Tempt Me at Twilight Read online

  Harry had insisted that Poppy must have her own carriage and pair, and had sent for a designer from a carriage works to come to the hotel. After consulting with Poppy, the carriage maker was commissioned to build a vehicle specifically to her taste. Poppy was left rather bemused by the process, and even a bit nettled because her insistence on asking the prices of materials had caused a tiff. “You’re not here to question how much any of this costs,” Harry had told her. “Your only task is to choose what you like.”

  But in Poppy’s experience, that had always been part of choosing something . . . viewing what was available and then comparing costs until one arrived at something that was neither the most expensive nor the least. Harry, however, seemed to view this approach as an affront, as if she were questioning his ability to provide for her.

  Finally it was decided that the outside would be done in elegant black lacquer, the inside upholstered in green velvet and beige leather with brass bead trim, and the interior paneling would feature decorative paintwork. There would be green silk curtains and venetian blinds in lieu of mahogany shutters . . . morocco leather sleeping cushions . . . decorative welding on the outside steps, plated carriage lamps and matching door handles . . . it had never occurred to Poppy that there would be so much to decide.

  She spent what was left of the afternoon in the kitchen with the chef, Monsieur Broussard, the pastry chef, Mr. Rupert, and Mrs. Pennywhistle. Broussard was involved in the creation of a new dessert . . . or more aptly, trying to re-create a dessert he had remembered from childhood.

  “My great-aunt Albertine always made this with no recipe,” Broussard explained ruefully as he pulled a bain-marie, or water bath, from the oven. Nestled inside were a half dozen perfect little steaming apple puddings. “I watched her every time. But it has all slipped from my mind. Fifteen times I have tried it, and still it’s not perfect . . . but quand on veut, on peut.”

  “When one wants, one can,” Poppy translated.

  “Exactement.” Broussard carefully removed the dishes from the hot water.

  Chef Rupert drizzled cream sauce over each pudding, and topped them with delicate pastry leaves. “Shall we?” he asked, handing out spoons.

  Solemnly, Poppy, Mrs. Pennywhistle, and the two chefs each took a pudding and sampled it. Poppy’s mouth was filled with cream, soft tart apple, and crisply imploding pastry. She closed her eyes to better enjoy the textures and flavors, and she heard satisfied sighs from Mrs. Pennywhistle and Chef Rupert.

  “Still not right,” Monsieur Broussard fretted, scowling at the dish of pudding as if it were deliberately being obstinate.

  “I don’t care if it’s not right,” the housekeeper said. “That is the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.” She turned to Poppy. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Rutledge?”

  “I think it’s what angels must eat in heaven,” Poppy said, digging into the pudding. Chef Rupert had already shoved another spoonful into his mouth.

  “Maybe a touch more lemon and cinnamon . . .” Monsieur Broussard mused.

  “Mrs. Rutledge.”

  Poppy twisted to see who had spoken her name. Her smile dimmed as she saw Jake Valentine entering the kitchen. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him. In fact, Valentine had been very personable and kind. However, he seemed to have been appointed as a watchdog, enforcing Harry’s mandate that Poppy should refrain from keeping company with the employees.

  Mr. Valentine looked no happier than Poppy as he spoke. “Mrs. Rutledge, I’ve been sent to remind you that you have an appointment at the dressmaker’s.”

  “I do? Now?” Poppy looked at him blankly. “I don’t remember making an appointment.”

  “It was made for you. At Mr. Rutledge’s request.”

  “Oh.” Reluctantly Poppy set down her spoon. “When must I leave?”

  “In a quarter hour.”

  That would give her just enough time to tidy her hair and fetch a walking cloak. “I have enough clothes,” Poppy said. “I don’t need more.”

  “A lady in your position,” Mrs. Pennywhistle said wisely, “needs many dresses. I’ve heard it said that fashionable ladies never wear the same frock twice.”

  Poppy rolled her eyes. “I’ve heard that as well. And I think it’s ridiculous. Why should it matter if a lady is seen in the same frock twice? Except to provide evidence that her husband is wealthy enough to buy her more clothes than a person needs.”

