Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways #3)(31)

“Fairy tales are best read as entertainment,” Harry said. “Not as a guide to life.” He removed his gloves methodically and tucked them into one of his coat pockets. Resting both his forearms on the railing, he sent her a sideways glance. “What does the servant girl do when the prince abandons her?”

“She goes home.” Poppy’s fingers tightened on the damp ball of the handkerchief. “I’m not suited for London and all its illusions. I want to return to Hampshire, where I can rusticate in peace.”

“For how long?”

“Forever.”

“And marry a farmer?” he asked skeptically.

“Perhaps.” Poppy dried the residue of her tears. “I would make a wonderful farmwife. I’m good with cows. I know how to make hotchpotch. And I would appreciate the peace and quiet for my reading.”

“Hotchpotch? What is that?” Harry seemed to have undue interest in the subject, his head inclined toward hers.

“A harvest vegetable broth.”

“How did you learn to make it?”

“My mother.” Poppy lowered her voice as if imparting highly confidential information. “The secret,” she said wisely, “is a splash of ale.”

They were standing too close. Poppy knew she should move away. But his nearness felt like shelter, and his scent was fresh and beguiling. The night air raised gooseflesh on her bare arms. How large and warm he was. She wanted to match herself against him and burrow inside the haven of his coat as if she were one of Beatrix’s small pets.

“You’re not meant to be a farmwife,” Harry said.

Poppy gave him a rueful glance. “You think no farmer would have me?”

“I think,” he said slowly, “that you should marry a man who would appreciate you.”

She made a face. “Those are in short supply.”

He smiled. “You don’t need a supply. You just need one.” He grasped Poppy’s shoulder, his hand curving over the illusion-trimmed sleeve of her gown until she felt its warmth through the fragile gauze. His thumb toyed with the filmy edge of fabric, brushing her skin in a way that made her stomach tighten. “Poppy,” he said gently, “what if I asked for permission to court you?”

She went blank as astonishment swept through her.

Finally, someone had asked to court her.

And it wasn’t Michael, or any of the diffident, superior aristocrats she had met during three failed seasons. It was Harry Rutledge, an elusive and enigmatic man she had known only a matter of days.

“Why me?” was all she could manage.

“Because you’re interesting and beautiful. Because saying your name makes me smile. Most of all because this may be my only hope of ever having hotchpotch.”

“I’m sorry, but . . . no. It wouldn’t be a good idea at all.”

“I think it’s the best idea I’ve ever had. Why can’t we?”

Poppy’s mind was spinning. She could hardly stammer out a reply. “I-I don’t like courtship. It’s very stressful. And disappointing.”

His thumb found the soft ridge of her collarbone and traced it slowly. “It’s arguable that you’ve ever had a real courtship. But if it pleases you, we’ll dispense with it altogether. That would save time.”

“I don’t want to dispense with it,” Poppy said, increasingly flustered. She trembled as she felt his fingertips glide along the side of her neck. “What I mean is . . . Mr. Rutledge, I’ve just been through a very difficult experience. This is too soon.”

“You were courted by a boy, who had to do as he was told.” His hot breath feathered against her lips as he whispered, “You should try it with a man, who needs no one’s permission.”

A man. Well, he certainly was that.

“I don’t have the luxury of waiting,” Harry continued. “Not when you’re so hell-bent on going back to Hampshire. You’re the reason I’m here tonight, Poppy. Believe me, I wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

“You don’t like balls?”

“I do. But the ones I attend are given by a far different crowd.”

Poppy couldn’t imagine what crowd he was referring to, or what kind of people he usually associated with. Harry Rutledge was too much of a mystery. Too experienced, too overwhelming in every way. He could never offer the quiet, ordinary, sane life she longed for.

“Mr. Rutledge, please don’t take this as an affront, but you don’t have the qualities I seek in a husband.”

“How do you know? I have some excellent qualities you haven’t even seen yet.”

Poppy gave a shaky laugh. “I think you could talk a fish out of its skin,” she told him. “But still, I don’t—” She stopped with a gasp as he ducked his head and stole an off-center kiss from her lips, as if her laughter were something he could taste. She felt the imprint of his mouth even after he drew back, her excited nerves reluctant to release the sensation.

“Spend an afternoon with me,” he urged. “Tomorrow.”

“No, Mr. Rutledge. I’m—”

“Harry.”

“Harry, I can’t—”

“An hour?” he whispered. He bent to her again, and she turned her face away in confusion. He sought her neck instead, his lips brushing the vulnerable flesh with half-open kisses.