Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways, #3)

by Lisa Kleypas

“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’s not fair for me to ask all the questions,” she told him. “You must have some as well.” “No, I’ve already decided that I want you.”

She wouldn’t be able to marry for love, but she could at least marry for hope.

“Harry. You’re not supposed to court a girl by telling her you’re the villain.” He gave her an innocent glance that didn’t deceive her in the least. “I’m trying to be honest.”

Harry blinked as if she’d surprised him. “You think I’m that manipulative?” She nodded. Harry seemed stunned that she could see through him so easily. Instead of being annoyed, however, he stared at her with stark longing. “Poppy, I have to have you.”

But marriage isn’t the end of the story, it’s the beginning. And it demands the efforts of both partners to make a success of it.

It was unfashionable to marry for love, a mark of the bourgeoisie. However, it was an ideal the Hathaways had always aspired to.

“You have no feelings of domestic affection for this place?” Poppy asked. “Well,” Valentine said awkwardly, “I’ll go now.”

“Mr. Rutledge was so very young, lanky as a beanpole, with a sharp American accent and a habit of talking so fast, one could scarcely follow him.

“I want to walk to my apartment by myself. If I can’t even do that, this entire hotel will start to feel like a prison.” He nodded with reluctant understanding.

“No, and it’s not appropriate for us to discuss it.” Monsieur Broussard regarded Mrs. Pennywhistle with keen interest. “I’m French,” he said. “I have no problem discussing it.”

The chef looked deeply concerned. “You think there’s a problem with his carrot?” “Watercress, carrot—is everything food to you?” Jake demanded. The chef shrugged. “Oui.”

“Well,” Jake said testily, “there is a string of Rutledge’s past mistresses who would undoubtedly testify there is nothing wrong with his carrot.”

“Alors, he is a virile man . . . she is a beautiful woman . . . why are they not...

“Nothing,” Jake said decisively, “will ever change Harry Rutledge.”

“No woman will compare to you tonight,” he murmured.

In the meantime, Harry stole glances of her whenever he could, his lovely and distant wife . . . and he drank in the smiles she gave to other people.

Whatever she saw in his expression caused her eyes to widen and her cheeks to flush. Mrs. Pennywhistle eased up from the floor. “Well,” she said briskly,

He wanted something that only Poppy seemed able to provide.

“You mean something to him,” Valentine insisted. “He’s formed an attachment to you, and I’ve never seen that before. Which is why I don’t think anyone in the world can manage him except for you.”

“Mr. Valentine . . . ” “Yes, ma’am?” “You do think he’ll follow me, don’t you?” “Only to the ends of the earth,” he said gravely.

“You’ve left Rutledge?” “Yes.” “You lasted a week longer than I expected,” he said, not unkindly.

“Well, to start with—” Poppy tried to sound pragmatic even though her eyes watered. “I’m not a virgin anymore.” Leo gave her a mock-shamed glance. “Neither am I,” he confessed.

“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.

“There’s water, isn’t there?” “Water is for washing, not drinking.”

“You know a lot about women, don’t you, Leo?” There was a smile in his voice. “I should hope so, with four sisters.”

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.

Heaving a sigh, Leo shoved his hands in his pockets and observed their picturesque surroundings as if he’d just been assigned a cell at Newgate. Then, with perfectly calibrated offhandedness he asked, “Where’s Marks? You didn’t mention her.”

“Why,” Leo asked, his voice husky, “would you conceal something so beautiful?” Staring at her, nearly devouring her, he asked more softly still, “What are you hiding from?”

Sighing, she reached down and removed one of her shoes, a sturdy black leather affair that laced up to the ankle. “It’s the only way to keep him quiet,” she said dourly. Immediately, the ferret’s chatter ceased, and he buried his head inside the shoe.

“Harry’s parents had taken little enough notice of him before. After Nicolette left, however, he was utterly neglected. Worse than neglected—he was deliberately isolated. Arthur put him in a kind of invisible prison. The hotel staff was instructed to have as little to do with the boy as possible. He was often locked alone in his room. Even when he took his meals in the kitchen, the employees were afraid to talk to him, for fear of reprisal.

