Finchley looked at her in an unmistakable signal, and she backed from the room.
The butler stalked ahead of her, every inch of his livery wiggling with indignation. Even from the back his hair could be seen cresting above his head, trembling with the shock of it.
He deposited her into a bedchamber with all the ceremony one might give a second house maid. “I will request the mantua-maker to attend you, if she happens to be free at the moment,” he said, staring over her shoulder.
“That would be most kind of you,” Charlotte murmured.
Chapter 45
Fletch was in a state of repressed exuberance.
In the space of a few days he had fallen into a pit of despair, pulled himself out, decided to follow Poppy to the country even if she didn’t love him, and would never love him…and now look what was happening. From the moment they got in the carriage, Poppy hadn’t been able to meet his eyes. She turned pink when he touched her. In fact, he couldn’t stop himself from violating his own rules and “accidentally” running his hand down her hip as he helped her into the carriage.
In the old days, Poppy wouldn’t have noticed or, if she had, she would have thrown him an annoyed look, quickly covered over with a sweet smile. But this time she blinked and gave a little gasp. In fact, Fletch thought he’d never seen anything quite as pretty as the way her cheeks turned rosy. What woman blushed these days?
So Fletch spent his time in the carriage planning the next twenty-four hours of his marriage like some sort of military campaign. Jemma, meanwhile, spent her time fretting about how long it had taken them to reach the house, due to a broken axle. “At this rate, not only my guests, but Beaumont will be there before me.”
“That’s a good thing,” Poppy said. “The duke can welcome everyone.”
Jemma opened her mouth but said, “That’s not—you don’t understand.”
“Even the most wonderful hostess is unavoidably late sometimes,” Poppy said encouragingly. “And you sent such detailed instructions beforehand. I’m sure—”
“I’ve never seen it,” Jemma said, her words hard like little acorns. “I’m hosting a Christmas party in a house that I’ve never seen, with a staff whom I don’t know from Adam. And now my secretary has left me.”
“You still have three maids and a personal maid,” Poppy said. “And I’m there, Jemma. Plus, Isidore is coming; she’s likely already there.”
“Everyone’s coming,” Jemma said, still looking flustered. “Louise will be there already, and Harriet, of course.”
They said it at the same moment. “Louise!”
And then Fletch could have cut his tongue out because Poppy shrunk back in her seat and suddenly she didn’t look like a rosy poppy anymore, but like a prim Englishwoman. He cursed silently, while Jemma obliviously totted up the guests who should arrive before her.
“Villiers, of course,” she said. “He’s been there for a few days at least; they decided to go to the country immediately. I just hope that the butler has done everything I instructed him to do for his care.”
“Of course he has,” Fletch said, feeling rather impatient.
“Oh, and the naturalist,” Jemma said. “Dr. Loudan.”
Fletch couldn’t help scowling at that. He stole a look at Poppy and thankfully the mention of Loudan’s name didn’t make her start smiling or anything because he’d have to stop the carriage and have a private conversation with her.
He couldn’t take much more of this. He’d been hard for around two weeks without any relief. He felt as if—well—as if it was time for him and Poppy to get married, though that didn’t make any sense. But she blushed when he touched her. And she kept stealing looks at him. And he could smell her wherever she was in the room, and she didn’t smell like lavender powder anymore, but like the most delicious sun-warmed peach he’d ever eaten.
Which was precisely what he intended to do—tonight. He needed Jemma’s help first, though.
He managed to catch her at the final stop to change horses before the carriage trundled the last hour or so to Beaumont Manor. He didn’t bother with any sort of flummery; she was the kind of woman one didn’t have to lie to, and he appreciated that.
“I need you to put us in the same room,” he said to Jemma.
Sure enough, the corner of her mouth curled up. “I directed the butler otherwise in my letters.”
“Please.”
She was grinning now. She smiled like a man; you had to love that about Jemma. “Absolutely not. If you want your wife to join you, you’ll have to lure her there yourself.” She gave him a slow look. “I think you might be able to manage it.”
“If I wasn’t in love with my wife,” he said, taking in the mischief dancing in her eyes, “I’d be begging for scraps at your feet.”
She deliberately eyed him again from basement to attics, pausing around the front door for a good ogle. “And if you weren’t married, I’d probably throw you a bone. Or two.”
She was so adorable that he bent down and gave her a kiss. And what made it all the more perfect was that Poppy came out of the inn at just the right moment to see it. He straightened up and waved to her, conscious that he hadn’t kissed his wife in months. Not even a little peck. Nothing.
Of course, as far as she was concerned, he wasn’t interested in his wife anymore. Not interested! There wasn’t a man in seven counties who wouldn’t be interested, especially now that her eyes had gone all soft and she kept kind of shivering and peeking looks.
To night, he promised himself.
To night.
When they finally arrived at the estate, an odd-looking fellow with hair like the crest of a whitecap came out to meet them. He turned out to be the butler. Then Beaumont himself appeared, followed by Miss Tatlock.
Fletch met Poppy’s eyes when that happened and they shared one of those moments of private silent conversation, both of them wondering what Jemma thought of Miss Tatlock’s early arrival.
It was just as if he and Poppy were living in the same household, Fletch thought, loving it.
The house was all draped in green stuff with berries and Fletch had to say that it smelled pretty good. Jemma didn’t seem to like it when Miss Tatlock pointed out the mistletoe, perhaps due to the implication that Miss Tatlock and the duke had been investigating the properties of mistletoe, but Fletch memorized where every little white bunch was hanging.
Then he let Poppy go upstairs alone to freshen up, just as if he didn’t have any interest in seeing her wash her face. Or change her clothes. Or take a bath. Or…
He swore and wandered off to stare out the window at miles of park. Snow was falling and as he stood there it started to swirl in huge curls in the air, sweeping from side to side.
Beaumont appeared at his shoulder. “Looks like a proper storm,” he said.
Fletch nodded. “Have all your guests arrived?”
“All except Mr. Dautry, due this evening, if he’s not held up by the weather. By the way, my butler just told me that a quantity of mail has arrived, some of which is for you. Most of it to do with that speech you gave, I expect.”
He turned and looked at Fletch. “That was a damned fine performance.”