Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways #3)(37)

Poppy tried, but couldn’t quite manage, a weary smile. “So much for my dreams of a quiet, ordinary life. My choice is either to live as a social outcast or as the wife of a hotelier.”

“Is the latter choice so unappealing?”

“It’s not what I’ve always hoped for,” she said frankly.

Harry absorbed that, considered it, while reaching out to skim his fingers over clusters of pink roses. “It wouldn’t be a peaceful existence in a country cottage,” he acknowledged. “We would live at the hotel most of the year. But there are times we could go to the country. If you want a house in Hampshire as a wedding present, it’s yours. And a carriage of your own, and a team of four at your disposal.”

Exactly what they said he’d do, Poppy thought, and sent him a wry glance. “Are you trying to bribe me, Harry?”

“Yes. Is it working?”

His hopeful tone made her smile. “No, although it was a very good effort.” Hearing the rustling of foliage, Poppy called out, “Beatrix, are you there?”

“Two rows away,” came her sister’s cheerful reply. “Medusa found some worms!”

“Lovely.”

Harry gave Poppy a bemused glance. “Who . . . or should I say what . . . is Medusa?”

“Hedgehog,” she replied. “Medusa’s getting a bit plump, and Beatrix is exercising her.”

To Harry’s credit, he remained composed as he remarked, “You know, I pay my staff a fortune to keep those out of the garden.”

“Oh, have no fear. Medusa is merely a guest hedgehog. She would never run away from Beatrix.”

“Guest hedgehog,” Harry repeated, a smile working across his mouth. He paced a few impatient steps before turning to face her. A new urgency filtered through his voice. “Poppy. Tell me what your worries are, and I’ll try to answer them. There must be some terms we can come to.”

“You are persistent,” she said. “They told me you would be.”

“I’m everything they told you and worse,” Harry said without hesitation. “But what they didn’t tell you is that you are the most desirable and fascinating woman I’ve ever met, and I would do anything to have you.”

It was insanely flattering to have a man like Harry Rutledge pursuing her, especially after the hurt inflicted by Michael Bayning. Poppy flushed with cheek-stinging pleasure, as if she’d been lying too long in the sun. She found herself thinking, Perhaps I’ll consider it, just for a moment, in a purely hypothetical sense. Harry Rutledge and me . . .

“I have questions,” she said.

“Ask away.”

Poppy decided to be blunt. “Are you dangerous? Everyone says you are.”

“To you? No.”

“To others?”

Harry shrugged innocently. “I’m a hotelier. How dangerous could I be?”

Poppy gave him a dubious glance, not at all deceived. “I may be gullible, Harry, but I’m not brainless. You know the rumors . . . you’re well aware of your reputation. Are you as unscrupulous as you’re made out to be?”

Harry was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on a distant cluster of blossoms. The sun threw its light into the filter of branches, scattering leaf shadows over the pair in the arbor.

Eventually he lifted his head and looked at her directly, his eyes greener than the sunstruck rose leaves. “I’m not a gentleman,” he said. “Not by birth, and not by character. Very few men can afford to be honorable while trying to make a success of themselves. I don’t lie, but I rarely tell everything I know. I’m not a religious man, nor a spiritual one. I act in my own interests, and I make no secret of it. However, I always keep my side of a bargain, I don’t cheat, and I pay my debts.”

Pausing, Harry fished in his coat pocket, pulled out a penknife, and reached up to cut a rose in full bloom. After neatly severing the stem, he occupied himself with stripping the thorns with the sharp little blade. “I would never use physical force against a woman, or anyone weaker than myself. I don’t smoke, take snuff, or chew tobacco. I always hold my liquor. I don’t sleep well. And I can make a clock from scratch.” Removing the last thorn, he handed the rose to her, and slipped the knife back into his pocket.

Poppy concentrated on the satiny pink rose, running her fingers along the top edges of the petals.

“My full name is Jay Harry Rutledge,” she heard him say. “My mother is the only one who ever called me Jay, which is why I don’t like it. She left my father and me when I was very young. I never saw her again.”

Poppy looked at him with wide eyes, understanding that this was a sensitive subject he rarely, if ever, discussed. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, although she kept her tone carefully devoid of pity.

He shrugged as if it was of no importance. “It was a long time ago. I barely remember her.”

“Why did you come to England?”

Another pause. “I wanted to have a go at the hotel business. And whether I was a success or failure, I wanted to be far away from my father.”

Poppy could only guess at the wealth of information buried beneath the spare words. “That’s not the entire story,” she said rather than asked.

The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “No.”