While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)

While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)

Sophie Jordan




Chapter 1




Poppy relished the Duke of Autenberry’s weekly ventures into the shop. Marcus. She had learned his name from glimpsing his signature on the cards he signed and handed to her to attach to the flowers. The name suited him. A strong Roman name. She could very well see him astride a stallion, leading men into battle.

She eagerly awaited those visits, which usually fell on a Tuesday or Wednesday. She took great pains with her appearance those days—which was not saying much considering all the hems had been let out of her frocks countless times over and bore patches. She was actually grateful for the striped pinafore Mrs. Barclay provided to be worn over her dress. At least it was freshly starched.

The duke was unique in that he liked to pick out his flowers personally. He took his time browsing the available flora. He could doubtlessly send a servant for such a task, but he preferred to do it himself. Because he was that sort of a gentleman. Thoughtful and sincere in his attentions—no matter that the flowers oft went to different ladies.

She did not judge him for that. An unmarried gentleman was free to court. A handsome nobleman would surely have scores of ladies doting upon him. He might very well be a rake, but could she blame him? He simply had not met The One yet. Once he did, he would settle down into his happily-ever-after. He was far too noble a gentleman to stray. She was convinced of this. And who was to say that person could not be Poppy?

Someday they would have a real moment. One day he would look up at her and truly see her. Not as a shopgirl, but as a person. Her tongue wouldn’t tie itself in knots and she would actually manage to string words together in a clever and intriguing fashion.

Then he would recognize her as a woman with a warm and giving heart. He’d have to because she knew she was not beautiful. If she was going to bowl him over with her beauty, she would have already done so. There was no self-loathing involved with this assessment. Simply self-awareness and acceptance.

Oh, she wasn’t ugly. Her face was fine enough. Her eyes lovely. Papa had always said so. Even Edmond complimented her eyes on more than one occasion. Although the boy she had thought to marry also teasingly called her scrawny. Scrawny with an overly generous backside—of course, he never dared to suggest the latter. Only she knew of her unfortunate derriere. Thankfully that feature was not quite so noticeable beneath her skirts.

Just as she knew her shortcomings she knew her assets. She was smart and good-natured and loyal. Poppy winced, realizing she had just described her father’s favorite old hound. Stifling her wince, she added more adjectives that would separate her from a canine.

Hard-working. Someone who did not allow despair to consume her even during the lowest moments in her life—and in recent years she had definitely had those moments. When she lost her mother at age twelve to consumption. When she lost Papa just one year past. He was tossed from a horse and never recovered from the accident. It had been a long lingering death that she wouldn’t wish on anyone much less the father she adored.

Always she had stayed strong for Bryony . . . for herself. She loved her sister and would do anything for her.

These were her strengths, and why could Autenberry not one day look at her and recognize that she was The One for him? It could happen.

In her fantasy he would freeze upon looking at her as sudden realization swept over him. Then he would glance around the store and buy every flower in the shop—all for her, naturally—in the grandest of gestures.

It was fanciful. Perhaps far-fetched.

Very well, it was far-fetched. But dreams often were and Papa had always encouraged her to dream large. He would smile as he reminisced about her mother, claiming that if he hadn’t dreamed he could win her, then Poppy and Bryony would never have been born.

In fact, she blamed Papa for instilling such a grand imagination in her. He’d read Gulliver’s Travels and Chaucer to her before the fire after dinner every night. Mama was no better. At least the little Poppy remembered of her. Of course, Martha Smitton, daughter to a country squire, was a romantic. A member of the gentry, she had to be in order to leave a life of comfort and status behind when she ran away and married Papa against her family’s wishes. It was a story she had told Poppy at bedtime every night up until her death.

Poppy believed in love and rainbows and leprechauns. Romance and whimsy were in her blood. Life was short. She knew this from losing parents much too soon. Life was precarious and she had no wish to squander it.

She wanted to believe a grand romance waited for her. Even if, in the meantime, she was stuck working in a flower shop all day and doing needlework at night by candlelight simply to make ends meet for herself and Bryony. Someday her turn would come.

Poppy rarely worked alone in the shop. If Mrs. Barclay wasn’t present, then Jenny, the other salesclerk, was in attendance. Jenny stared at her so knowingly whenever the duke visited that Poppy was sure the girl was aware of her feelings. She could do little else but gawk and fumble awkwardly around him.

Which was why she was grateful Mrs. Barclay was present when the duke called one Tuesday morning in December. Jenny was not present to waggle her eyebrows suggestively.

Mrs. Barclay was overseeing an arrangement of fresh flora that had just been delivered from one of their hothouse vendors.

The bell shook above the door as he entered the establishment.

Naturally, Mrs. Barclay greeted him. She loved rubbing elbows with aristocracy—a perk of the trade. “Oh, Your Grace.” She executed a wobbly curtsy. “So good to see you again.”