Attraction without trust . . . not a comfortable thing to feel for one’s own husband.

Poppy had no idea how long he would continue this conjugal reprieve. She was only grateful that Harry was so consumed with his hotel. Although . . . she couldn’t help thinking that this sunrise-to-midnight agenda was not at all good for him. If someone Poppy cared for had been working so relentlessly, she would have urged him to ease his pace, to take some time to rest.

Simple compassion got the better of her one afternoon when Harry came into their apartment unexpectedly, carrying his coat in one hand. He had spent most of the day with the Chief Officer of the LFEE, the London Fire Engine Establishment. Together they had meticulously gone through the hotel to examine its safety procedures and equipment.

If, heaven forbid, a fire should ever break out at the Rutledge, the employees had been trained to help as many guests as possible leave the building expediently. Escape ladders were routinely counted and inspected, and floor plans and exit routes were examined. Firemarks had been mortared onto the outside of the building to designate it as one the LFEE had been paid to protect.

As Harry entered the apartment, Poppy saw that the day had been especially demanding. His face was etched with weariness.

He paused at the sight of Poppy curled in the corner of the settee, reading a book balanced on her drawn-up knees.

“How was the luncheon?” Harry asked.

Poppy had been invited to join a group of well-to-do young matrons, who held an annual charity bazaar. “It went nicely, thank you. They are a pleasant group. Although they do seem a bit too fond of forming committees. I’ve always thought a committee takes a month to accomplish something a single person could have done in ten minutes.”

Harry smiled. “The goal of such groups isn’t to be efficient. It’s to have something to occupy their time.”

Poppy took a closer look at him, and her eyes widened. “What happened to your clothes?”

Harry’s white linen shirt and dark blue silk waistcoat had been streaked with soot. There were more black smudges on his hands, and one on the edge of his jaw.

“I was testing one of the safety ladders.”

“You climbed down a ladder outside the building?” Poppy was amazed that he would have taken such an unnecessary risk. “Couldn’t you have asked someone else to do it? Mr. Valentine, perhaps?”

“I’m sure he would have. But I wouldn’t provide equipment for my employees without trying it myself. I still have concerns about the housemaids—their skirts would make their descent more difficult. However, I draw the line at trying that out.” He cast a rueful glance at his palms. “I have to wash and change before going back to work.”

Poppy returned her attention to her book. But she was intensely aware of the quiet sounds coming from the other room, the opening of drawers, the splash of water and soap, the thud of a discarded shoe. She thought of him being unclothed, at that very moment, and a dart of warmth went through her stomach.

Harry came back into the room, clean and impeccable as before. Except . . .

“A smudge,” Poppy said, conscious of a flutter of amusement. “You missed a spot.”

Harry glanced down over his front. “Where?”

“Your jaw. No, not that side.” She picked up a napkin and gestured for him to come to her.

Harry leaned over the back of the settee, his face descending toward hers. He held very still as she wiped the soot from his jaw. The scent of his skin drifted to her, fresh and clean, with a slight smoky tinge like cedarwood.

Wishing to prolong the moment, Poppy stared into his fathomless green eyes. They were shadowed from lack of sleep. Good heavens, did the man ever pause for even a moment?

“Why don’t you sit with me?” Poppy asked impulsively.

Harry blinked, clearly thrown off guard by the invitation. “Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“I can’t. There’s too much to—”

“Have you eaten today? Aside from a few bites of breakfast?”

Harry shook his head. “I haven’t had time.”

Poppy pointed to the place on the settee beside her in wordless demand.

To her surprise, Harry actually obeyed. He came around the end of the settee and sat in the corner, staring at her. One of his dark brows arched questioningly.

Reaching for the tray beside her, Poppy lifted a plate laden with sandwiches, tarts, and biscuits. “The kitchen sent up far too much for one person. Have the rest.”

“I’m really not—”

“Here,” she insisted, pushing the plate into his hands.

Harry took a sandwich and began to consume it slowly. Taking her own teacup from the tray, Poppy poured fresh tea and added a spoonful of sugar. She gave it to Harry.

“What are you reading?” he asked, glancing at the book in her lap.

