“Whether you approve or not,” he told Cam and Leo, “I’m going to propose to your sister. The choice is hers. And if she accepts, no power on earth will stop me from marrying her. I understand your concerns, so let me assure you that she will want for nothing. She’ll be protected, cherished, even spoiled.”

“You have no bloody idea how to make her happy,” Cam said quietly.

“Rohan,” Harry said with a faint smile, “I excel at making people happy—or at least making them think they are.” He paused to survey their set faces. “Are you going to forbid me to speak to her?” he asked in a tone of polite interest.

“No,” Leo said. “Poppy’s not a child, nor a pet. If she wants to speak to you, she shall. But be aware that, whatever you say or do in the effort to convince her to marry you, it will be counterweighed by the opinions of her family.”

“And there’s one more thing to be aware of,” Cam said, with a wintry softness that disguised all hint of feeling. “If you succeed in marrying her, we’re not losing a sister. You’re gaining an entire family—who will protect her at any cost.”

That was almost enough to give Harry pause.

Almost.

Chapter Eleven

“My brother and Mr. Rohan don’t like you,” Poppy told Harry the next morning, as they walked slowly through the rose garden behind the hotel. As the news of the scandal traveled through London like wildfire, it was necessary to do something about it with all expediency. Poppy knew that as a gentleman, Harry Rutledge was bound to offer for her, to save her from social disgrace. However, she wasn’t certain if a lifetime of being married to the wrong man was any better than being a pariah. She didn’t know Harry well enough to make any judgments about his character. And her family was emphatically not in favor of him.

“My companion doesn’t like you,” she continued, “and my sister Amelia says she doesn’t know you well enough to decide, but she’s inclined not to like you.”

“What about Beatrix?” Harry asked, the sun striking glimmers in his dark hair as he looked down at her.

“She likes you. But then, she likes lizards and snakes.”

“What about you?”

“I can’t abide lizards or snakes.”

A smile touched his lips. “Let’s not fence today, Poppy. You know what I’m asking.”

She responded with an unsteady nod.

It had been a hellish night. She had talked and cried and argued with her family until the early hours of the morning, and then she’d found it nearly impossible to sleep. And then more arguing and conversation this morning, until her chest was a cauldron of roiling emotions.

Her safe, familiar world had been turned upside down, and the peace of the garden was an unspeakable relief. Strangely, it made her feel better to be in Harry Rutledge’s presence, even though he was partially responsible for the mess she was in. He was calm and self-assured, and there was something in his manner, sympathy woven with pragmatism, that soothed her.

They paused in a long arbor draped in sheets of roses. It was a tunnel of pink and white blossoms. Beatrix wandered along a nearby hedgerow. Poppy had insisted on taking her in lieu of Miss Marks or Amelia, both of whom would have made it impossible for her to have even marginal privacy with Harry.

“I like you,” Poppy admitted bashfully. “But that’s not enough to build a marriage on, is it?”

“It’s more than many people start with.” Harry studied her. “I’m sure your family has talked to you.”

“At length,” Poppy said. Her family had framed the prospect of marriage with Harry Rutledge in such dire terms that she had already decided to refuse him. She twisted her mouth in an apologetic grimace. “And after hearing what they had to say, I’m sorry to tell you that I—”

“Wait. Before you make a decision, I’d like to hear what you have to say. What your feelings are.”

Well. That was a change. Poppy blinked in disconcertion as she reflected that her family and Miss Marks, well intentioned as they had been, had told her what they thought she should do. Her own thoughts and feelings hadn’t received much attention.

“Well . . . you’re a stranger,” she said. “And I don’t think I should make a decision about my future when I’m in love with Mr. Bayning.”

“You still have hopes of marrying him?”

“Oh, no. All possibility of that is gone. But the feelings are still there, and until enough time passes for me to forget him, I don’t trust my own judgment.”

“That’s very sensible of you. Except that some decisions can’t be put off. And I’m afraid this is one of them.” Harry paused before asking gently, “If you go back to Hampshire under the cloud of scandal, you know what to expect, don’t you?”

