“I don’t want to be a widow, I don’t want Michael Bayning, and I don’t want you to joke about such things, you tactless clodpole!”

As all three of them stared at her openmouthed, Poppy leapt up and stalked away, her hands drawn into fists.

Bewildered by the immediate force of her fury—it was like being stung by a butterfly—Harry stared after her dumbly. After a moment, he asked the first coherent thought that came to him. “Did she just say she doesn’t want Bayning?”

“Yes,” Win said, a smile hovering on her lips. “That’s what she said. Go after her, Harry.”

Every cell in Harry’s body longed to comply. Except that he had the feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff, with one ill-chosen word likely to send him over. He gave Poppy’s sister a desperate glance. “What should I say?”

“Be honest with her about your feelings,” Win suggested.

A frown settled on Harry’s face as he considered that. “What’s my second option?”