A laugh stirred in her throat. “Absolutely not. There is too much to be done. Everyone is busy except you.”

“I intend to be busy. As soon as you come here. Monisha, don’t make me chase you this early.”

Amelia gave him a severe glance as she obeyed. “It’s not early. In fact, if you don’t wash and dress quickly, we’ll be late to the flower show.”

“How can you be late for flowers?” Cam shook his head and smiled, as he always did when she said something he considered to be gadjo nonsense. His gaze was hot and slumberous. “Come closer.”

“Later.” She gave a helpless gasp of laughter as he reached out with astonishing dexterity, snaring her wrist in his hand. “Cam, no.”

“A good Romany wife never refuses her husband,” he teased.

“The maid—” she said breathlessly as she was pulled across the mattress, and clasped against all that warm golden skin.

“She can wait.” He unbuttoned her robe, his hand slipping past the lace, fingertips exploring the sensitive curves of her breasts.

Amelia’s giggles died away. He knew so much about her—too much—and he never hesitated to take ruthless advantage. She closed her eyes as she reached up to the nape of his neck. The clean, silky locks of his hair slipped through her fingers like liquid.

Cam kissed her tender throat, while one of his knees nudged between hers. “It’s either now,” he murmured, “or behind the rhododendrons at the flower show. Your choice.”

She writhed a little, not in protest but excitement as he trapped her arms in the confining sleeves of the dressing gown. “Cam,” she managed to say as his head bent over her exposed breasts. “We’re going to be so terribly late . . .”

He murmured his desire to her, speaking in Romany as he did whenever his mood turned un-civilized, and the exotic syllables fell hotly against her sensitive skin. And for the next several minutes he possessed her, consumed her, with a lack of inhibition that would have seemed barbaric had he not been so gentle.

“Cam,” she said afterward, her arms clasped around his neck, “are you going to say something to Mr. Bayning today?”

“About pansies and primulas?”

“About his intentions toward my sister.”

Cam smiled down at her as he fingered a loose lock of her hair. “Would you object if I did?”

“No, I want you to.” A frown notched the space between her brows. “Poppy is adamant that no one should criticize Mr. Bayning for taking so long to speak to his father about courting her.”

Gently Cam used the pad of his thumb to smooth away the little frown. “He’s waited long enough. The Rom say of a man like Bayning, ‘he would like to eat fish, but he would not like to get in the water.’ ”

Amelia responded with a humorless chuckle. “It’s very frustrating, to know that he’s tiptoeing around the issue like this. I wish Bayning would simply go to his father and have it out.”

Cam, who knew something about the aristocracy from his days as the manager of an exclusive gaming club, said dryly, “A young man who stands to inherit as much as Bayning has to tread softly.”

“I don’t care. He has gotten my sister’s hopes very high. If it all comes to naught, she’ll be devastated. And he has kept her from being courted by other men, and wasted an entire season—”

“Shhh.” Cam rolled to his side, taking her with him. “I agree with you, monisha . . . this shadow courtship must end. I’ll make certain Bayning understands that it’s time to take action. And I’ll speak to the viscount, if that will help.”

“Thank you.” Amelia tucked her cheek into one of the hard curves of his chest, seeking comfort. “I’ll be so glad when this is resolved. Lately I haven’t been able to rid myself of the feeling that things won’t turn out well for Poppy and Mr. Bayning. I hope I’m wrong. I want so badly for Poppy to be happy, and . . . what will we do, if he breaks her heart?”

“We’ll take care of her,” he murmured, cuddling her. “And love her. That’s what a family is for.”

Chapter Eight

Poppy was light-headed with nerves and excitement. Michael would soon arrive to accompany the family to the flower show. After all their subterfuge, this was the first step toward an openly acknowledged courtship.

She had dressed with extra care in a yellow walking dress trimmed with black velvet cord. The layered skirts were caught up at intervals with black velvet bows. Beatrix wore a similar ensemble, only hers was blue trimmed in chocolate.

“Lovely,” Miss Marks had pronounced, smiling as they entered the receiving room of the family suite. “You will be the two most elegant young ladies at the flower show.” She reached up to Poppy’s upswept curls and anchored a pin more securely. “And I predict that Mr. Bayning will not be able to take his gaze off you,” she added.

