“Where did these come from?” Poppy asked Harry when he returned to her room after a brief visit to the front offices.

“From the sweet shop.”

“No, these.” Poppy showed him the eating-chocolates. “No one can get them. The makers, Fellows and Son, have closed their shop while they move to a new location. The ladies at the philanthropic luncheon were talking about it.”

“I sent Valentine to the Fellows residence to ask them to make a special batch for you.” Harry smiled as he saw the paper twists scattered across the counterpane. “I see you’ve sampled them.”

“Have one,” Poppy said generously.

Harry shook his head. “I don’t like sweets.” But he bent down obligingly as she gestured for him to come closer. She reached out to him, her fingers catching the knot of his necktie.

Harry’s smile faded as Poppy exerted gentle tension, drawing him down. He was suspended over her, an impending weight of muscle and masculine drive. As her sugared breath blew against his lips, she sensed the deep tremor within him. And she was aware of a new equilibrium between them, a balance of will and curiosity. Harry held still, letting her do as she wished.

She tugged him closer until her mouth brushed his. The contact was brief but vital, striking a glow of heat.

Poppy released him carefully, and Harry drew back.

“You won’t kiss me for diamonds,” he said, his voice slightly raspy, “but you will for chocolates?”

Poppy nodded.

As Harry turned his face away, she saw his cheek tauten with a smile. “I’ll put in a daily order, then.”

Chapter Seventeen

Accustomed as Harry was to arranging everyone’s schedule, he seemed to take it for granted that Poppy would allow him to do the same for her. When she told him that she preferred to make her own decisions about planning her days, Harry had countered that if she insisted on socializing with the hotel employees, he would find better uses for her time.

“I like to spend time with them,” Poppy protested. “I can’t treat everyone who lives and works here as nothing more than cogs in a machine.”

“The hotel has been run this way for years,” Harry said. “It’s not going to change. As I’ve told you before, you’ll create a management problem. From now on, no more visiting the kitchens. No more chats with the master gardener while he prunes the roses. No cups of tea with the housekeeper.”

Poppy frowned. “Does it ever occur to you that your employees are people with thoughts and feelings? Have you thought to ask Mrs. Pennywhistle if her hand injury has healed?”

Harry frowned. “Hand injury?”

“Yes, she accidentally closed her fingers in the door. And when was the last time Mr. Valentine went on holiday?”

Harry’s expression went blank.

“Three years,” Poppy said. “Even the housemaids go on holiday to see their families, or go to the country. But Mr. Valentine is so devoted to his job that he forgoes all his personal time. And you’ve probably never offered a word of praise or thanks for it.”

“I pay him a salary,” Harry said indignantly. “Why the devil are you so interested in the personal lives of the hotel staff?”

“Because I can’t live with people and see them day to day and not care about them.”

“Then you can bloody well start with me!”

“You want me to care about you?” Her incredulous tone seemed to exasperate him.

“I want you to behave like a wife.”

“Then stop trying to control me as you do everyone else. You’ve allowed me no choice in anything—not even the choice of whether or not to marry you in the first place!”

“And there’s the heart of the matter,” Harry said. “You’ll never stop trying to punish me for taking you away from Michael Bayning. Has it occurred to you that it wasn’t nearly as great a loss to him as it was to you?”

Poppy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“He’s found consolation from any number of women since the wedding. He’s fast becoming known as the biggest whoremonger in town.”

“I don’t believe you,” Poppy said, turning ashen. It wasn’t possible. She couldn’t conceive of Michael—her Michael—behaving in such a way.

“It’s all over London,” Harry said ruthlessly. “He drinks, gambles, and squanders money. And the devil knows how many bawdy-house diseases he’s caught by now. It might console you that the viscount is probably regretting his decision to forbid the match between you and his son. At this rate, Bayning won’t live long enough to inherit the title.”

“You’re lying.”

“Ask your brother. You should thank me. Because as much as you despise me, I’m a better bargain than Michael Bayning.”

“I should thank you?” Poppy asked thickly. “After what you’ve done to Michael?” A dazed smile crossed her lips, and she shook her head. She put her hands to her temples, as if to stave off an encroaching headache. “I need to see him. I must speak to him—” She broke off as he seized her arms in a harsh grip that was just short of painful.

