His shoulders tightened. “I was under the impression that the things we were not brought us together as much as the things we were.”
Typical Winston logic. Her face heated further. He moved then, in his quick, economical way, and sat up fully in the chair once more. “I’ve a lead to follow in London. The Komtesse Krogstad. I’ve never heard of her, but she apparently knew the demon as Lord Isley sixteen years ago.”
“I know her,” Poppy said with a lurch. “She lives in Chelsea.”
His steady blue-grey eyes held hers. “How do you know her?” Which translated to: When during our marriage were you consorting with komtesses? And why?
She refused to apologize. “She’s a demimondaine and a member of the Aesthetic movement, which means she interacts with a great deal of, shall we say, eccentrics. It puts her in a key position to notice certain supernatural activities.” Poppy paused as the waiter returned and set down a basket of fresh baked bread and two plates. Her mouth actually watered at the scent, and she tucked into a sweet bun, chewing vigorously before swallowing it down with another sip of coffee. Heaven. “The Komtesse has been an SOS informant for years.”
“Mmm.” Win selected a roll and tore off a chunk before popping it in his mouth. Unlike her, his manners remained impeccable. Well, she thought irritably, he wasn’t beset by sudden bouts of insatiable hunger. She took another large bite of the sweet bread.
“Questioning her,” he said, “ought to go a bit more smoothly in that case.”
Poppy forced herself to ignore the bread. “Win, I want to help you.”
He stared back with those eyes that saw everything and gave nothing away unless he let them. “I want you to help me,” he said softly, and her insides went warm.
“Good.” She nodded and snuck just one more bite of the roll.
He looked like he might say more so she cut him off, not wanting to hear him discuss last night before she could. “We shall solve this case, eradicate this bloody bargain, capture Isley, and then…”
“And then,” he prompted, his voice even, almost dull, his expression going hard once again. “What then, Poppy?”
Her heart pounded. Did he dare make her ask? Beg for them to be a family? Not like this. Her hand clenched the smooth curve of the coffee cup. “And then this business shall be over, of course.”
Something snuffed in his eyes, like a flame blown out, and again came the feeling of failing a test that he’d laid out for her. It made her want to throw the cup across the room, just to see it smash. She calmly returned his gaze.
“Right,” he said. But when she made to rise, his hand snaked out and clamped around her wrist, holding her still. “Until then, let me correct certain misapprehensions. We may no longer live as husband and wife, but there is more than just you and me to consider. There is our child. We are in this together now.” His grip tightened. “Together, Boadicea. If you fall, I will catch you. I do not expect you to trust me on that. Not yet.” His eyes were hard, and he stared her down, but his touch suddenly became unbearably gentle and secure. “But I shall work at every moment to make you believe it.”
Disembarking went smoothly. The train ride from Southampton to London was made in relative silence. It wasn’t until they stood on the platform at Victoria Station and faced each other over their stacked travel trunks that the reality of returning home fell upon them. Win’s deep-set eyes watched her, letting the moment grow between them, and she saw his hesitation, as if he did not want to be the one to state the obvious—that he would now go back to whatever rooms he’d let.
Irritatingly, the backs of Poppy’s eyes began to burn and prickle. She’d grown used to him again. When he’d left, it had taken weeks to finally get a full night’s rest. A hard-earned struggle now destroyed by two days of being with him once again. Damn it all.
This man could hurt her. More than anyone on earth. For she had exposed her heart to him in all its pink, fleshy glory. He knew its pathways and its weaknesses. Where she would bleed the most if he chose to slice into her. In truth, he’d already made the first cut, leaving her blood to run not hot but ice cold down the walls of her