Tempt Me at Twilight Page 19

  “I want you to behave like a wife.”

  “Then stop trying to control me as you do everyone else. You’ve allowed me no choice in anything—not even the choice of whether or not to marry you in the first place!”

  “And there’s the heart of the matter,” Harry said. “You’ll never stop trying to punish me for taking you away from Michael Bayning. Has it occurred to you that it wasn’t nearly as great a loss to him as it was to you?”

  Poppy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s found consolation from any number of women since the wedding. He’s fast becoming known as the biggest whoremonger in town.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Poppy said, turning ashen. It wasn’t possible. She couldn’t conceive of Michael—her Michael—behaving in such a way.

  “It’s all over London,” Harry said ruthlessly. “He drinks, gambles, and squanders money. And the devil knows how many bawdy-house diseases he’s caught by now. It might console you that the viscount is probably regretting his decision to forbid the match between you and his son. At this rate, Bayning won’t live long enough to inherit the title.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Ask your brother. You should thank me. Because as much as you despise me, I’m a better bargain than Michael Bayning.”

  “I should thank you?” Poppy asked thickly. “After what you’ve done to Michael?” A dazed smile crossed her lips, and she shook her head. She put her hands to her temples, as if to stave off an encroaching headache. “I need to see him. I must speak to him—” She broke off as he seized her arms in a harsh grip that was just short of painful.

  “Try,” Harry said softly, “and you’ll both regret it.”

  Shoving his hands away, Poppy stared at his hard features and thought, this is the man I’m married to.

  Unable to endure one more minute of proximity to his wife, Harry left for the fencing club. He was going find someone, anyone, who wanted to practice, and he was going to fight until his muscles were sore and his frustration was spent. He was sick with need, half mad with it. But he didn’t want Poppy to accept him out of duty. He wanted her willing. He wanted her warm and welcoming, the way she would have been with Michael Bayning. Harry would be damned if he’d take anything less.

  There had never been a woman he’d wanted and hadn’t gotten, until now. Why did his skills fail him when it came to seducing his own wife? It was becoming clear that as his craving for Poppy increased, his ability to charm her was decreasing at a proportionate rate.

  The one brief kiss she’d given him had been more pleasurable than entire nights Harry had spent with other women. He could try to ease his needs with someone else, but that wouldn’t begin to satisfy him. He wanted something that only Poppy seemed able to provide.

  Harry spent two hours at the club, dueling at lightning speed, until the fencing master had flatly refused to allow anymore. “That’s enough, Rutledge.”

  “I’m not finished,” Harry said, tearing off his mask, his chest heaving with the force of his breaths.

  “I say you are.” Approaching him, the fencing master said quietly, “You’re relying on brute force instead of using your head. Fencing requires precision and control, and this evening you’re lacking both.”

  Offended, Harry schooled his features and said calmly, “Give me another chance. I’ll prove you wrong.”

  The fencing master shook his head. “If I let you go on, there is every chance of an accident occurring. Go home, friend. Rest. You look tired.”

  The hour was late by the time Harry returned to the hotel. Still clad in fencing whites, he went into the hotel through the back entrance. Before he could ascend the stairs to his apartments, he was met by Jake Valentine.

  “Good evening, Mr. Rutledge. How was your fencing?”

  “Not worth discussing,” Harry said shortly. His eyes narrowed as he saw the tension in his assistant’s manner. “Is there anything the matter, Valentine?”

  “A maintenance issue, I’m afraid.”

  “What is it?”

  “The carpenter was repairing a section of flooring that happens to be located directly above Mrs. Rutledge’s room. You see, the last guest who stayed there complained of a creaking board, and so I—”

  “Is my wife all right?” Harry interrupted.

  “Oh, yes, sir. Beg pardon, I didn’t mean to worry you. Mrs. Rutledge is quite well. But unfortunately the carpenter struck a nail into a plumbing pipe, and there was a significant leak in the ceiling of Mrs. Rutledge’s room. We had to take out a section of the ceiling to reach the pipe and stop the flooding. The bed and carpet are ruined, I’m afraid. And the room is uninhabitable at present.”