“A novel by a naturalist author. As of yet, I can’t find anything resembling a plot, but the descriptions of the countryside are quite lyrical.” She paused, watching him drain the teacup. “Do you like novels?”

He shook his head. “I usually read for information, not entertainment.”

“You disapprove of reading for pleasure?”

“No, it’s just that I don’t often manage to find the time for it.”

“Perhaps that’s why you don’t sleep well. You need an interlude between work and bedtime.”

There was a dry, perfectly timed pause before Harry asked, “What would you suggest?”

Aware of his meaning, Poppy felt a bloom of color emerge from head to toe. Harry seemed to enjoy her discomfiture, not in a mocking way, but as if he found her charming.

“Everyone in my family loves novels,” Poppy finally said, pushing the conversation back into line. “We gather in the parlor nearly every evening, and one of us reads aloud. Win is the best at it—she invents a different voice for each character.”

“I’d like to hear you read,” Harry said.

Poppy shook her head. “I’m not half as entertaining as Win. I put everyone to sleep.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “You have the voice of a scholar’s daughter.” Before she could take offense, he added, “Soothing. Never grates. Soft . . .”

He was extraordinarily tired, she realized. So much that even the effort to string words together was defeating him.

“I should go,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

“Finish your sandwiches first,” Poppy said authoritatively.

He picked up a sandwich obediently. While he ate, Poppy paged through the book until she found what she wanted . . . a description of walking through the countryside, under skies filled with fleecy clouds, past almond trees in blossom and white campion nestled beside quiet brooks. She read in a measured tone, occasionally stealing a glance at Harry while he polished off the entire plate of sandwiches. And then he settled deeper into the corner, more relaxed than she had ever seen him.

She read a few pages more, about walking past hedges and meadows, through a wood dressed with a counterpane of fallen leaves, while soft pale sunshine gave way to a quiet rain . . .

And when she finally reached the end of the chapter, she looked at Harry once more.

He was asleep.

His chest rose and fell in an even rhythm, his long lashes fanned against his skin. One hand was palm down against his chest, while the other lay half open at his side, the strong fingers partially curled.

“Never fails,” Poppy murmured with a private grin. Her talent at putting people to sleep was too much even for Harry’s relentless drive. Carefully she set the book aside.

This was the first time she’d ever been able to view Harry at her leisure. It was strange to see him so utterly disarmed. In sleep, the lines of his face were relaxed and almost innocent, at odds with his usual expression of command. His mouth, always so purposeful, looked as soft as velvet. He looked like a boy lost in a solitary dream. Poppy felt an urge to safeguard the sleep Harry so badly needed, to cover him with a blanket, and stroke the dark hair from his brow.

Several tranquil minutes passed, the silence disturbed only by distant sounds of activity in the hotel and from the street. This was something Poppy had not known she needed . . . time to contemplate the stranger who had taken utter possession of her life.

Trying to understand Harry Rutledge was like taking apart one of the intricate clockwork mechanisms he had constructed. One could examine every gear and ratchet wheel and lever, but that didn’t mean one would ever comprehend what made it all work.

It seemed that Harry had spent his life wrestling with the world and trying to bend it to his will. And toward that end he had made a great deal of progress. But he was clearly dissatisfied, unable to enjoy what he had achieved, which made him very different from the other men in Poppy’s life, especially Cam and Merripen.

Because of their Romany heritage, her brothers-in-law didn’t view the world as something to be conquered, but rather something to roam through freely. And then there was Leo, who preferred to view life as an objective observer instead of as an active participant.

Harry was nothing short of a brigand, scheming to conquer everyone and everything in sight. How could such a man ever be restrained? How would he ever find peace?

Poppy was so lost in the peaceful stillness of the room that she started when she heard a tap at the door. Her nerves jangled unpleasantly. She made no response, wishing the blasted noise would go away. But there it was again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Harry awakened with an inarticulate murmur, blinking with the confusion of someone who had been too quickly roused from sleep. “Yes?” he said gruffly, struggling to sit up.

The door opened, and Jack Valentine entered. He looked apologetic as he saw Harry and Poppy together on the settee. Poppy could barely refrain from scowling, even though he was only doing his job. Valentine came to hand Harry a folded note, murmured a few cryptic words, and left the apartment.