“Try,” Harry said softly, “and you’ll both regret it.”

Shoving his hands away, Poppy stared at his hard features and thought, this is the man I’m married to.

Unable to endure one more minute of proximity to his wife, Harry left for the fencing club. He was going find someone, anyone, who wanted to practice, and he was going to fight until his muscles were sore and his frustration was spent. He was sick with need, half mad with it. But he didn’t want Poppy to accept him out of duty. He wanted her willing. He wanted her warm and welcoming, the way she would have been with Michael Bayning. Harry would be damned if he’d take anything less.

There had never been a woman he’d wanted and hadn’t gotten, until now. Why did his skills fail him when it came to seducing his own wife? It was becoming clear that as his craving for Poppy increased, his ability to charm her was decreasing at a proportionate rate.

The one brief kiss she’d given him had been more pleasurable than entire nights Harry had spent with other women. He could try to ease his needs with someone else, but that wouldn’t begin to satisfy him. He wanted something that only Poppy seemed able to provide.

Harry spent two hours at the club, dueling at lightning speed, until the fencing master had flatly refused to allow anymore. “That’s enough, Rutledge.”

“I’m not finished,” Harry said, tearing off his mask, his chest heaving with the force of his breaths.

“I say you are.” Approaching him, the fencing master said quietly, “You’re relying on brute force instead of using your head. Fencing requires precision and control, and this evening you’re lacking both.”

Offended, Harry schooled his features and said calmly, “Give me another chance. I’ll prove you wrong.”

The fencing master shook his head. “If I let you go on, there is every chance of an accident occurring. Go home, friend. Rest. You look tired.”

The hour was late by the time Harry returned to the hotel. Still clad in fencing whites, he went into the hotel through the back entrance. Before he could ascend the stairs to his apartments, he was met by Jake Valentine.

“Good evening, Mr. Rutledge. How was your fencing?”

“Not worth discussing,” Harry said shortly. His eyes narrowed as he saw the tension in his assistant’s manner. “Is there anything the matter, Valentine?”

“A maintenance issue, I’m afraid.”

“What is it?”

“The carpenter was repairing a section of flooring that happens to be located directly above Mrs. Rutledge’s room. You see, the last guest who stayed there complained of a creaking board, and so I—”

“Is my wife all right?” Harry interrupted.

“Oh, yes, sir. Beg pardon, I didn’t mean to worry you. Mrs. Rutledge is quite well. But unfortunately the carpenter struck a nail into a plumbing pipe, and there was a significant leak in the ceiling of Mrs. Rutledge’s room. We had to take out a section of the ceiling to reach the pipe and stop the flooding. The bed and carpet are ruined, I’m afraid. And the room is uninhabitable at present.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “How long until the repairs are done?”

“We estimate two to three days. The noise will undoubtedly be a problem for some of the guests.”

“Apologize on behalf of the hotel and cut their room rates.”

“Yes, sir.”

With annoyance, Harry realized that Poppy would have to stay in his bedroom. Which meant that he would have to find another place to sleep. “I’ll stay in a guest suite for the time being,” he said. “Which ones are empty?”

Valentine’s face was expressionless. “I’m afraid we’re at full occupancy tonight, sir.”

“There isn’t one room available? In this entire hotel?”

“No, sir.”

Harry scowled. “Set up a spare bed in my apartments, then.”

Now the valet looked apologetic. “I’ve already thought of that, sir. But we have no spare beds. Three have been requested and set up in guest suites, and the other two were loaned to Brown’s Hotel earlier in the week.”

“Why did we do that?” Harry demanded incredulously.

“You told me that if Mr. Brown ever asked a favor, I should oblige him.”

“I do too many damned favors for people!” Harry snapped.

“Yes, sir.”

Rapidly Harry considered his alternatives . . . he could check into another hotel, he could prevail on a friend to allow him to stay overnight . . . but as he glanced at Valentine’s implacable face, he knew how that would appear. And he’d go hang before he gave anyone reason to speculate he wasn’t sleeping with his own wife. With a mumbled curse, he brushed by the valet and headed up the private staircase, his overworked leg muscles aching in vicious protest.