  “Bloody hell,” Harry muttered, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “How long until the repairs are done?”

  “We estimate two to three days. The noise will undoubtedly be a problem for some of the guests.”

  “Apologize on behalf of the hotel and cut their room rates.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With annoyance, Harry realized that Poppy would have to stay in his bedroom. Which meant that he would have to find another place to sleep. “I’ll stay in a guest suite for the time being,” he said. “Which ones are empty?”

  Valentine’s face was expressionless. “I’m afraid we’re at full occupancy tonight, sir.”

  “There isn’t one room available? In this entire hotel?”

  “No, sir.”

  Harry scowled. “Set up a spare bed in my apartments, then.”

  Now the valet looked apologetic. “I’ve already thought of that, sir. But we have no spare beds. Three have been requested and set up in guest suites, and the other two were loaned to Brown’s Hotel earlier in the week.”

  “Why did we do that?” Harry demanded incredulously.

  “You told me that if Mr. Brown ever asked a favor, I should oblige him.”

  “I do too many damned favors for people!” Harry snapped.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rapidly Harry considered his alternatives . . . he could check into another hotel, he could prevail on a friend to allow him to stay overnight . . . but as he glanced at Valentine’s implacable face, he knew how that would appear. And he’d go hang before he gave anyone reason to speculate he wasn’t sleeping with his own wife. With a mumbled curse, he brushed by the valet and headed up the private staircase, his overworked leg muscles aching in vicious protest.

  The apartment was ominously silent. Was Poppy asleep? No . . . a lamp had been lit in his room. His heart began to thud heavily as he followed the soft spill of light through the hallway. Reaching the doorway of his room, he looked inside.

  Poppy was in his bed, an open book in her lap.

  Harry filled his gaze with her, taking in the demure white nightgown, the frills of lace on her sleeves, the rope of shiny braided hair trailing over one shoulder. Her cheeks were stained with a high flush. She looked soft and sweet and clean, her knees drawn up beneath the covers.

  Violent desire surged through him. Harry was afraid to move, afraid he might actually leap on her with no thought given to her virginal sensibilities. Appalled by the extent of his own need, Harry fought to restrain it. He tore his gaze away and stared hard at the floor, willing himself back into control.

  “My bedroom was damaged.” he heard Poppy say awkwardly. “The ceiling—”

  “I heard.” His voice was low and rough.

  “I’m so sorry to inconvenience you—”

  “It’s not your fault.” Harry brought himself to look at her again. A mistake. She was so pretty, so vulnerable, her slender throat rippling with a visible swallow. He wanted to ravish her. His body felt thick and hot with arousal, a merciless pulse pounding all through him.

  “Is there somewhere else you can sleep?” she asked with difficulty.

  Harry shook his head. “The hotel is fully occupied,” he said gruffly.

  She looked down at the book in her lap, remain
ing silent.

  And Harry, who had never been less than perfectly articulate, grappled with words as if they were a wall of bricks tumbling over him. “Poppy . . . sooner or later . . . you’re going to have to let me . . .”

  “I understand,” she murmured, her head bent.

  Harry’s sanity began to dissolve in a rush of heat. He was going to take her, now, here. But as he started for her, he saw how tightly Poppy was gripping the book, the tips of her fingers white. She wouldn’t look at him.

  She did not want him.

  Why that mattered, he had no bloody idea.

  But it did.

  Bloody hell.

  Somehow, with all his force of will, Harry mustered a cool tone. “Some other time, perhaps. I don’t have the patience to tutor you tonight.”

  Leaving the bedroom, he went to the bathing room, to wash and douse himself with cold water. Repeatedly.

  “Well?” Chef Broussard asked as Jake Valentine entered the kitchen the next morning.

  Mrs. Pennywhistle and Chef Rupert, who were standing by the long table, looked at him expectantly.