“He’s a bit late,” Poppy said tensely. “It’s not like him. I hope he hasn’t met with some difficulty.”

“He will arrive soon, I’m sure.”

Cam and Amelia entered the room, the latter looking radiant in pink, her small waist cinched with a bronze leather belt that matched her walking boots.

“What a lovely day for an outing,” Amelia said, her blue eyes twinkling. “Though I doubt you’ll even notice the flowers, Poppy.”

Putting a hand to her midriff, Poppy let out an unsteady sigh. “This is all so nerve-wracking.”

“I know, dear.” Amelia went to embrace her. “This makes me indescribably grateful that I never had to go through the London season. I would never have had your patience. Really, they should levy a tax on London bachelors until they marry. That would hasten the entire courtship process.”

“I don’t see why people have to marry at all,” Beatrix said. “There was no one to marry Adam and Eve, was there? They lived together naturally. Why should any of us bother with a wedding if they didn’t?”

Poppy gave a nervous laugh. “When Mr. Bayning is here,” she said, “let’s not bring up any outlandish debate topics, Bea. I’m afraid he’s not used to our way of . . . well, our . . .”

“Colorful discussions,” Miss Marks suggested.

Amelia grinned. “Don’t worry, Poppy. We’ll be so staid and proper, we’ll be absolute bores.”

“Thank you,” Poppy said fervently.

“Do I have to be boring, too?” Beatrix asked Miss Marks, who nodded emphatically.

With a sigh, Beatrix went to a table in the corner and began to empty her pockets.

Poppy’s stomach flipped as she heard a knock at the door. “He’s here,” she said breathlessly.

“I will answer,” Miss Marks said. She gave Poppy a quick smile. “Breathe, dear.”

Poppy nodded and tried to calm herself. She saw Amelia and Cam exchange a glance she could not interpret. The understanding between the pair was so absolute, it seemed they could read each other’s thoughts.

She was tempted to smile as she remembered Beatrix’s comment that rabbits were happiest in pairs. Beatrix had been right. Poppy wanted very much to be loved, to be part of a pair. And she had waited for so long, and she was still unwed when friends her age had already married and had two or three children. It seemed a common fate for Hathaways to find love later rather than sooner.

Poppy’s thoughts were interrupted as Michael entered the room and bowed. A surge of gladness was tempered by the sight of his expression, more grim than she had ever imagined possible. His complexion was pale, his eyes reddened as if he’d had no sleep. He looked ill, as a matter of fact.

“Mr. Bayning,” she said softly, her heart beating like a small animal fighting to free itself from a net. “Are you well? What is the matter?”

Michael’s brown eyes, usually so warm, were bleak as he glanced at her family. “Forgive me,” he said hoarsely. “I hardly know what to say.” His breath seemed to shiver in his throat. “I am in some . . . some difficulty . . . it’s impossible.” His gaze settled on Poppy. “Miss Hathaway, I must speak with you. I don’t know if it would be possible to have a moment alone . . .”

A difficult silence followed the request. Cam stared at the young man with an unfathomable expression, while Amelia gave a slight shake of her head as if to deny what was coming.

“I’m afraid that would not be proper, Mr. Bayning,” Miss Marks murmured. “We have Miss Hathaway’s reputation to consider.”

“Of course.” He passed a hand over his forehead, and Poppy realized that his fingers were trembling.

Something was very wrong indeed.

An icy calm settled over her. She spoke in a dazed voice that didn’t sound quite like her own. “Amelia, perhaps you might stay in the room with us?”

“Yes, of course.”

The rest of the family, including Miss Marks, left the room.

Poppy felt cold runnels of perspiration beneath her chemise, damp patches blossoming at the pits of her arms. She took a place on the settee and watched Michael with dilated eyes. “You may have a seat,” she told him.

He hesitated and glanced at Amelia, who had gone to stand beside the window.

“Please do have a seat, Mr. Bayning,” Amelia said, staring at the street outside. “I’m trying to pretend I’m not here. I’m so sorry you can’t have more privacy than this, but I’m afraid Miss Marks is right. Poppy’s reputation must be protected.”

