A week later, Poppy was in London.
The muddy water of the Thames was a poor substitute for the frothy waves of the bay, and the city’s skyline couldn’t compare to Bellehaven’s towering cliffs. But there was much to love about London, too.
She savored the smell of roasted chestnuts and the colorful storefronts along Bond Street. She soaked in the sounds of hooves clopping on cobblestone and newspaper boys shouting on the street corners. The whole city seemed to crackle with energy and sparkle with possibilities.
Which may have been true, in large part, because Keane was there, too.
That afternoon, he’d picked her up from Hazel and Blade’s elegant town house in Mayfair, helped her into his curricle, and whisked her away for a drive in Hyde Park. They talked about the plans for her father’s cottage and for the house they’d build in Bellehaven. She told him about the annual cricket match on the beach, and he shared updates about his meetings with tenants and his steward.
Best of all, they talked about their future.
Hazel had warned her she’d be on display. That she should expect curious stares and gossipy whispers.
She was correct, of course. But as long as Keane was close, Poppy didn’t mind.
Indeed, she found herself thoroughly distracted by the flex of his arm muscles as he worked the reins. The subtle twitch of his biceps as he maneuvered the curricle around a bend. The sure grasp of his long fingers on the leather straps.
“What do you think of the view?”
She blinked guiltily and snapped her gaze to his. “Pardon?”
His deep chuckle vibrated through her, making her insides shimmer. “How do you like the Serpentine? The swans?”
“Lovely.” Her voice was a little breathless to her own ears.
He leaned an inch closer. “Have I mentioned how beautiful you look today?”
She swallowed and pressed her knees together in a futile attempt to stop the pulsing in her core. “You did. In Hazel and Blade’s foyer.”
His gaze flicked over her face and lingered on the column of her neck. She didn’t have to be a reader of minds to know that he was thinking of kissing her. “I miss you,” he said gruffly.
If they hadn’t been rolling past elegant carriages full of fashionable people, she would have made a wicked suggestion. Something along the lines of parking the curricle behind a hedge, removing their clothes, and becoming intimately reacquainted. Instead, she attempted a serene smile. “I miss you, too.”
“Times like these I almost wish we had eloped,” he grumbled, shifting in his seat.
“Almost?” Gretna Green had much to recommend it at the moment.
“Mmm.” He shot her a smoldering look that was half depraved duke, half fallen archangel. “A few weeks isn’t long to wait for forever.”
An indisputably romantic sentiment, and yet she hoped with every fiber of her being that they wouldn’t have to wait weeks. She’d make it her personal mission to ensure that they did not.
“You know, Your Grace,” she said, deliberately breezy, “I fear I’ve had a bit too much sun. Maybe you should return me to Bladenton House … and see if you can find some way to revive me.”
“I assume you’re referring to a cool cloth and a spot of tea?”
She narrowed her eyes and twirled the long curl skimming her neck. “I was hoping you’d employ more creativity.”
He turned the curricle around with impressive alacrity and leaned close to her ear. “When it comes to pleasing you, Poppy Summers, my creativity knows no bounds. I am endlessly inspired. Michelangelo and da Vinci,” he scoffed, “they have nothing on me.”
Poppy picked up the fan that Hazel had insisted she bring and waved it vigorously for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with the afternoon sun. Perhaps a tiny part of her had worried that she and Keane would be different in London. That the magic of their relationship was inextricably wrapped up in oceanside breezes and moonlit coves.
As it turned out, they could make magic wherever they were.
Her gaze lingered on his handsome face. The scar on his temple was a poignant reminder of how the stars had aligned to bring them together. She had to pinch herself so she wouldn’t smile too broadly as they left the green lawns of the park and ventured toward the elegant streets of Mayfair.
The neighborhood seemed like something out of a painting. Stately stone and brick houses lined wide cobblestone roads. Ladies and gentlemen chatted as they strolled along the pavement, waving at passersby. Maids and footmen bustled about, carrying baskets and balancing towers of packages. Barking pups ran circles around giggling children.
This was where she and Keane would spend much of their time, and it didn’t seem so terrible. Perhaps one day, she’d be pushing a pram right down the—
Oh God.
“Stop,” she heard herself say. “Please, stop.”
Keane pulled on the reins, brought the curricle to a halt, and turned to her, his face full of concern. “What’s wrong?”
Her mouth refused to form the words, so she swallowed and lifted her eyes to the house directly across from them. The white stone façade was covered by a thick blanket of ivy, and the glossy black door boasted a shiny brass knocker that winked in the sunlight.
No one walking by would notice anything sinister about the front steps, and yet, the mere sight of them swept Poppy’s legs out from under her. Made her shiver despite the warmth of the day.
Keane reached for her hand and squeezed. Then, after a few heartbeats, “Your grandparents’ house?”
She nodded. But she didn’t think of it that way. True grandparents wouldn’t have left her outside all night, huddled in the rain, pretending she wasn’t their own flesh and blood.
No, the town house wasn’t a home but rather the cold, lonely place where she’d been shut out while her mother lay dying. It was the place where she’d had her eyes opened wide to how cruel people could be. And it was the place where she’d transformed from a happy, carefree girl to a cynical, wary young woman.
“Lord and Lady Whitmore live here,” Keane said, his voice low and lethal. “Shall we pay them a visit?”
Her stomach clenched. “You know them?”
“Not well. But I’d welcome the chance to confront them—to call them to account for their actions.”
“It was so long ago.” Poppy exhaled slowly. “They probably don’t even remember that night.”
The muscle in his jaw twitched. “Then they’re even more depraved than I imagined. Besides, it wasn’t simply one night. They’ve denied your existence since the day you were born.”
“Yes. But I’d rather not give them the satisfaction of thinking their rejection matters one whit to me.”
“I understand,” Keane said grudgingly. “And I’ll respect your wishes, of course. But all you have to do is say the word, and I’ll see that their heartlessness is exposed. A few whispers in the right ears would ensure they’re barred from polite society.”
Poppy managed a smile. “I love that you want to seek justice on my behalf. But vengeance isn’t going to erase the pain they caused my mother. It won’t heal the ache that night left in my chest.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
She nodded. “Take me home, Keane. Just take me home.”