“The cardinal rule of the hotel was never to bother the guests. It had been drilled into him since birth. So he waited quietly, hoping someone would remember him, and come for him.”

“Things that remind me of our parents,” Poppy said absently, “and that lovely cottage in Primrose Place . . . they always make me feel better. Like eating these tarts. And flower-print curtains. And reading Aesop’s fables.” “The smell of Apothecary’s Roses,” Amelia reminisced. “Watching the rain fall from the thatched eaves. And remember when Leo put glow-worms in jars, and we tried to use them as candlelight for supper?”

“No, dear. Although, I must confess, I’ve never fully understood your desire for an ordinary life. To me, the word implies dullness.”

If I could get him away from the Rutledge, to some quiet, peaceful place, and just . . . ” “Keep him in bed for a week?” Amelia suggested, her eyes twinkling. Glancing at her sister in surprise, Poppy flushed and tried to stifle a laugh.

“It’s lovely to talk to your husband after you’ve been to bed together. They just lie there feeling grateful and say yes to everything.”

“Make it a condition of your returning to London with him,” Amelia suggested. “Seduce him. For heaven’s sake, Poppy, it’s not that difficult.”

Seduction is merely encouraging a man to do something he already wants to do.”

“Only you,” Poppy said, “could make seducing a man sound like the most pragmatic option.”

Amelia grinned and reached for another tart. “What I mean to suggest is, why don’t you try making a headlong dash at him? Try to make a real go of it. Show him what kind of marriage you want.” “Charge at him,” Poppy murmured, “like a rabbit at a cat.”

Lifting her free hand, Amelia pushed aside the edge of a white lace curtain, sunlight falling over her shining sable hair, gilding her fine features. A laugh escaped her. “I see her now, coming back from her ramble in the wood. She’ll be thrilled to discover that you and Leo are here. And it appears she’s carrying something in her apron. Lord, it could be anything. Lovely, wild girl . . . Catherine has done wonders with her, but you know she’ll never be more than half tame.”

Poppy was there. The knowledge spurred him, made him desperate to reach her. It was more than desperation. Losing Poppy was the one thing he couldn’t recover from, and knowing that made him feel fearful and furious and caged. The feelings catalyzed into one impetus: He would not be kept apart from her.

“Let me rephrase—I’m going to see her and make sure she’s all right, if I have to turn this place into matchsticks.” Cam received this imperturbably, his shoulders hitching in a shrug. “Outside, then.” This ready acceptance of a brawl both surprised and gratified Harry.

“I’ll say this for you,” the Rom remarked conversationally, “it’s in your favor that your first question was not ‘Where is Poppy?’ but ‘How is Poppy?’

“She’s part of my tribe,” he said, beginning to circle him. “You’ll go back without her, unless you can find a way to make her want you.”

quiet curse, a rueful grin, and Cam renewed his guard. “Hard and fast,” he said approvingly. “Where did you learn to fight?” “New York.” Cam lunged forward and flipped him to the ground. “West London,” he returned.

“You could have put a forearm to my throat,” Cam pointed out, shaking a swath of hair from his forehead. “I didn’t want to crush your windpipe,” Harry said acidly, “before I made you tell me where my wife is.”

Before he could reply, however, there was a commotion as all the Hathaways poured from the conservatory. Leo, Amelia, Win, Beatrix, Merripen, and Catherine Marks. Everyone except Poppy, Harry noted bleakly. Where the hell was she? “Is this the after-dinner entertainment?” Leo asked sardonically, emerging from the group. “Someone might have asked me—I would have preferred cards.”

“No,” Merripen said with deadly calm, stepping forward, “I’m next. And I’m going to flatten you for taking advantage of my kinswoman.”

Leo glanced from Merripen’s grim face to Harry’s, and rolled his eyes. “Forget it, then,” he said, going back into the conservatory. “After Merripen’s done, there won’t be anything left of him.” Pausing beside his sisters, he spoke quietly to Win out of the side of his mouth. “You’d better do something.” “Why?” “Because Cam only wants to knock a bit of sense into him. But Merripen actually intends to kill him, which I don’t think Poppy would appreciate.”