Poppy by M.C. Beaton Page B

but nervous of the duke’s cold scrutiny.
    Fortunately for Lady Mary, Freda was seething. She guessed the duchess was responsible for the glowing ladylike image that was Poppy, and she burned with jealousy. She wanted more than anything to marry Hugo, and she felt his rejection of her was caused by his mother’s displeasure.
    “You look very fine in your borrowed plumes, Poppy,” said Freda with a thin smile.
    “Mrs. Plummett,” corrected Poppy gently.
    Freda’s penciled eyebrows shot into her hairline. “Indeed,” she murmured. “We learn quickly. But then we can’t all be actresses. Do you miss the theater life?”
    Poppy opened her mouth to reply, caught the duke’s warning look, realized she was being baited, and turned to Annabelle. “I hear you are a fine horsewoman,” said Poppy. “Perhaps you might come to the stables with me this afternoon and tell me what you think of my progress.”
    Annabelle turned red with pleasure. “Love to,” she said gruffly.
    “Answer Mrs. von Dierksen’s question, girl,” snapped Lady Mary. “She asked you if you missed that theater life.”
    “That is very kind of you,” said Poppy, ennunciating each word carefully. “You probably started riding when you were very small.”
    Annabelle Cummings’s otter eyes shone with a film of sentimental tears as she remembered her first mount. “Oh, I had such a beautiful pony when I was a little girl. Would you like to hear about him?”
    “Very much,” said Poppy, smiling into her eyes.
    “Mrs. Plummett! I insist!” barked Lady Mary.
    But apparently Annabelle had become deaf to Lady Mary as well. The opportunity to enthuse about her childhood was hardly ever given to her. In a tumbled rush of “rippings” and “jollys,” she poured out her love for her first pony, Buttercup. It went on in an uninterrupted spate for quite half an hour while Poppy’s flattering attention never wavered. Poppy had found a friend for life. Not even Ian had paid poor Annabelle so much attention before.
    Freda eyed the table coldly. Lady Mary was furious, and Lady Bryson, Sir Bartholomew’s upholstered wife, was looking sour. But Poppy had the amused and indulgent approval of the rest of the table, with perhaps the exception of Lord Archibald, who was intent on his food.
    The duchess was beaming at her pupil, and the duke was looking amused. Sir Bartholomew was watching Poppy with a silly, avuncular smile, and Ian Barchester was studying the rise and fall of lace on Poppy’s bosom with single-minded interest, which verged on the vulgar. Freddie had resigned himself to a sober day, and was remembering the pleasures of the night as he gazed fondly at his wife, a doting look on his face.
    Nevertheless Freda waited until Annabelle eventually ran dry, and she moved back to the attack quietly. “This life must seem very grand to you,
Mrs. Plummett
, after Cutler’s Fields. Not quite the most salubrious part of London, you must admit.”
    Poppy felt her temper rising dangerously, but while Freda was speaking Annabelle had been racking her simple brain for some way to regain the attention of this newfound friend. Then she remembered some gossip about Poppy being concerned for the welfare of her little sisters.
    “Your sisters are still there,” said Annabelle. “It must be awful for them.” This was said with such sincerity and warmth that it quite took the sting out of Freda’s words.
    “Yes,” said Poppy. “But Freddie and I are going to have a little house with a garden. Just think! A garden!”
    “Dear me,” murmured Freda. “Are you going to have roses round the door as well?”
    “Yes,” said Poppy simply. “Masses of them.”
    “How jolly,” said Annabelle, this vision conjuring up several romantic pictures in her mind. “Can I come on a visit?”
    “Any time you like,” said Poppy with such a charming smile that the duke blinked.
    “I’m good with little ones,” said Annabelle seriously. “Not much good with