  The housekeeper smiled sympathetically. “Shall I walk with you to your apartments, Mrs. Rutledge?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll go along the servants’ hallway. None of the guests will see me.”

  Valentine said, “You shouldn’t go unescorted.”

  Poppy heaved an impatient sigh. “Mr. Valentine?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to walk to my apartment by myself. If I can’t even do that, this entire hotel will start to feel like a prison.”

  He nodded with reluctant understanding.

  “Thank you.” Murmuring good-bye to the chefs and the housekeeper, Poppy left the kitchen.

  Jake Valentine shifted his weight uncomfortably as the other three glared at him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “But Mr. Rutledge has decided that his wife shouldn’t fraternize with the employees. He says it makes all of us less productive, and there are more suitable ways for her to occupy herself.”

  Although Mrs. Pennywhistle was usually disinclined to criticize the master, her face grew taut with annoyance. “Doing what?” she asked curtly. “Shopping for things she neither needs nor wants? Reading fashion periodicals by herself? Riding in the park with a footman in attendance? No doubt there are many fashion-plate wives who would be more than pleased by such a shallow existence. But that lonely young woman is from a close family, and she is accustomed to a great deal of affection. She needs someone to do things with . . . a companion . . . and she needs a husband.”

  “She has a husband,” Jake protested.

  The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “Have you noticed nothing odd about their relationship, Valentine?”

  “No, and it’s not appropriate for us to discuss it.”

  Monsieur Broussard regarded Mrs. Pennywhistle with keen interest. “I’m French,” he said. “I have no problem discussing it.”

  Mrs. Pennywhistle lowered her voice, mindful of the scullery maids who were washing pots in the adjoining room. “There is some doubt as to whether they’ve had conjugal relations yet.”

  “Now see here—” Jake began, outraged at this violation of his employer’s privacy.

  “Have some of this, mon ami,” Broussard said, shoving a pastry plate at him. As Jake sat and picked up a spoon, the chef gave Mrs. Pennywhistle an encouraging glance. “What gives you the impression that he has not yet, er . . . sampled the watercress?”

  “Watercress?” Jake repeated incredulously.

  “Cresson.” Broussard gave him a superior look. “A metaphor. And much nicer than the metaphors you English use for the same thing.”

  “I never use metaphors,” Jake muttered.

  “Bien sur, you have no imagination.” The chef turned back to the housekeeper. “Why is there doubt about the relations between Monsieur and Madame Rutledge?”

  “The sheets,” she said succinctly.

  Jake nearly choked on his pastry. “You have the housemaids spying on them?” he asked around a mouthful of custard and cream.

  “Not at all,” the housekeeper said defensively. “It’s only that we have vigilant maids who tell me everything. And even if they didn’t, one hardly needs great powers of observation to see that they do not behave like a married couple.”

  The chef looked deeply concerned. “You think there’s a problem with his carrot?”

  “Watercress, carrot—is everything food to you?” Jake demanded.

  The chef shrugged. “Oui.”

  “Well,” Jake said testily, “there is a string of Rutledge’s past mistresses who would undoubtedly testify there is nothing wrong with his carrot.�
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  “Alors, he is a virile man . . . she is a beautiful woman . . . why are they not making salad together?”

  Jake paused with the spoon raised halfway to his lips as he recalled the business with the letter from Bayning and the secret meeting between Harry Rutledge and Viscount Andover. “I think,” he said uncomfortably, “that to win her hand in marriage, Mr. Rutledge may have . . . well, manipulated events to make things turn out the way he wanted. Without taking her feelings into consideration.”

  The other three looked at him blankly.

  Chef Rupert was the first to speak. “But he does that to everyone.”

  “Apparently Mrs. Rutledge doesn’t like it,” Jake muttered.

  Mrs. Pennywhistle leaned her chin on her hand and tapped her jaw thoughtfully. “I believe she would be a good influence on him, were she ever inclined to try.”

  “Nothing,” Jake said decisively, “will ever change Harry Rutledge.”

  “Still,” the housekeeper mused, “I think the two of them may need a bit of help.”