Although there was no trace of rebuke in her tone, Michael flinched visibly. Occupying the space next to Poppy, he took her hands and bent his head over them. His fingers were even colder than hers. “I had an unholy row with my father last night,” he said, his voice muffled. “It seems one of the rumors reached him about my interest in you. About my intentions. He was . . . outraged.”

“That must have been dreadful,” Poppy said, knowing that Michael rarely, if ever, quarreled with his father. He held the viscount in awe, striving always to please him.

“Worse than dreadful.” Michael took an unsteady breath. “I’ll spare you the particulars. The result of a long, very ugly argument is that the viscount gave me an ultimatum. If I marry you, I will be cut off. He will no longer recognize me as his son, and I will be disinherited.”

There was no sound in the room except for Amelia’s swiftly indrawn breath.

Pain unfolded in Poppy’s chest, crowding the breath from her lungs. “What reason did he give?” she managed to ask.

“Only that you do not fit the mold of a Bayning bride.”

“If you allow time for his temper to cool . . . try to change his mind . . . I can wait, Michael. I’ll wait forever.”

Michael shook his head. “I cannot encourage you to wait. My father’s refusal was absolute. It could take years to change his mind, if ever. And in the meantime, you deserve the chance to find happiness.”

Poppy stared at him steadily. “I could only be happy with you.”

Michael raised his head, his eyes dark and glittering. “I’m sorry, Poppy. Sorry for giving you any reason to hope, when it was never possible. My only excuse is that I thought I knew my father, when apparently I don’t. I always believed I could convince him to accept the woman I loved, that my judgment would be enough. And I—” His voice cracked. He swallowed audibly. “I do love you. I . . . hell and damnation, I’ll never forgive him for this.” Releasing her hands, he reached into his coat pocket and extracted a packet of letters tied with cord. All the letters she had written to him. “I’m honor bound to return these.”

“I won’t give yours back,” Poppy said, taking the letters in a shaking hand. “I want to keep them.”

“That is your right, of course.”

“Michael,” Poppy said brokenly, “I love you.”

“I . . . I can’t give you any reason to hope.”

They were both quiet and trembling, staring at each other in despair.

Amelia’s voice pierced through the suffocating silence. She sounded blessedly rational. “The viscount’s objections needn’t stop you, Mr. Bayning. He can’t prevent you from inheriting the title and entailed properties, can he?”

“No, but—”

“Take my sister to Gretna Green. We’ll provide the carriage. My sister’s dowry is large enough to secure a handsome annuity for you both. If you need more, my husband will increase it.” Amelia leveled a steady, challenging gaze at him. “If you want my sister, Mr. Bayning, marry her. The Hathaways will help you weather what storms may come.”

Poppy had never loved her sister more than she did at that moment. She stared at Amelia with a wobbly smile, her eyes brimming.

Her smile vanished, however, as Michael answered dully. “The title and real estate are entailed, but until my father dies, I would be abandoned to my own resources, which are nonexistent. And I can’t live off the charity of my wife’s family.”

“It’s not charity when it’s family,” Amelia countered.

“You don’t understand how things are with the Baynings,” Michael said. “This is a matter of honor. I’m the only son. I’ve been raised for one thing since I was born—to assume the responsibilities of my rank and title. It’s all I’ve ever known. I can’t live as an outcast, outside my father’s sphere. I can’t live with scandal and ostracism.” He hung his head. “Sweet God, I’m weary of arguing. My brain’s gone in circles all night.”

Poppy saw the impatience on her sister’s face, and she knew that Amelia was prepared to fight him on every point, for her sake. But she held Amelia’s gaze and shook her head, sending the silent message, It’s no use. Michael had already decided on his course. He would never defy his father. Arguing would only make him more miserable than he already was.

Amelia closed her mouth and turned to stare out the window again.

“I’m sorry,” Michael said after a long silence, still gripping Poppy’s hands. “I never meant to deceive you. Everything I told you about my feelings—every word was true. My only regret is that I wasted your time. Valuable time for a girl in your position.”

Although he hadn’t meant that as a slight, Poppy winced.

A girl in her position.

Twenty-three. Unmarried. On the shelf after her third season.

Carefully she drew her hands from Michael’s. “Not a moment was wasted,” she managed to say. “I am the better for having known you, Mr. Bayning. Please don’t have any regrets. I don’t.”