just so. “I believe it would be a good time to make another round of the ship.”
“Good thinking.” Poppy took a breath and, not getting nearly enough air in the blasted torture chamber of a dress, took another. “I wish I could go with you.”
Her palm still held the memory of Win, the weight and feel of him. Admittedly, she had played rather dirty. But the man knew precisely how to drive her to madness. Which both vexed her and secretly thrilled her. Regardless, she wasn’t keen on coming face to face with him just now. He had to be… smarting.
Hands hovering around her middle, she took a light breath and glanced back down at Mary. “You will be careful.”
Mary rose in an effortless glide. “Of course. I intend to roam in the astral plane.” Which meant her body would be tucked safely in her room as her spirit slipped into all sorts of places Poppy could not go. Mary reached for Poppy’s evening fan, a confection of white lace, blush pink satin, and white painted cast iron supports that could crack a bone with one good whack. A clever little weapon, as most males viewed a lady’s evening fan as frippery. Their mistake. Mary turned back, and the lamplight shone on her slim upper arm. A scratch marred her skin, not a gash, but deep enough to have drawn blood.
Poppy moved to touch it, but stopped when Mary flinched and averted her eyes. “What happened?”
Looking away, she fiddled with Poppy’s evening gloves. “I lost my balance and had a run-in with a call box.”
She looked so thoroughly disgruntled that Poppy almost smiled. “Yes, well, call boxes have been known to be a nuisance now and then.”
Mary’s cheek twitched as if she were fighting a smile, or a frown, as she stepped back and looked over Poppy with a critical eye. Poppy refused to squirm but stood like the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing, hoping that she’d pass muster.
Mary smiled with satisfaction. “More than enough to make Mr. Lane remember.”
Poppy expelled a nervous laugh. “I do not believe Mr. Lane has a faulty memory.” No, it worked all too well.
Mary shook her head slowly. “He is suffering. Anyone can see it.” Her grin was cheeky then. “I’d wager that he will suffer a bit more before the night is out.”
Poppy might have answered but Winston walked in. How he always knew to appear the precise moment she was ready was a mystery. One that she put aside in favor of looking at her husband. Fitted out in crisp white-and-black evening kit that outlined his lean frame, he stood tall and just a bit defiant in the center of the room. His shaggy hair had been tamed and swept back from his strong face. And while she was sure there were those who would stare at his scars and not the man beneath, all she saw was a man who’d been to hell and back, and was tougher for it. Like steel wrought and forged, he’d transformed into something more than before.
Soulful eyes of blue-grey travelled over her, taking in her elaborate coiffure and evening gown with one glance. Not a glimmer of appreciation or emotion in that look. His voice was as crisp as his suit. “Shall we?”
Suffering, was he? Hardly. Poppy stiffened her spine. “Of course.”
Chapter Nine
Pink. She was wearing blasted pink. Poppy never wore pink. Never wore much of any color other than brown or grey. He hadn’t cared either way; he never really looked at her clothes, just her. But now. Now, she had to wear pink. Win stared down at his plate, at the pale slab of whiting fish swimming in cream sauce, and tried not to think of pink. He and Poppy had not exchanged more than a few words since their “chat” earlier, both of them clearly still angry, and his cods still egregiously sore. Which ought to have been enough to put him off lustful thoughts for a good while. But no, his baser self simply flew past that unpleasantness and went straight to the fact that Poppy had held him in her hand. Stroked him. And that it had been three months since he’d tupped his wife. Suddenly, it was imperative that he do so. Which was about when logic returned to tell him he hadn’t a snowflake’s chance in hell.
Poppy moved beside him, a slight adjustment of her seat, and he heard the rustle of that satin. Undulating yards and folds