Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways #3)(69)

Reaching to the dark brown shade that covered the window nearest her, Poppy lifted it to glance at the broken buildings, brick facings plastered with bills, and battered shop fronts, all of them bathed in the twilight gloom of street lamps. London at night was unsavory, unsafe, uncontrolled. Harry was out there somewhere. She had no doubt he could take care of himself, but the thought of what he might be doing—or whom he might be doing it with—filled her with melancholy. She sighed heavily.

“I loathe London in the summer,” Leo said. “The Thames is working up to an unholy stench this year.” He paused, his gaze resting on her. “I suppose that look on your face isn’t caused by worry over public sanitation. Tell me what you’re thinking, sis.”

“Harry left the hotel tonight after—” Poppy broke off, unable to find a word to describe just what it was they had done. “I don’t know how long he’ll stay out, but at best, we’re only about ten or twelve hours ahead of him. Of course, he may decide not to follow me, which would be rather anticlimactic but also a relief. Still—”

“He’ll follow,” Leo said flatly. “But you won’t have to see him if you don’t wish it.”

Poppy shook her head morosely. “I’ve never had such mixed-up feelings about anyone. I don’t understand him. Tonight in bed, he—”

“Wait,” Leo said. “Some things are better discussed between sisters. I’m sure this is one of them. We’ll reach Ramsay House by morning, and you can ask Amelia anything you like.”

“I don’t think she would know anything about this.”

“Why not? She’s a married woman.”

“Yes, but it’s . . . well . . . a masculine problem.”

Leo blanched. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, either. I don’t have masculine problems. In fact, I don’t even like saying the phrase ‘masculine problems.’ ”

“Oh.” Crestfallen, Poppy pulled a lap blanket over herself.

“Damn it. What exactly are we calling a ‘masculine problem’? Did he have trouble running the flag up? Or did it fall to half-staff?”

“Do we have to speak about this metaphorically, or—”

“Yes,” Leo said firmly.

“All right. He . . .” Poppy frowned in concentration as she searched for the right words, “. . . left me while the flag was still flying.”

“Was he drunk?”

“No.”

“Did you do or say something to make him leave?”

“Just the opposite. I asked him to stay, and he wouldn’t.”

Shaking his head, Leo rummaged in a side compartment beside his seat and swore. “Where the blazes is my liquor? I told the servants to stock the carriage with drink for the journey. I’m going to fire the bloody lot of them.”

“There’s water, isn’t there?”

“Water is for washing, not drinking.” He muttered something about an evil conspiracy to keep him sober, and sighed. “One can only guess as to Rutledge’s motivations. It’s not easy for a man to stop in the middle of lovemaking. It puts us in a devil of a temper.” Folding his arms across his chest, he watched her speculatively. “I propose the radical notion of actually asking Rutledge why he left you tonight, and discussing it like two rational beings. But before your husband reaches Hampshire, you’d better decide on something, and that’s whether you’re going to forgive him for what he did to you and Bayning.”

She blinked in surprise. “Do you think I should?”

“The devil knows I wouldn’t want to, were I in your place.” He paused. “On the other hand, I’ve been forgiven for many things I should never have been forgiven for. The point is, if you can’t forgive him, there’s no use in trying to talk about anything else.”

“I don’t think Harry cares about being forgiven,” Poppy said glumly.

“Of course he does. Men love to be forgiven. It makes us feel better about our inability to learn from our mistakes.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” Poppy protested. “Why must I do it so soon? There’s no time limit for forgiveness, is there?”

“Sometimes there is.”

“Oh, Leo . . .” She felt crushed under a weight of uncertainty and hurt and yearning.

“Try to sleep,” her brother murmured. “We’ll have two hours, more or less, before it’s time to change horses.”

“I can’t sleep for worrying,” Poppy said, although a yawn had already overtaken her.

“There’s no point in worrying. You already know what you want to do—you just aren’t ready to admit it yet.”

Poppy settled deeper into the corner, closing her eyes. “You know a lot about women, don’t you, Leo?”

There was a smile in his voice. “I should hope so, with four sisters.” And he watched over her while she slept.

After returning to the hotel drunk as a boiled owl, Harry staggered to his apartments. He had gone to a tavern, flamboyantly decorated with mirrors, tiled walls, and expensive prostitutes. It had taken approximately three hours to drink himself into a suitable state of numbness that he could go back home. Despite the artful advances of more than a few lightskirts, Harry took no notice of any of them.