The problem of Mavis stayed at the forefront of Nick’s thoughts for days. There had to be something he could do. He’d never been the sort to sit by and let life roll over him. He jammed his shovel into the heap of manure, compost, and dirt, feeling the heat and comfort of his muscles working, and frowned over the conundrum. The situation he was in reminded him of the stinking pile of muck in front of him. It was made up of the very worst things, but if he used it right, it would provide nourishment and make beautiful things grow. If he could work out how to turn his mistakes and his loyalty to his mother into a way to win Poppy for good, it would all be worthwhile.

“Cheer up,” Harry’s upbeat call shook Nick out of his thoughts. “It might never happen.”

“What?” Nick heaved a shovel of fertilizer into the wheelbarrow beside him, then planted his shovel and leaned on it, panting.

“It’s something Ginny likes to say.” Harry wheeled another barrow of fresh manure toward him. He dumped it into the pile, parked the wheelbarrow to the side, and strode over to Nick. As far as Nick was concerned, no man had the right to look as blissfully self-satisfied as Harry did.

“You two enjoyed your honeymoon, I see.” Nick sent his friend a teasing smirk—one he didn’t really feel—and went back to shoveling shit.

“We most certainly did,” Harry answered.

“Brighton was nice?” Nick asked.

“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

Nick sent him a flat look, only to find Harry grinning like a man who had spent a week being well and truly satisfied. It caused a strange pang of jealousy to burn in his gut. He and Harry had been equals in just about all things, up until recently. It was hard for him to see how he would get the happy ending Harry had at the rate things were going.

“Come on, man,” Harry went on with a chuckle. “I would have expected a lot more ribbing from you after a remark like mine.”

Nick shrugged and tossed another shovel of fertilizer into his wheelbarrow. “Guess I’m not in the mood for idle chit-chat.”

“Guess not,” Harry said, but his teasing grin was still in place. He crossed his arms, studying Nick intently as he tried to continue his work. “So rumor has it Mavis is coming back.”

Nick straightened, unsure whether to roll his eyes at Harry or sigh and admit defeat. “That’s what I hear.”

“Did she write to you to say she’s coming?”

Nick paused with his shovel in mid-air. “No, she didn’t. I heard it through downstairs gossip, and then from Mum when I was home on Sunday.” A sliver of hope hit him, and he emptied his shovel into his wheelbarrow, then leaned on it. “You’d think she’d write if she was coming back and wanted to pick up where she left off.”

Harry’s teasing smirk shifted to a more serious look of camaraderie. “Has she been writing much at all these last few years?”

Nick shrugged, staring at the corner of the castle without really seeing it. “Not much. Well, not to me. She writes to her mum, who talks to my mum all the time. But me?” He searched through his memory for the last time he got a letter from Mavis and what it had said. The only face that came to mind when he thought about the woman he loved was Poppy’s. “It’s been months, really.”

“Which, I’m sure, is fine by you.”

Nick shifted to stare at Harry. “And by that you mean….”

Harry chuckled, letting his arms drop and thumping Nick’s arm. “Leave playing coy to the women. I know how you feel about Poppy Miller.”

Nick started to frown, but there didn’t seem much point in hiding his feelings from his closest friend. He stabbed his shovel into the pile of fertilizer. “There’s no point in falling in love if I’m not free to do anything about it.”

Harry shook his head. “You’re not some high-born nob whose social reputation rests on honorably marrying a woman you haven’t seen for four years.”

“I saw her when she was home for Easter,” Nick contradicted him in a sullen voice, knowing that wasn’t Harry’s point. “Our families spent the holiday together. They spend every holiday together, now that Mum and the girls have moved out to Porthleven.”

“How did the two of you end up engaged anyhow?” Harry asked.

Nick sighed and stepped away from his work to the jug of water he’d set on a nearby bench earlier. He sank into the bench with a grunt and took a long drink of water. Harry ambled over and put his foot up on the edge of the bench.

“It happened how anything happens when you’re young, randy, and impatient.” Nick shrugged. “And, of course, our families are close. Mum and Mavis’s mum grew up together and stayed in touch, even after Mama married Papa. They used to joke about Mavis and I getting married someday when Mavis was a baby and I was in short pants. I still think Papa helped Mavis get a job here so we could be around each other all the time. After he died, with Mum in the state she was, how could I not ask Mavis to marry me?”

“Never underestimate the power of mothers who want their children to get married,” Harry chuckled.

Nick shrugged. “Mavis was pretty and biddable, so I didn’t fight it so much. I was used to having girls give me whatever I asked for.” He arched a brow when Harry snorted. “So were you,” he said, pointing at him. “But you know as well as I do that the girls who we kept company with back then were notoriously free with their favors. Mavis wasn’t, and since I was used to getting what I wanted, I figured proposing marriage was the way under her skirts.”

“And how far under her skirts did it get you?” Harry asked, his lips twitching with mirth as Nick writhed in discomfort.