  “I told you it was a bad idea,” Jake said, glaring at the three of them. Sitting on a tall stool, he grabbed a warm croissant from a platter of pastries, and shoved half of it into his mouth.

  “It didn’t work?” the housekeeper asked gingerly.

  Jake shook his head, swallowing the croissant and gesturing for a cup of tea. Mrs. Pennywhistle poured a cup, dropped in a lump of sugar, and gave it to him.

  “From what I could tell,” Jake growled, “Rutledge spent the night on the settee. I’ve never seen him in such a foul mood. He nearly took my head off when I brought him the managers’ reports.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Pennywhistle murmured.

  Broussard shook his head in disbelief. “What is the matter with you British?”

  “He’s not British, he was born in America,” Jake snapped.

  “Oh, yes,” Broussard said, recalling the indelicate fact. “Americans and romance. It’s like watching a bird try to fly with one wing.”

  “What will we do now?” Chef Rupert asked in concern.

  “Nothing,” Jake said. “Not only has our meddling not helped, it’s made the situation worse. They’re scarcely speaking to each other.”

  Poppy went through the day in a state of gloom, unable to stop worrying about Michael, knowing there was nothing she could do for him. Although his unhappiness was not her fault—and given the same choices, she wouldn’t change anything she’d done—Poppy felt responsible all the same, as if by marrying Harry, she had assumed a portion of his guilt.

  Except that Harry was incapable of feeling guilty about anything.

  Poppy thought it would make things far less complicated if she could simply bring herself to hate Harry. But in spite of his innumerable flaws, something about him touched her, even now. His determined solitude . . . his refusal to make emotional connections to the people around him, or even to think of the hotel as his home . . . these things were alien to Poppy.

  How in heaven’s name, when all she had ever wanted was someone to share affection and intimacy with, had she ended up with a man who was capable of neither? All Harry wanted was the use of her body, and the illusion of a marriage.

  Well, she had much more to give than that. And he would have to take all of her or nothing.

  In the evening, Harry came to the apartments to have dinner with Poppy. He informed her that, after the meal was concluded, he was going to meet with visitors in their apartment library room.

  “A meeting with whom?” Poppy asked.

  “Someone from the War Office. Sir Gerald Hubert.”

  “May I ask what it is about?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  Staring into his inscrutable features, Poppy felt a chill of unease. “Am I to play hostess?” she asked.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  The evening was cold and wet, rain striking in heavy sheets against the roof and windows, and washing the filth from the streets in muddy streams. The stilted dinner concluded, and a pair of maids cleared away the dishes and brought tea.

  Stirring a spoonful of sugar into the dark liquid, Poppy stared at Harry thoughtfully. “What rank is Sir Gerald?”

  “Assistant adjutant general.”

  “What is he in charge of?”

  “Financial administration, personnel management, provost services. He’s pushing for reforms to increase the army’s strength. Badly needed reforms, in light of the tensions between the Russians and the Turks.”

  “If a war starts, will Britain be drawn into it?”

  “Almost certainly. But it’s possible that diplomacy will resolve the issue before it comes to war.”

  “Possible but not likely?”

  Harry smiled cynically. “War is always more profitable than diplomacy.”

  Poppy sipped her tea. “My brother-in-law Cam told me that you improved the design of the standard army rifle. And now the War Office is indebted to you.”

  Harry shook his head to indicate that it had been nothing. “I scratched out a few ideas when the subject came up at a supper party.”

  “Obviously the ideas turned out to be very effective,” Poppy said. “As most of your ideas are.”

  Harry turned a glass of port idly in his hands. His gaze lifted to hers. “Are you trying to ask something, Poppy?”

  “I don’t know. Yes. It seems likely that Sir Gerald will want to discuss weaponry with you, won’t he?”

  “Undoubtedly. He is bringing Mr. Edward Kinloch, who owns an arms manufactory.” Seeing her expression, Harry gave her a quizzical glance. “You don’t approve?”

