Page 84 of All is Fair in Love
“No, of course she doesn’t. And you didn’t help things by accusing her of lying.”
But she had lied to him. Kept her bid for the spice contract a closely guarded secret.
What else has she kept from me?
He went in search of a bottle of whisky, needing something to take the edge off his anger and disappointment. When he had left his brother’s house, Francis had been furious. Instead of talking to him and resolving any misunderstandings, Poppy had simply fled into the night. He had never been so embarrassed in all his life.
But storming into her home hadn’t been the wisest course of action. It had only served to further inflame the situation.
You came to her door full of sound and fury. Of course, she fought back.
He was tempted to go back next door and confront Poppy once more. But she had demanded that he leave. And if he had learned anything from his short time with her, it was that when Poppy wanted to be left alone, you didn’t fight her.
It had all gone so horribly wrong.
The first glass of whisky took the chill off his bones, but as Francis reached for a second, he stopped himself. He wasn’t going to add to his troubles by drinking himself into a stupor. When he spoke to Poppy again, and he was determined that he would, it would be with a clear head.
Dropping his sodden jacket onto a chair, he reached for his cravat.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. Damp linen was nigh on impossible to handle. It took a good five minutes for him to finally work the knots of his neck cloth free. Shirt, boots, and trousers soon followed.
He would kill for a hot bath.
The familiar vision of a naked Poppy in her tub dropped into his mind, and Francis quietly swore. He had imagined it so many times, he had convinced himself it was real. After tonight, he feared he may well have lost any chance that he may have ever had of sharing her bath. Of sharing her life.
Francis rubbed himself dry with a towel, then put on fresh clothes. Outside, the storm continued unabated. Poppy was just a few short yards away, but in the dark and the rain, it seemed like she was on the other side of the ocean.
He stoked the fire, bringing the embers back to life. His big, comfortable bed beckoned, but the chance of getting sleep appeared all too remote. Emotions swirled in his brain.
Seated in a chair, Francis stared into the flames. He wished that his father was still in London. For the first time in a long time, he was in grave need of Charles’s counsel.
Like a schoolboy destined to keep repeating the same mistake, he had once more erred. Assumed that things were set in stone when in truth they were not.
He had accused Poppy of lying to him when he had been guilty of the same crime. The warehouse wasn’t his, and neither was she.
His hands scrubbed over his face, and he let out a tired sigh. “What will I do if she does win the contract? No. You fool. That is not what is important. Sod the contract. It doesn’t matter which of us wins it.”
Not even business was worth him losing Poppy over. Nothing was.
I’ll talk to her in the morning. A night apart will give us both a chance to calm down.
First thing tomorrow he would go, cap in hand, and apologize. Then, when she was ready to talk, Poppy and he would have an adult conversation about the tender and their future.
His eyelids grew heavy, and they fluttered closed. Francis woke a few minutes later with a start. “I must be more tired than I realized.”
There was no point in fighting sleep, and if his mind was well rested, then hopefully tomorrow he might be able to think more clearly. Settled thoughts would help to stop emotions from taking over. A rational conversation and considered outcomes were the best thing for them both.
“What was it that Jane Austen wrote? Ah, yes. Angry people are not always wise,” he muttered.
It was a hard lesson he was still finding hard to digest; his temper was often his own worst enemy. But if he was going to make headway with Poppy, it was something he had to get under control.
He climbed into bed and settled beneath the thick blankets. The mattress was soft and comfortable—the best that money could buy. Until tonight, Francis had always appreciated the generously sized cushion. Now it just seemed empty.
His bed lacked the soft, warm body of a woman. But not just any woman—the bright and chirpy Poppy was the only female he wanted sleeping beside him.
She was angry tonight, her behavior so unlike her normal ray-of-sunshine self. And it was all his fault. He had hurt her, and in doing so, had wiped the smile from her face.
Little wonder she has such trust issues when it comes to men. Males are constantly failing her. I might think I am better than him, but the truth is when it comes to Poppy, I am just as bad as Jonathan.
