Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways #3)(29)

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?”