“Yes. There will be . . . unpleasantness, to say the least.” It was a mild word for the disdain, pity and scorn she would receive as a fallen woman. And worse, it might ruin Beatrix’s chances of marrying well. “And my family won’t be able to shield me from it,” she added dully.

“But I could,” Harry said, reaching for the braided coil at the top of her head, using a fingertip to nudge an anchoring pin further into place. “I could if you marry me. Otherwise, I’m powerless to do anything for you. And no matter how anyone else advises you, Poppy, you’re the one who will bear the brunt of the scandal.”

Poppy tried, but couldn’t quite manage, a weary smile. “So much for my dreams of a quiet, ordinary life. My choice is either to live as a social outcast or as the wife of a hotelier.”

“Is the latter choice so unappealing?”

“It’s not what I’ve always hoped for,” she said frankly.

Harry absorbed that, considered it, while reaching out to skim his fingers over clusters of pink roses. “It wouldn’t be a peaceful existence in a country cottage,” he acknowledged. “We would live at the hotel most of the year. But there are times we could go to the country. If you want a house in Hampshire as a wedding present, it’s yours. And a carriage of your own, and a team of four at your disposal.”

Exactly what they said he’d do, Poppy thought, and sent him a wry glance. “Are you trying to bribe me, Harry?”

“Yes. Is it working?”

His hopeful tone made her smile. “No, although it was a very good effort.” Hearing the rustling of foliage, Poppy called out, “Beatrix, are you there?”

“Two rows away,” came her sister’s cheerful reply. “Medusa found some worms!”

“Lovely.”

Harry gave Poppy a bemused glance. “Who . . . or should I say what . . . is Medusa?”

“Hedgehog,” she replied. “Medusa’s getting a bit plump, and Beatrix is exercising her.”

To Harry’s credit, he remained composed as he remarked, “You know, I pay my staff a fortune to keep those out of the garden.”

“Oh, have no fear. Medusa is merely a guest hedgehog. She would never run away from Beatrix.”

“Guest hedgehog,” Harry repeated, a smile working across his mouth. He paced a few impatient steps before turning to face her. A new urgency filtered through his voice. “Poppy. Tell me what your worries are, and I’ll try to answer them. There must be some terms we can come to.”

“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 was insanely flattering to have a man like Harry Rutledge pursuing her, especially after the hurt inflicted by Michael Bayning. Poppy flushed with cheek-stinging pleasure, as if she’d been lying too long in the sun. She found herself thinking, Perhaps I’ll consider it, just for a moment, in a purely hypothetical sense. Harry Rutledge and me . . .

“I have questions,” she said.

“Ask away.”

Poppy decided to be blunt. “Are you dangerous? Everyone says you are.”

“To you? No.”

“To others?”

Harry shrugged innocently. “I’m a hotelier. How dangerous could I be?”

Poppy gave him a dubious glance, not at all deceived. “I may be gullible, Harry, but I’m not brainless. You know the rumors . . . you’re well aware of your reputation. Are you as unscrupulous as you’re made out to be?”

Harry was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on a distant cluster of blossoms. The sun threw its light into the filter of branches, scattering leaf shadows over the pair in the arbor.

Eventually he lifted his head and looked at her directly, his eyes greener than the sunstruck rose leaves. “I’m not a gentleman,” he said. “Not by birth, and not by character. Very few men can afford to be honorable while trying to make a success of themselves. I don’t lie, but I rarely tell everything I know. I’m not a religious man, nor a spiritual one. I act in my own interests, and I make no secret of it. However, I always keep my side of a bargain, I don’t cheat, and I pay my debts.”

Pausing, Harry fished in his coat pocket, pulled out a penknife, and reached up to cut a rose in full bloom. After neatly severing the stem, he occupied himself with stripping the thorns with the sharp little blade. “I would never use physical force against a woman, or anyone weaker than myself. I don’t smoke, take snuff, or chew tobacco. I always hold my liquor. I don’t sleep well. And I can make a clock from scratch.” Removing the last thorn, he handed the rose to her, and slipped the knife back into his pocket.

