Page 89 of All is Fair in Love
She wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear what else Francis had said that night. What other pain his words could inflict.
“I told Will I wanted to marry you. But that I wasn’t sure how to go about it. I mean…how we would make things work between us. You are an independent woman, Poppy. Someone who has had to rely on herself for much of her life. But marriage is a partnership. I’m just not sure if that is what you want.”
His words stung. They were honest, but the truth they held bit deep. Marriage was a union, two people working together and forging a future. United in purpose. Poppy had never had that sort of connection with anyone. She had no real experience of what a true partnership or marriage even looked like.
“Do you know what you want?” he asked.
She shrugged. The kind of union she had imagined she would have had with Jonathan had never been a partnership. They would have been two people at constant cross purposes. Both fighting for something they didn’t understand.
“I don’t know what I want. Can you accept that it is difficult for me to crave something which I have never known? I didn’t have a family growing up. Your understanding of marriage has likely been formed by the couples you have had in your life. I’ve had no such thing. No guidance which I could draw upon.”
A strong but gentle hand settled around her waist. Francis drew her closer. Poppy rested her good cheek on his chest, closing her eyes as he bent and placed a kiss on her forehead. “I know you probably think you don’t have much of an idea, but would you be open to letting me share my knowledge of family life with you? To showing you what we could be if we decided to make a future together?”
He still wanted her. Poppy hadn’t been expecting that. She had thought he was simply being kind. “What about the spice tender? You speak of us possibly sharing a future, but what will you do if I win the bid?” she asked.
He hummed softly to himself for a moment. A wry grin crept to Poppy’s lips. She could just imagine Francis still thinking himself the odds-on favorite to win.
She pulled out of his embrace. “I know you think it impossible, but if I did win, it wouldn’t be the first time I have beaten a man in a man’s game. You have to take things seriously. We have no future if you cannot deal with me in business.”
It was hard enough to negotiate contract terms at the best of times, but this was no ordinary haggling over conditions and profits. Any decision that they made would have lifelong repercussions. Marriage would take much of Poppy’s power out of her direct control and place it in the hands of her husband.
“When is your father arriving? I mean, when is he really planning to come to England? Because if you win the bid, then we cannot marry until he is here. My wife can’t be my main competitor.”
Hard and clear facts followed by a question she had long been avoiding. The only positive was that Francis was thinking along the same lines as Poppy. Of the nuts and bolts—the practicalities of them being man and wife.
When it came to the subject of Francis, Poppy’s private emotions toward him were a sticky hot mess of want and need. A lifetime of hoping that someone might come to care for her lay unfulfilled.
Don’t get your hopes up. He cares for you—that is obvious. It’s more than you thought you would ever have.
If he respected her, listened to what she had to say, she should be grateful. Respect began with telling one another the truth.
“I don’t know when my father is coming. He said he would be sailing in June, which means he could be here next December. But when it comes to George Basden and his arrivals, he tends to disappoint,” she said.
Departures were even more heartbreaking. How many mornings had she woken in a strange city only to find a note from her father informing her that he had sailed with the morning tide, and that he would be back soon? Soon could be weeks, months, and in the case of Spain, two years.
With that thought burning in her mind, Poppy climbed out of Francis’s bed. Her right foot hit the floor, sending a protest of pain up her leg. “Ow,” she cried.
Francis was at her side in an instant. “Where does it hurt? How about you get back to bed and rest?”
She waved him away. All this attention and fussing was so utterly foreign to Poppy. Sailing was a dangerous endeavor; bruises and aches were just a part of the sailor’s life.
“Please, Francis, you are smothering me. I am fine. The bruises will heal. You haven’t seen half the scars I have on my lower torso as a result of trips and falls.”
He let out a snort, and for a second, Poppy wasn’t sure if it was in frustration or if it was in response to the mention of her body. Of the fact that he planned to see all of her naked at some point.
She didn’t want to go back to bed. What she needed more than anything was a hot bath and to soak her tired muscles. “I’m going to go home and build up the fire. After I have warmed up some water, I am going to pour it into the copper tub and have a wash. I might even splash a drop or two of the bath oils you bought me.”
Everything else—her father, the spice tender, and most especially, the subject of marriage—could wait. Poppy wanted hot water and then sleep.
Francis grabbed his coat and slipped his feet into a pair of gentleman’s slippers. After that, he headed to the fire.
He retrieved the large fireside kettle and carried it over to her. As he set it down, Poppy frowned. “It’s a bit late to be making tea, don’t you think?”
“I am not making tea; I am bringing this kettle with us. It’s full of hot water—perfect for your bath. And don’t bother trying to say anything about my not coming to help. Until either your father arrives, or you and I are wed, you should consider yourself under my self-appointed personal protection.”
She reached for his coat sleeve. “You seem a tad eager over my taking a bath, Mister Saunders. Have you been giving the prospect of seeing me naked while I soak in those special bath oils much considered thought?”
A bemused smile sat on his face. “More than I am prepared to admit.” He nodded toward her coat and boots. “Now get dressed, young lady; it’s raining outside. It might be a short walk to your front door, but I am not having you catch a cold. Come on.”
