off the charity of my wife’s family.”
“It’s not charity when it’s family,” Amelia countered.
“You don’t understand how things are with the Baynings,” Michael said. “This is a matter of honor. I’m the only son. I’ve been raised for one thing since I was born—to assume the responsibilities of my rank and title. It’s all I’ve ever known. I can’t live as an outcast, outside my father’s sphere. I can’t live with scandal and ostracism.” He hung his head. “Sweet God, I’m weary of arguing. My brain’s gone in circles all night.”
Poppy saw the impatience on her sister’s face, and she knew that Amelia was prepared to fight him on every point, for her sake. But she held Amelia’s gaze and shook her head, sending the silent message, It’s no use. Michael had already decided on his course. He would never defy his father. Arguing would only make him more miserable than he already was.
Amelia closed her mouth and turned to stare out the window again.
“I’m sorry,” Michael said after a long silence, still gripping Poppy’s hands. “I never meant to deceive you. Everything I told you about my feelings—every word was true. My only regret is that I wasted your time. Valuable time for a girl in your position.”
Although he hadn’t meant that as a slight, Poppy winced.
A girl in her position.
Twenty-three. Unmarried. On the shelf after her third season.
Carefully she drew her hands from Michael’s. “Not a moment was wasted,” she managed to say. “I am the better for havi
“Poppy,” he said in an aching voice that nearly undid her.
She was terrified that she might burst into tears. “Please go.”
“If I could make you understand—”
“I understand. I do. And I will be perfectly—” She broke off and swallowed hard. “Please go. Please.”
She was aware of Amelia coming forward, murmuring something to Michael, efficiently shepherding him out of the suite before Poppy lost her composure. Dear Amelia, who did not hesitate to take charge of a man much larger than herself.
A hen chasing a cow, Poppy thought, and she let out a watery giggle even as hot tears began to slide from her eyes.
After closing the door firmly, Amelia sat beside Poppy and reached out to grasp her shoulders. She stared into Poppy’s blurred eyes. “You are,” she said, her voice ragged with emotion, “such a lady, Poppy. And much kinder than he deserved. I am so proud of you. I wonder if he understands how much he has lost.”
“The situation wasn’t his fault.”
Amelia tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and gave it to her. “Debatable. But I won’t criticize him, since it won’t help matters. However, I must say . . . the phrase ‘I can’t’ comes rather too easily to his lips.”
“He is an obedient son,” Poppy said, mopping at her tears, then giving up and simply wadding the handkerchief against her flooding eyes.
“Yes, well . . . from now on, I advise you to look for a man with his own means of support.”
Poppy shook her head, her face still buried in the handkerchief. “There’s no one for me.”
She felt her sister’s arms go around her. “There is. There is, I promise you. He’s waiting. He’ll find you. And someday Michael Bayning will be nothing but a distant memory.”
Poppy began to cry in earnest, wracking sobs that caused her ribs to ache. “God,” she managed to gasp. “This hurts, Amelia. And it feels as if it will never end.”
Carefully Amelia guided Poppy’s head to her shoulder and kissed her wet cheek. “I know,” she said. “I lived through it once. I remember what it was like. You’ll cry, and then you’ll be angry, and then despairing, and then angry again. But I know of a cure for heartbreak.”
“What is it?” Poppy asked, letting out a shuddery sigh.
“Time . . . prayer . . . and most of all a family that loves you. You will always be loved, Poppy.”
Poppy managed a wavering smile. “Thank God for sisters,” she said, and wept against Amelia’s shoulder.
Much later that night, there came a determined knock at the door of Harry Rutledge’s private apartment. Jake Valentine paused in the act of laying out fresh clothes and polished black shoes for the morning. He went to answer the door and was confronted by a vaguely familiar–looking woman. She was small and slight, with light brown hair and blue gray eyes, and a pair of round spectacles perched on her nose. He considered her for a moment, trying to place her.
“May I help you?”
“I wish to see Mr. Rutledge.”
“I’m afraid he’s not at home.”
Her mouth twisted at the well-worn phrase, used by servants when the master didn’t wish to be disturbed. She spoke to him with scalding contempt. “Do you mean ‘not at home’ in the sense that he doesn’t want to see me, or ‘not at home’ in the sense that he’s actually gone?”
“Either way,” Jake said implacably, “you won’t see him tonight. But the truth is, he really isn’t here. Is there a message I may convey to him?”
“Yes. Tell him that I hope he rots in hell for what he did to Poppy Hathaway. And then tell him that if he goes near her, I’ll murder him.”
Jake responded with a complete lack of alarm due to the fact that death threats against Harry were a more or less common occurrence. “And you are?”
“Just give him the message,” she said curtly. “He’ll know who it’s from.”
Two days after Michael Bayning had visited the hotel, the Hathaways’ brother Leo, Lord Ramsay, came to call. Like other men-about-town, Leo leased a small Mayfair terrace during the season, and at the end of June retreated to his estate in the country. Although Leo could easily have chosen to live with the family at the Rutledge, he preferred privacy.