  “I think a brain as clever as yours should be put to better use than coming up with more efficient ways to kill people.”

  Before Harry could reply, there came a knock at the door, and the visitors were announced.

  Harry stood and helped Poppy rise from her chair, and she went with him to welcome his guests.

  Sir Gerald was a large and stocky man, his florid face supported by a scaffolding of thick white whiskers. He wore a silver gray military coat trimmed with regimental buttons. The scent of tobacco smoke and heavy cologne wafted from him with each movement.

  “An honor, Mrs. Rutledge,” he said with a bow. “I see the reports of your beauty are not at all exaggerated.”

  Poppy forced a smile. “Thank you, Sir Gerald.”

  Harry, standing beside her, introduced the other man. “Mr. Edward Kinloch.”

  Kinloch bowed impatiently. Clearly, meeting Harry Rutledge’s wife was an unwelcome distraction. He wanted to get about the business at hand. Everything about him, the narrow, dark suit of clothes, the ungenerous tightness of his smile, the guarded eyes, even the flat hair subjugated by a gleaming layer of pomade, spoke of rigid containment. “Madam.”

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” Poppy murmured. “I will leave you to your discussion. May I send for refreshments?”

  “Why, thank you—” Sir Gerald began, but Kinloch interrupted.

  “That is very gracious of you, Mrs. Rutledge, but it won’t be necessary.”

  Sir Gerald’s jowls drooped in disappointment.

  “Very well,” Poppy said pleasantly. “I will take my leave. I bid you good evening.”

  Harry showed the visitors to his library, while Poppy stared after them. She didn’t like her husband’s visitors, and she especially didn’t like the subject they intended to discuss. Most of all, she loathed the idea of her husband’s diabolical cleverness being applied to improve the art of war.

  Retreating to Harry’s bedroom, Poppy tried to read, but her mind kept returning to the conversation that was taking place in the library. Finally, she gave up the attempt and set the book aside.

  She argued silently with herself. Eavesdropping was wrong. But really, in the spectrum of sin, how bad was it? What if one eavesdropped for a good reason? What if there was a beneficial result of the eavesdropping, s
uch as preventing another person from making a mistake? Furthermore, wasn’t it her duty as Harry’s wife to be his helpmate whenever possible?

  Yes, he might need her advice. And certainly the best way to be helpful was to find out what he was discussing with his guests.

  Poppy tiptoed across the apartment to the library door, which had been left slightly ajar. Keeping herself tucked out of sight, she listened.

  “. . . you can feel the recoil power in the kick of the gun against your shoulder,” Harry was saying in a matter-of-fact tone. “There might be a way to turn that to practical effect, using the recoil to draw in another bullet. Or better yet, I could devise a metallic casing that contains powder, bullet, and primer all in one. The recoil force would automatically eject the casing and draw in another, so the weapon could fire repeatedly. And it would have far more power and precision than any firearm yet developed.”

  His statements were met with silence. Poppy guessed that Kinloch and Sir Gerald, like herself, were struggling to take in what Harry had just described.

  “My God,” Kinloch finally said, sounding breathless. “That is so far beyond anything we . . . that is leaps ahead of what I’m currently manufacturing . . .”

  “Can it be done?” Sir Gerald asked tersely. “Because if so, it would give us an advantage over every army in the world.”

  “Until they copy it,” Harry said dryly.

  “However,” Sir Gerald continued, “in the time it would take them to reproduce our technology, we will have expanded the Empire . . . consolidated it so firmly . . . that our supremacy would be unchallenged.”

  “It wouldn’t go unchallenged for long. As Benjamin Franklin once said, empire is like a great cake—most easily diminished around the edges.”

  “What do Americans know about empire building?” Sir Gerald asked with a scornful snort.

  “I should remind you,” Harry murmured, “that I’m American by birth.”

  Another silence.

  “With whom do your loyalties lie?” Sir Gerald asked.

  “With no country in particular,” Harry replied. “Does that pose a problem?”