  “From whom?” Chef Rupert asked.

  “From all of us,” the housekeeper replied. “It’s all to our benefit if the master is happy, isn’t it?”

  “No,” Jake said firmly. “I’ve never known anyone more ill equipped for happiness. He wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  “All the more reason he should try it,” Mrs. Pennywhistle declared.

  Jake gave her a warning glance. “We are not going to meddle in Mr. Rutledge’s personal life. I forbid it.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sitting at her dressing table, Poppy brushed powder on her nose and applied rose-petal salve to her lips. That night she and Harry were to attend a supper given in one of the private dining rooms, a highly formal affair attended by foreign diplomats and government officials to honor the visiting monarch of Prussia, King Frederick William IV. Mrs. Pennywhistle had shown Poppy the menu, and Poppy had remarked wryly that with ten courses, she expected the supper would last half the night.

  Poppy was dressed in her best gown, a violet silk that shimmered with tones of blue and pink as the light moved over it. The unique color had been achieved with a new synthetic dye, and it was so striking that little ornamentation was needed. The bodice was intricately wrapped, leaving the tops of her shoulders bare, and the full, layered skirts rustled softly as she moved.

  Just as she set down the powder brush, Harry came to the doorway and surveyed her leisurely. “No woman will compare to you tonight,” he murmured.

  Poppy smiled and murmured her thanks. “You look very fine,” she said, although “fine” seemed an entirely inadequate word to describe her husband.

  Harry was severely handsome in the formal scheme of black and white, his cravat crisp and snowy, his shoes highly polished. He wore the elegant clothes with unselfconscious ease, so debonair and beguiling that it was easy to forget how calculating he was.

  “Is it time to go downstairs yet?” Poppy asked.

  Pulling a watch from his pocket, Harry consulted it. “Fourteen . . . no, thirteen minutes.”

  Her brows lifted as she saw how battered and scratched the watch was. “My goodness. You must have carried that for a long time.”

  He hesitated before showing it to her. Poppy took the object carefully. The watch was small but heavy in her palm, the gold casing warm from his body. Flipping it open, she saw that the scarred and scratched metal had not been inscribed or adorned in any way.

  “Where did it come from?” she asked.

  Harry tucked the watch into his pocket. His expression was inscrutable. “From my father, when I told him I was leaving for London. He said his father had given it to him years before, with the advice that when he became a success, he should celebrate by purchasing a much finer watch. And so my father passed it on to me with the same counsel.”

  “But you’ve never bought one for yourself?”

  Harry shook his head.

  A perplexed smile touched her lips. “I would say that you’ve had more than enough success to merit a new watch.”

  “Not yet.”

  She thought he must be joking, but there was no humor in his expression. Perturbed and fascinated, Poppy wondered how much more wealth he intended to gain, how much power he wanted to accrue, before he considered it enough.

  Perhaps there was no such thing as “enough” for Harry Rutledge.

  She was distracted from her thoughts as he pulled something from one of his coat pockets, a flat rectangular leather case.

  “A present,” Harry said, giving it to her.

  Her eyes rounded with surprise. “You didn’t need to give me anything. Thank you. I didn’t expect . . . oh.” This last as she opened the case and beheld a diamond necklace arranged on the velvet lining like a pool of glittering fire. It was a heavy garland of sparkling flowers and quatrefoil links.

  “Do you like it?” Harry asked casually.

  “Yes, of course, it’s . . . breathtaking.” Poppy had never imagined owning such jewelry. The only necklace she possessed was a single pearl on a chain. “Shall I . . . shall I wear it tonight?”

  “I think it would be appropriate with that gown.” Harry took the necklace from the case, stood behind Poppy, and fastened it gently around her neck. The cold weight of the diamonds and the warm brush of his fingers at her nape elicited a shiver. He remained behind her, his hands settling lightly on the curves of her neck, moving in a warm stroke to the tops of her shoulders. “Lovely,” he murmured. “Although nothing is as beautiful as your bare skin.”

  Poppy stared into the looking glass, not at her flushed face, but at his hands on her skin. They were both still, watching their shared reflection as if they were two forms encased in ice.