No one could deny that Leo was a handsome man, tall and broad shouldered, with dark brown hair and striking eyes. Unlike his sisters, his eyes were a light shade of blue, glacier colored with dark rims. Haunting. World-weary. He comported himself as a rake and did a thorough job of it, appearing never to care about anyone or anything. There were moments, however, when the mask was lifted just long enough to reveal a man of extraordinary feeling, and it was in those rare moments that Catherine was most apprehensive around him.
When they were in London, Leo was usually too busy to spend time with his family, for which Catherine was grateful. From the moment they had met, she had felt an intrinsic dislike for him, and he for her, flint and iron striking to create sparks of hatred. At times they competed to see who could say the most hurtful things to the other, each of them testing, prodding, trying to find places of vulnerability. They couldn’t seem to help it, the constant urge to cut each other down to size.
Catherine answered the door of the family suite, and a jolt of reaction went through her as she was confronted by Leo’s lanky, big-framed form. He was fashionably dressed in a dark coat with wide lapels, loose trousers with no creases, and a boldly patterned waistcoat with silver buttons.
He surveyed her with wintry eyes, an arrogant smile tilting the corners of his lips. “Good afternoon, Marks.”
Catherine was stone-faced, her voice edged with scorn. “Lord Ramsay. I’m surprised you could tear yourself away from your amusements long enough to visit your sister.”
Leo gave her a look of bemused mockery. “What have I done to earn a scolding? You know, Marks, if you ever learned to hold your tongue, your chances of attracting a man would rise exponentially.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why would I want to attract a man? I have yet to see anything they’re good for.”
“If for nothing else,” Leo said, “you need us to help produce more women.” He paused. “How is my sister?”
“Heartbroken.”
Leo’s mouth turned grim. “Let me in, Marks. I want to see her.”
Catherine took a grudging step aside.
Leo went into the receiving room and found Poppy sitting alone with a book. He gave her an assessing glance. His normally bright-eyed sister was pale and drawn. She seemed unutterably weary, temporarily aged by grief.
Fury welled inside him. There were few people that mattered to him in the world, but Poppy was one of them.
It was unfair that the people who longed for love the most, searched the hardest for it, found it so elusive. And there seemed no good reason why Poppy, the prettiest girl in London, shouldn’t have been married by now. But Leo had gone through lists of acquaintances in his mind, pondering whether any of them would do for his sister, and none of them was remotely suitable. If one had the right temperament, he was an idiot or in his dotage. And then there were the lechers, the spendthrifts, and the reprobates. God help him, the peerage was a deplorable collection of male specimens. And he included himself in that estimation.
“Hello, sis,” Leo said gently, approaching her. “Where are the others?”
Poppy managed a wan smile. “Cam is out on business matters, and Amelia and Beatrix are at the park, pushing Rye in the perambulator.” She moved her feet to make room for him on the settee. “How are you, Leo?”
“Never mind that. What about you?”
“Never better,” she said bravely.
“Yes, I can see that.” Leo sat and reached for Poppy, gathering her close. He held her, patting her back, until he heard her sniffle. “That bastard,” he said quietly. “Shall I kill him for you?”
“No,” she said in a congested voice, “it wasn’t his fault. He sincerely wanted t
He kissed the top of her head. “Don’t ever trust men with good intentions. They’ll always disappoint you.”
Refusing to smile at his quip, Poppy drew back to look at him. “I want to go home, Leo,” she said plaintively.
“Of course you do, darling. But you can’t yet.”
She blinked. “Why not?”
“Yes, why not?” Catherine Marks asked tartly, sitting in a nearby chair.
Leo paused to send a brief scowl in the companion’s direction before returning his attention to Poppy. “Rumors are flying,” he said bluntly. “Last night I went to a drum, given by the wife of the Spanish ambassador—one of those things you go to only to be able to say you went—and I couldn’t count the number of times I was asked about you and Bayning. Everyone seems to think that you were in love with Bayning, and that he rejected you because his father thinks you’re not good enough.”
“That’s the truth.”
“Poppy, this is London society, where the truth can get you into trouble. If you tell one truth, you’ll have to tell another truth, and another, to keep covering up.”
That elicited a genuine smile from her. “Are you trying to give me advice, Leo?”
“Yes, and although I always tell you to ignore my advice, this time you’d better take it. The last significant event of the season is a ball held by Lord and Lady Norbury next week—”
“We have just written our regrets,” Catherine informed him. “Poppy does not wish to attend.”
Leo glanced at her sharply. “Have the regrets been sent?”
“No, but—”
“Tear them up, then. That’s an order.” Leo saw her narrow frame stiffen, and he got a perverse pleasure from the sight.
“But, Leo,” Poppy protested, “I don’t want to go to a ball. People might be watching to see if I—”
“They will certainly be watching,” Leo said. “Like a flock of vultures. Which is why you have to attend. Because if you don’t, you’ll be shredded by the gossips, and mocked without mercy when next season begins.”