Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways #3)(70)

He wanted his wife.

And he knew that Poppy would never soften toward him unless he began with a sincere apology for taking her away from Michael Bayning. The problem was, he couldn’t. Because he wasn’t at all sorry about what he’d done, he was only sorry that she was unhappy about it. He would never regret having done what was necessary to marry her, because she was what he had wanted most in his life.

Poppy was every fine, good, unselfish impulse that he would never have. She was every caring thought, loving gesture, happy moment, that he would never know. She was every minute of peaceful sleep that would forever elude him. According to the law of universal balance, Poppy had been put into the world to compensate for Harry and his wickedness. Which was probably why, as the opposite of two magnetic forces, Harry was so damnably drawn to her.

Therefore, the apology was not going to be sincere. But it would be made. And then he would ask to begin again with her.

Lowering himself to the narrow settee, which he loathed with a passion, Harry fell into a drunken stupor that almost passed for sleep.

The morning light, weak though it was, entered his brain like a stiletto. Groaning, Harry cracked his eyes open and took inventory of his abused body. He was dry mouthed, exhausted, and aching, and if there had ever been a time in his life he had needed a shower bath more, he couldn’t remember it. He slitted a glance at the closed door of his bedroom, where Poppy still slept.

Remembering her gasp of pain the previous night, when he had thrust into her, Harry felt a cold, sick heaviness in the pit of his stomach. She would be sore this morning. She might need something.

She probably hated him.

Swamped with dread, Harry lurched upward from the settee and went to the bedroom. He opened the door and let his eyes adjust to the semidarkness.

The bed was empty.

Harry stood there blinking while apprehension swept over him. He heard himself whisper her name.

In seconds he had reached the bellpull, but there was no need to call for anyone. As if by magic, Valentine was at the apartment door, his brown eyes alert in his lean face.

“Valentine,” Harry began hoarsely, “where is—”

“Mrs. Rutledge is with Lord Ramsay. I believe they are traveling to Hampshire as we speak.”

Harry grew very, very calm, as he always did when a situation was dire. “When did she leave?”

“Last night, while you were out.”

Resisting the urge to kill his valet where he stood, Harry asked softly, “And you didn’t tell me?”

“No, sir. She asked me not to.” Valentine paused, looking momentarily bemused, as if he, too, couldn’t believe that Harry hadn’t already killed him. “I have a carriage and team ready, if you intend to—”

“Yes, I intend to.” Harry’s tone was as crisp as the strike of a chisel through granite. “Pack my clothes. I’m leaving within the half hour.”

Rage hovered nearby, so powerful that Harry could scarcely own it as his. But he shoved the feeling aside. Giving in to it would accomplish nothing. The undertaking for now was to wash and shave, change his clothes, and deal with the situation.

Any hint of concern or contrition burned to ashes. Any hope of being kind or gentlemanly had gone. He would keep Poppy no matter how he had to do it. He would lay out the law, and when he was through, she would never dare leave him again.

Poppy awakened from a jolting sleep and sat up, rubbing her eyes. Leo was dozing in the seat opposite hers, his broad shoulders hunched and one arm curled behind his head as he leaned against a paneled wall.

Nudging aside the little curtain over one of the windows, Poppy saw her beloved Hampshire . . . sun crossed, green, peaceful. She had been in London too long—she had forgotten how beautiful the world could be. The carriage passed flushes of poppies and oxeye daisies and vibrant stands of lavender. The landscape was rich with wet meadows and chalk streams. Brilliant blue kingfishers and swifts darted through the sky, while green woodpeckers rattled the trees.

“Almost there,” she whispered.

Leo awakened, yawning and stretching. His eyes narrowed in a protesting squint as he lifted a cloth panel for a glimpse of the passing countryside.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Poppy asked, smiling. “Have you ever seen such views?”

Her brother dropped the panel. “Sheep. Grass. Thrilling.”

Before long the carriage reached the Ramsay lands and passed the gatekeeper’s house, which had been constructed of blue gray brick and cream stone. Owing to recent and extensive renovations, the landscape and manor were new looking, although the house had retained its haphazard charm. The estate was not a large one, certainly nothing compared to the massive neighboring estate owned by Lord Westcliff. But it was a jewel, the land fertile and varied, with fields irrigated by channels that had been dug from a nearby stream to the upper fields.

Before Leo had inherited the title, the estate had fallen into decay and disrepair, abandoned by many of the tenants. Now, however, it had been turned into a thriving and progressive enterprise, mostly due to the efforts of Kev Merripen. And Leo, though he was almost embarrassed to admit it, had come to care about the estate and was doing his best to acquire the vast amounts of knowledge necessary to make it run efficiently.

Ramsay House was a cheerful combination of architectural styles. Originally an Elizabethan manor house, it had been altered as successive generations had grafted on additions and wings. The result was an asymmetrical building with bristling chimney stacks, rows of leaded-glass windows, and a gray slate roof with h*ps and bays. Inside, there were interesting niches and nooks, odd-shaped rooms, hidden doors and staircases, all adding to an eccentric charm that perfectly suited the Hathaway family.