  His hands moved sensitively, as if he were touching a priceless work of art. With the tip of his middle finger, he traced the line of her collarbone to the hollow at the base of her throat.

  Feeling agitated, Poppy pulled away from his hands and stood to face him, coming around the little chair. “Thank you,” she managed to say. Cautiously she moved to embrace him, her arms sliding over his shoulders.

  It was more than Poppy had intended to do, but there was something in Harry’s expression that touched her. She had sometimes seen the same expression on Leo’s face in childhood, when he had been caught in mischief and had gone to their mother with a bouquet of flowers or some little treasure.

  Harry’s arms went around her, pulling her farther up against him. He smelled delicious, and he was warm and hard beneath the layers of linen, silk and wool. The soft gust of his breath against her neck was ragged at the finish.

  Closing her eyes, Poppy let herself lean against him. He kissed the side of her throat, working up to the juncture of her neck and jaw. She felt warm from the bottom of her feet to the top of her head. She found something surprising in the embrace, a sense of security. They fit nicely together, softness and hardness, pliancy and tension. It seemed that every curve of her was perfectly reconciled with his masculine contours. She wouldn’t have minded standing against him, with him, for a while longer.

  But Harry chose to take more than had been offered. His hand went to the side of her head, easing her back at just the right angle to kiss her. His mouth descended swiftly. Poppy arched and twisted away from him, nearly causing an awkward collision of their heads.

  She turned to face him, refusal stamped on her expression.

  The evasion seemed to have stunned Harry. Sparks of wrath kindled in his eyes, as if she had been vastly unfair. “It seems the ban on virginal theatrics has been lifted.”

  Poppy replied with stilted dignity. “I don’t think it’s theatrical to pull away when I don’t want to be kissed.”

  “A diamond necklace for one kiss. Is that such a bad bargain?”

  Her cheeks went scarlet. “I appreciate your generosity. But you’re wrong to think that you can buy or bargain for my favors. I’m not a mistress, Harry.”

  “Obviously. Beca
use in return for such a necklace, a mistress would go to that bed, lie there willingly and offer to do whatever I wanted.”

  “I’ve never denied you your marital rights,” she said. “If you wish, I’ll go to that bed willingly and do whatever you want, this very moment. But not because you gave me a necklace, as if it were part of some transaction.”

  Far from being appeased, Harry regarded her with gathering outrage. “The thought of you laid out like a martyr on the sacrificial altar is not what I had in mind.”

  “Why isn’t it enough that I’m willing to submit to you?” Poppy asked, her own temper flaring. “Why must I be eager to lie with you, when you’re not the husband I wanted?”

  The very second the words left her lips, Poppy regretted them. But it was too late. Harry’s eyes turned to ice. His lips parted, and she braced herself, knowing he was about to say something decimating.

  Instead, he turned and walked from the room.

  Submit.

  The word hovered, wasplike, in Harry’s mind. Stinging repeatedly.

  Submit to him . . . as if he were some loathsome toad, when some of the most beautiful women in London had begged for his attentions. Sensuous, accomplished women with clever mouths and hands, willing to satisfy his most exotic desires . . . in fact, he could have one of them tonight.

  When his temper had eased enough that he could function normally, Harry went back into Poppy’s bedroom and informed her that it was time to go down to supper. She sent him a wary glance, seeming to want to say something, but she had the sense to keep her mouth shut.

  “You’re not the husband I wanted.”

  And he never would be. No amount of scheming or manipulation could change it.

  But Harry would continue to play out his hand. Poppy was legally his, and God knew he had money on his side. Time would have to take care of the rest.

  The formal dinner was a great success. Every time Harry glanced at the other end of the long table, he saw that Poppy was acquitting herself splendidly. She was relaxed and smiling, taking part in conversation, appearing to charm her companions. It was exactly as Harry had expected: the same qualities that were considered faults in an unmarried girl were admired in a married woman. Poppy’s acute observations and her enjoyment of lively debate made her far more interesting than a demure society miss with a modest downcast gaze.