“It’s all right,” she whispered to his chest.
He put her from him, just enough so he could look down in her face and said, “No, it’s not all right.”
Gill was sending the butler and the footmen scurrying in all directions. Then he whisked himself away into the library.
“I knew what she would do,” Poppy told him.
“You knew?”
“My mother has a temper. I knew that if she were pressed, she would strike me. She’s never been able to resist it in moments of greatest fury. I said something that made her furious.”
“I’m going to kill her.” Fletch’s face had utterly transformed. He didn’t look pretty, as her mother called him, now. He looked violent, like flame and gunpowder mixed, like a man who would take on a mob with his bare fists.
“No,” Poppy said, smiling at him although the motion made her wince as her cheek was starting to swell. “I caused it to happen, Fletch.”
“That’s absurd!”
“I’ve thought about it quite a bit in the past few months. I decided that I would be her daughter only if she never struck me again. Until I went to Jemma’s house, you see, I never had a chance to think about it.”
“How could you not tell me!” His voice was tight with rage. But not at her.
“Oh, she hasn’t struck me since our marriage began,” Jemma said. “And not for a considerable time before that. I’d become very good at appeasing her, you see. As long I had behaved well—”
“By marrying a duke.” His hands fell from her shoulders.
She nodded. “True. I married a duke. But I really thought I was in love with you, Fletch.”
“I can hardly believe that you were thinking clearly on the subject.”
“Perhaps not.”
Something came between them, the cold ugly truth of it. And still her mother’s grating sobs echoed through the door beside them.
“Your mother must leave my house,” Fletch said, and the level of barely controlled violence in his voice made Poppy shiver.
“She will. I humiliated her, you see. And I told her she had to leave. I’ve never given her instructions before.”
“I’ll see to it. I suppose—I suppose you don’t wish to stay?” And without giving her a chance to answer. “Why would you?” He lifted his head and bellowed, “Quince!”
“Your Grace,” the butler said, popping back out of the green baize door with an alacrity that suggested his ear had been pasted to the door.
“My coach waits outside. Her Grace will return to the Duchess of Beaumont’s house. And for God’s sake, could you send someone in there to stop that caterwauling?” He jerked his head toward the drawing room.
Poppy swallowed. “I would think that Mother will stay two or three days, just enough to show me that my command was not important. She holds a soirée tomorrow, and then she will leave shortly after that. I know her quite well, you see.”
“So do I,” Fletch said grimly. “Go home, Poppy. I am—” for a moment the rage dropped from his face and he looked starkly anguished. “I am just so damned sorry that my house wasn’t a safe place for you.”
“It hasn’t always been like this, Fletch. You are seeing my mother at her very worst.”
His mouth tightened again. “I don’t wish to see her again in any form, ever, Poppy. Is that all right with you?”
Guilt almost sapped her strength, but then she said, “Yes.” And then, “Yes.” It helped to say it twice. To live her own life, to cut free the puppet strings.
She turned and allowed the butler to wrap her in her pelisse and then walked to the carriage.