The apartment was ominously silent. Was Poppy asleep? No . . . a lamp had been lit in his room. His heart began to thud heavily as he followed the soft spill of light through the hallway. Reaching the doorway of his room, he looked inside.

Poppy was in his bed, an open book in her lap.

Harry filled his gaze with her, taking in the demure white nightgown, the frills of lace on her sleeves, the rope of shiny braided hair trailing over one shoulder. Her cheeks were stained with a high flush. She looked soft and sweet and clean, her knees drawn up beneath the covers.

Violent desire surged through him. Harry was afraid to move, afraid he might actually leap on her with no thought given to her virginal sensibilities. Appalled by the extent of his own need, Harry fought to restrain it. He tore his gaze away and stared hard at the floor, willing himself back into control.

“My bedroom was damaged.” he heard Poppy say awkwardly. “The ceiling—”

“I heard.” His voice was low and rough.

“I’m so sorry to inconvenience you—”

“It’s not your fault.” Harry brought himself to look at her again. A mistake. She was so pretty, so vulnerable, her slender throat rippling with a visible swallow. He wanted to ravish her. His body felt thick and hot with arousal, a merciless pulse pounding all through him.

“Is there somewhere else you can sleep?” she asked with difficulty.

Harry shook his head. “The hotel is fully occupied,” he said gruffly.

She looked down at the book in her lap, remaining silent.

And Harry, who had never been less than perfectly articulate, grappled with words as if they were a wall of bricks tumbling over him. “Poppy . . . sooner or later . . . you’re going to have to let me . . .”

“I understand,” she murmured, her head bent.

Harry’s sanity began to dissolve in a rush of heat. He was going to take her, now, here. But as he started for her, he saw how tightly Poppy was gripping the book, the tips of her fingers white. She wouldn’t look at him.

She did not want him.

Why that mattered, he had no bloody idea.

But it did.

Bloody hell.

Somehow, with all his force of will, Harry mustered a cool tone. “Some other time, perhaps. I don’t have the patience to tutor you tonight.”

Leaving the bedroom, he went to the bathing room, to wash and douse himself with cold water. Repeatedly.

“Well?” Chef Broussard asked as Jake Valentine entered the kitchen the next morning.

Mrs. Pennywhistle and Chef Rupert, who were standing by the long table, looked at him expectantly.

“I told you it was a bad idea,” Jake said, glaring at the three of them. Sitting on a tall stool, he grabbed a warm croissant from a platter of pastries, and shoved half of it into his mouth.

“It didn’t work?” the housekeeper asked gingerly.

Jake shook his head, swallowing the croissant and gesturing for a cup of tea. Mrs. Pennywhistle poured a cup, dropped in a lump of sugar, and gave it to him.

“From what I could tell,” Jake growled, “Rutledge spent the night on the settee. I’ve never seen him in such a foul mood. He nearly took my head off when I brought him the managers’ reports.”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Pennywhistle murmured.

Broussard shook his head in disbelief. “What is the matter with you British?”

“He’s not British, he was born in America,” Jake snapped.

“Oh, yes,” Broussard said, recalling the indelicate fact. “Americans and romance. It’s like watching a bird try to fly with one wing.”

“What will we do now?” Chef Rupert asked in concern.

“Nothing,” Jake said. “Not only has our meddling not helped, it’s made the situation worse. They’re scarcely speaking to each other.”

Poppy went through the day in a state of gloom, unable to stop worrying about Michael, knowing there was nothing she could do for him. Although his unhappiness was not her fault—and given the same choices, she wouldn’t change anything she’d done—Poppy felt responsible all the same, as if by marrying Harry, she had assumed a portion of his guilt.

Except that Harry was incapable of feeling guilty about anything.

Poppy thought it would make things far less complicated if she could simply bring herself to hate Harry. But in spite of his innumerable flaws, something about him touched her, even now. His determined solitude . . . his refusal to make emotional connections to the people around him, or even to think of the hotel as his home . . . these things were alien to Poppy.