Poppy concentrated on the satiny pink rose, running her fingers along the top edges of the petals.

“My full name is Jay Harry Rutledge,” she heard him say. “My mother is the only one who ever called me Jay, which is why I don’t like it. She left my father and me when I was very young. I never saw her again.”

Poppy looked at him with wide eyes, understanding that this was a sensitive subject he rarely, if ever, discussed. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, although she kept her tone carefully devoid of pity.

He shrugged as if it was of no importance. “It was a long time ago. I barely remember her.”

“Why did you come to England?”

Another pause. “I wanted to have a go at the hotel business. And whether I was a success or failure, I wanted to be far away from my father.”

Poppy could only guess at the wealth of information buried beneath the spare words. “That’s not the entire story,” she said rather than asked.

The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “No.”

She looked down at the rose again, feeling her cheeks color. “Do you . . . would you . . . want children?”

“Yes. Hopefully more than one. I didn’t like being an only child.”

“Would you want to raise them at the hotel?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think it a suitable environment?”

“They would have the best of everything. Education. Travel. Lessons in anything that interested them.”

Poppy tried to imagine bringing up children in a hotel. Could such a place ever feel like home? Cam had once told her that the Rom believed the entire world was their home. As long as you were with your family, you were home. She looked at Harry, wondering what it would be like to live intimately with him. He seemed so self-contained and invulnerable. It was hard to think of him doing ordinary things such as shaving, or having his hair trimmed, or staying in bed with a head cold.

“Would you keep your wedding vows?” she asked.

Harry held her gaze. “I wouldn’t make them otherwise.”

Poppy decided that her family’s worries about letting her talk to Harry had been entirely justified. Because he was so persuasive, and appealing, that she was beginning to consider the idea of marrying him, and seriously weigh the decision.

Fairy-tale dreams had to be set aside if she was to embark on marriage with a man she didn’t love and hardly knew. But adults had to take responsibility for their actions. And then it occurred to Poppy that she was not the only one taking a risk. There was no guarantee for Harry that he would end up with the kind of wife he needed.

“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.”

Poppy couldn’t prevent a bemused laugh. “Do you make all your decisions so impulsively?”

“Not usually. But I know when to trust my instincts.”

It seemed Harry was about to add something else when he saw a movement on the ground from the periphery of his vision. Following his gaze, Poppy saw Medusa pushing her way through the rose arbor, waddling innocently across the path. The little brown and white hedgehog looked like a walking scrub brush. To Poppy’s surprise, Harry lowered to his haunches to retrieve the creature.

“Don’t touch her,” Poppy warned. “She’ll roll into a ball and sink her quills into you.”

But Harry settled his hands on the ground, palms up, on either side of the inquisitive hedgehog. “Hello, Medusa.” Gently he worked his hands beneath her. “Sorry to interrupt your exercise. But believe me, you don’t want to run into any of my gardeners.”

Poppy watched incredulously as Medusa relaxed and settled willingly into the warm masculine hands. Her spines flattened, and she let him lift and turn her so she was tummy upward. Harry stroked the soft white fur of her underbelly while Medusa’s delicate snout lifted and she regarded him with her perpetual smile.

“I’ve never seen anyone except Beatrix handle her like that,” Poppy said, standing beside him. “You have experience with hedgehogs?”

“No.” He slanted a smile at her. “But I have some experience with prickly females.”

“Excuse me,” Beatrix’s voice interrupted them, and she came into the tunnel of roses. She was disheveled, bits of leaves clinging to her dress, her hair straggling over her face. “I seem to have lost track of . . . oh, there you are, Medusa!” She broke into a grin as she saw Harry cradling the hedgehog in his hands. “Always trust a man who can handle a hedgehog, that’s what I always say.”

“Do you?” Poppy asked dryly. “I’ve never heard you say that.”

“I only say it to Medusa.”