Harry scanned the note with a bleary glance. Tucking it into his coat pocket, he smiled ruefully at Poppy. “I seem to have nodded off while you were reading.” He stared at her, his eyes warmer than she had ever seen them. “An interlude,” he murmured for no apparent reason, and a corner of his mouth hitched upward. “I’d like another one soon.”

And he left while she was still struggling to form a reply.

Chapter Fifteen

Only the wealthiest of London ladies possessed their own carriages and horses, as it cost a fortune to maintain such a convenience. Women without their own stables, or those who lived alone, were compelled to “job” the horses, brougham, and coachman, hiring it all from a livery service or jobmaster whenever they needed to knock about London.

Harry had insisted that Poppy must have her own carriage and pair, and had sent for a designer from a carriage works to come to the hotel. After consulting with Poppy, the carriage maker was commissioned to build a vehicle specifically to her taste. Poppy was left rather bemused by the process, and even a bit nettled because her insistence on asking the prices of materials had caused a tiff. “You’re not here to question how much any of this costs,” Harry had told her. “Your only task is to choose what you like.”

But in Poppy’s experience, that had always been part of choosing something . . . viewing what was available and then comparing costs until one arrived at something that was neither the most expensive nor the least. Harry, however, seemed to view this approach as an affront, as if she were questioning his ability to provide for her.

Finally it was decided that the outside would be done in elegant black lacquer, the inside upholstered in green velvet and beige leather with brass bead trim, and the interior paneling would feature decorative paintwork. There would be green silk curtains and venetian blinds in lieu of mahogany shutters . . . morocco leather sleeping cushions . . . decorative welding on the outside steps, plated carriage lamps and matching door handles . . . it had never occurred to Poppy that there would be so much to decide.

She spent what was left of the afternoon in the kitchen with the chef, Monsieur Broussard, the pastry chef, Mr. Rupert, and Mrs. Pennywhistle. Broussard was involved in the creation of a new dessert . . . or more aptly, trying to re-create a dessert he had remembered from childhood.

“My great-aunt Albertine always made this with no recipe,” Broussard explained ruefully as he pulled a bain-marie, or water bath, from the oven. Nestled inside were a half dozen perfect little steaming apple puddings. “I watched her every time. But it has all slipped from my mind. Fifteen times I have tried it, and still it’s not perfect . . . but quand on veut, on peut.”

“When one wants, one can,” Poppy translated.

“Exactement.” Broussard carefully removed the dishes from the hot water.

Chef Rupert drizzled cream sauce over each pudding, and topped them with delicate pastry leaves. “Shall we?” he asked, handing out spoons.

Solemnly, Poppy, Mrs. Pennywhistle, and the two chefs each took a pudding and sampled it. Poppy’s mouth was filled with cream, soft tart apple, and crisply imploding pastry. She closed her eyes to better enjoy the textures and flavors, and she heard satisfied sighs from Mrs. Pennywhistle and Chef Rupert.

“Still not right,” Monsieur Broussard fretted, scowling at the dish of pudding as if it were deliberately being obstinate.

“I don’t care if it’s not right,” the housekeeper said. “That is the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.” She turned to Poppy. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Rutledge?”

“I think it’s what angels must eat in heaven,” Poppy said, digging into the pudding. Chef Rupert had already shoved another spoonful into his mouth.

“Maybe a touch more lemon and cinnamon . . .” Monsieur Broussard mused.

“Mrs. Rutledge.”

Poppy twisted to see who had spoken her name. Her smile dimmed as she saw Jake Valentine entering the kitchen. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him. In fact, Valentine had been very personable and kind. However, he seemed to have been appointed as a watchdog, enforcing Harry’s mandate that Poppy should refrain from keeping company with the employees.

Mr. Valentine looked no happier than Poppy as he spoke. “Mrs. Rutledge, I’ve been sent to remind you that you have an appointment at the dressmaker’s.”

“I do? Now?” Poppy looked at him blankly. “I don’t remember making an appointment.”

“It was made for you. At Mr. Rutledge’s request.”

“Oh.” Reluctantly Poppy set down her spoon. “When must I leave?”

“In a quarter hour.”