Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways #3)(84)

Poppy gave him a wry glance. “If I’m so forbiddingly intelligent and beautiful, then why did you want to marry me?”

“I’m not intimidated by your brains, your family, or your beauty. And most men are too afraid of me to look twice at my wife.”

“Do you have many enemies?” she asked quietly.

“Yes, thank God. They’re not nearly as inconvenient as friends.”

Although Harry was perfectly serious, Poppy seemed to find that highly amusing. After her laughter slowed, she stopped and turned to face him with her arms folded. “You need me, Harry.”

He stopped before her, his head inclined over hers. “I’ve become aware of that.”

The sounds of stonechats perched overhead filled the pause, their chirps sounding like pebbles being struck together.

“I’ve something to ask you,” Poppy said.

Harry waited patiently, his gaze resting on her face.

“May we stay in Hampshire for a few days?”

His eyes turned wary. “For what purpose?”

She smiled slightly. “It’s called a holiday. Haven’t you ever gone on holiday before?”

Harry shook his head. “I’m not sure what I would do.”

“You read, walk, ride, spend a morning fishing or shooting, perhaps go calling on the neighbors . . . tour the local ruins, visit the shops in town . . .” Poppy paused as she saw the lack of enthusiasm on his face. “. . . Make love to your wife?”

“Done,” he said promptly.

“May we stay a fortnight?”

“Ten days.”

“Eleven?” she asked hopefully.

Harry sighed. Eleven days away from the Rutledge. In close company with his in-laws. He was tempted to argue, but he wasn’t fool enough to risk the ground he’d gained with Poppy. He’d come here with the expectation of a royal battle to get her back to London. But if Poppy would take him willingly into her bed, and then accompany him back with no fuss, it was worth a concession on his part.

Still . . . eleven days . . .

“Why not?” he muttered. “I’ll probably go mad after three days.”

“That’s all right,” Poppy said cheerfully. “No one around here would notice.”

To Mr. Jacob Valentine

The Rutledge Hotel

Embankment and Strand

London

Valentine,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to apprise you that Mrs. Rutledge and I have decided to remain in Hampshire until month’s end.

In my absence, carry on as usual.

Yours truly,

J.H. Rutledge

Jake looked up from the letter with jaw-slackening disbelief. Carry on as usual?

Nothing was usual about this.

“Well, what does it say?” Mrs. Pennywhistle prompted, while nearly everyone in the front office strained to hear.

“They’re not coming back until month’s end,” Jake said, dazed.

A strange, lopsided smile touched the housekeeper’s lips. “Bless my soul. She’s done it.”

“Done what?”

Before she could reply, the elderly concierge sidled up to them and asked in a discreet tone, “Mrs. Pennywhistle, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation . . . am I to understand that Mr. Rutledge is taking a holiday?”

“No, Mr. Lufton,” she said with an irrepressible grin. “He’s taking a honeymoon.”

Chapter

Twenty-three

In the following days, Harry learned a great deal about his wife and her family. The Hathaways were an extraordinary group of individuals, lively and quick-witted, with an instant collective willingness to try any ideas that came to them. They teased and laughed and squabbled and debated, but there was an innate kindness in the way they treated each other.

There was something almost magical about Ramsay House. It was a comfortable, well-run home, filled with sturdy furniture and thick carpets, and piles of books everywhere . . . but that didn’t account for the extra something. One felt it immediately after crossing the front threshold, something as intangible but life-giving as sunlight. A something that had always escaped Harry.

Gradually he came to realize that it was love.

The second day after Harry’s arrival in Hampshire, Leo toured him around the estate. They rode to visit some of the tenant farms, and Leo stopped to talk to various tenants and laborers. He exchanged informed comments with them about the weather, the soil, and the harvest, displaying a depth of knowledge that Harry would not have expected.

In London, Leo played the part of disaffected rake to perfection. In the country, however, the mask of indifference dropped. It was clear that he cared about the families who lived and worked on the Ramsay estate, and he intended to make a success of it. He had designed a clever system of irrigation that brought water along stone channels they had dug from the nearby river, relieving many of the tenants of the chore of hauling water. And he was doing his utmost to bring modern methods to local farming, including convincing his tenants to plant a new variety of hybrid wheat developed in Brighton that produced higher yields and stronger straw.

“They’re slow to accept change in these parts,” Leo told Harry ruefully. “Many of them still insist on using the sickle and scythe instead of the threshing machine.” He grinned. “I’ve told them the nineteenth century is going to be over before they ever decide to take part in it.”