Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways #3)(30)

“Yes,” Poppy whispered, glancing over Harry’s broad shoulder.

Michael was staring at her from across the room, his face ashen.

The situation was hideous. Poppy wanted to run from the ballroom. Instead, she would have to dance.

Harry led Poppy toward the crowd of waltzing couples and settled his gloved hand at her waist. She reached for him, one palm light and trembling at his shoulder, her other hand gripped securely in his. In one astute glance, Harry took in the entire scene: Poppy’s unshed tears, Michael Bayning’s set face, and the slew of curious gazes encompassing them.

“How can I help?” he asked gently.

“Take me away,” she said. “As far as possible from here. Timbuktu.”

Harry looked sympathetic and amused. “I don’t think they’re letting in Europeans these days.” He drew Poppy into the current of dancers, swift counterclockwise turns in a clockwise pattern, and the only way to keep from stumbling was to follow him without hesitation.

Poppy was profoundly grateful to have something to focus on besides Michael. As she might have expected, Harry Rutledge was an excellent dancer. Poppy relaxed into his smooth, strong lead. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re probably wondering why I—”

“No, I don’t wonder. It was written on your face, and Bayning’s, for everyone to see. You’re not very good at subterfuge, are you?”

“I’ve never needed to be.” To Poppy’s horror, her throat clenched and her eyes stung. She was about to burst into tears in front of everyone. As she tried to take a steadying breath, the corset squeezed her lungs, and she felt dizzy. “Mr. Rutledge,” she wheezed, “Could you take me out to the terrace for some air?”

“Certainly.” His voice was reassuringly calm. “One more circuit around the room, and we’ll slip out.”

In other circumstances, Poppy might have taken pleasure in the sureness of his lead, the music that gilded the air. She stared fixedly at the dark face of her unlikely rescuer. He was dazzling in the elegant clothes, his heavy dark hair brushed back in disciplined layers. But his eyes were underpinned by the ever-present hint of shadows. Windows to a restless soul. He didn’t sleep enough, she thought, and wondered if anyone ever dared mention it to him.

Even through the haze of numb desolation, it occurred to Poppy that by asking her to dance, Harry Rutledge had singled her out in what could have been construed by many as a declaration of interest.

But that couldn’t be true.

“Why?” she asked faintly, without thinking.

“Why what?”

“Why did you ask me to dance?”

Harry hesitated as if torn between the necessity of tact and the inclination toward honesty. He settled on the latter. “Because I wanted to hold you.”

Thrown into confusion, Poppy focused on the simple knot of his white cravat. At another time, in another situation, she would have been extraordinarily flattered. At the moment, however, she was too absorbed in her despair over Michael.

With sneak-thief adroitness, Harry extricated her from the aggregate of dancers and led her to the row of French doors opening onto the terrace. She followed blindly, hardly caring if they were seen or not.

The air outside was a brace of coolness, dry and sharp in her lungs. Poppy breathed in rapid gasps, grateful to have escaped the smothering atmosphere of the ballroom. Hot tears slid from her eyes.

“Here,” Harry said, guiding her to the far side of the balcony, which extended nearly the full width of the mansion. The lawn below was a quiet ocean. Harry brought Poppy to a shadowed corner. Reaching inside his coat pocket, he found a pressed square of fine linen and gave it to her.

Poppy blotted her eyes. “I can’t begin to tell you,” she said unsteadily, “how very sorry I am. You were so kind in asking me to dance, and now you’re k-keeping company with a w-watering pot.”

Looking amused and sympathetic, Harry leaned an elbow on the balcony railing as he faced her. His quietness relieved her. He waited patiently, as if he understood that no words could be an adequate plaster for her bruised spirit.

Poppy let out a slow breath, feeling soothed by the coolness of the night and the blessed lack of noise. “Mr. Bayning was going to offer for me,” she told Harry. She blew her nose with a childlike gust. “But he changed his mind.”

Harry studied her, his eyes catlike in the darkness. “What reason did he give?”

“His father didn’t approve of the match.”

“And that surprises you?”

“Yes,” she said defensively. “Because he made promises to me.”

“Men in Bayning’s position are rarely, if ever, allowed to marry whomever they want. There’s far more to consider than their personal preferences.”

“More important than love?” Poppy asked with bitter vehemence.

“Of course.”

“When all is said and done, marriage is a union of two people made by the same God. Nothing more, nothing less. Does that sound naïve?”

“Yes,” he said flatly.

Poppy’s lips quirked, although she felt nothing close to actual amusement. “I’m sure I’ve read too many fairy tales. The prince is supposed to slay the dragon, defeat the villain, and marry the servant girl, and carry her off to his castle.”