“All the way,” Nick muttered. “Of course, she was moved to the London house about a month after that.”

“Did you know she was being sent there when you proposed?”

“No.”

“Did she?”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “What are you getting at?”

Harry shrugged and rocked back to stand on two feet. “Men aren’t the only ones who like a little poke now and then. Maybe Mavis wanted a tumble, but didn’t want to seem too eager. Maybe she wanted to please her mother by getting engaged to you as much as you wanted to make your mum happy.”

Nick let out a breath. “Could be. She certainly wasn’t a shy violet about things.” In fact, he’d been surprised by how bold she was. She could have taught the girls down by the docks in Penzance a thing or two.

“Did Mavis request to be sent to London back then or was she sent without knowing about it?” Harry asked on.

“I have no idea.” Nick took one last swig of water, then pushed himself to stand.

Harry followed him back to the pile of fertilizer. “For all we know, this whole mess about being engaged with honor and pleasing your family when you want to be free to marry someone else could just be a tempest in a teapot.”

“You think?” Nick glanced over his shoulder at Harry as he grabbed the shovel and took it back to the corner of the greenhouse nearby.

“I don’t see why not,” Harry said. “For all you know, Mavis might drop you like a hot potato the second she sets foot on Cornish soil. What could your families do then? You could be closer than you think to dropping down on one knee to propose to sweet Poppy. You, uh, haven’t already plucked that flower, have you?”

Harry was back to teasing, but his words cheered Nick all the same. “Of course not. Poppy isn’t that kind of girl.” He paused, sending Harry a guilty grin. “Not that I haven’t thought about it, mind you. Far more than I should,” he added in a mutter, walking to his wheelbarrow.

“There you go.” Harry nodded, moving to fetch his own wheelbarrow. “You could be closer to happiness than you think. All you have to do is wait for Mavis to get here and set you free.”

Nick nodded, calling, “Cheers,” to Harry as they both headed off to get more work done. Harry had given him new hope, but he wasn’t fool enough to think he was out of the woods yet.

Poppy’s plan was set. Not that she considered herself particularly good at planning. But she knew what she wanted, now more than ever. Lady Mariah and Miss Victoria had been encouraging. Ginny was excited for her. Mrs. Harmon approved. And with Nick’s sister returning to Starcross Castle, there would never be a better time for her to reach for her dream of finding where she truly belonged in life.

“I belong at Nick’s side, as his wife,” she reminded herself, checking her reflection in the small mirror beside the bureau in her room in the servant’s quarters. She’d washed her hair the night before and set it in rag curls. They’d been caught up under her mobcap all day as they finished drying, and now they rested around her shoulders in springy, brown loops. Granted, she would never win the blue ribbon for hairstyles at the town faire. One strand of curls in particular wouldn’t stay behind her ear. But she was convinced Nick would like what he saw.

She pinched her cheeks to make them pinker than they already were, then took a step back to smooth her skirts. It was the middle of the day, so she still wore her faded maid’s uniform, but her apron was starched and white. She was ready to do this. She was ready to pursue Nick Parsons and to convince him she was the woman who should be his wife.

“All right,” she told her reflection, then blew out a breath. “Let’s go find a husband.”

She turned, making it three steps toward the door before snagging her foot on the worn carpet and stumbling forward. She yelped, but managed to catch hold of the door instead of spilling to the floor. Her heart raced, and she took a few more steadying breaths before turning the handle.

“Slow and steady, Poppy,” she told herself. “And don’t trip over your own feet.”

At last, she pulled the door open and walked out into the hall. With careful, even steps, as if stalking prey in the woods, she walked to the end of the hall, down the stairs, and through the servant’s quarters.

She made it almost all the way past the kitchen before Mrs. Harmon called out, “What’s wrong with you, girl? You’re walking as though you’re trying not to break wind as you go.”

Poppy’s face turned beet red, and she whipped to face Mrs. Harmon, her floppy curls bouncing. “I am not. I’m being slow and careful.”

Mrs. Harmon’s brow shot up to her hairline. “Where are you going looking like you have a head full of snakes?”

“They’re curls, not snakes. And I’m….” She darted a glance to the two kitchen maids, who were tittering behind their hands and pretending not to see her. Poppy sighed. “Do I look that bad? I was trying to look pretty.”

Mrs. Harmon let out a breath and shook her head. “Dear girl.” She marched across the room and started running her fingers through Poppy’s hair like a mother hen. “You’re pretty enough without fuss and nonsense. I’m sure any one of the footmen or lads down in town would fall all over themselves to have you.”

She grabbed Poppy’s shoulders and turned her to the side, then set to work gathering half her hair at the back of her head. She pulled a piece of twine out of her apron and tied the hair back. The style was simple, but it kept the hair out of Poppy’s face while letting the curls she’d worked so hard for settle around her shoulders.

“I don’t want one of the footmen or any old lad from town,” Poppy confessed. She couldn’t bring herself to continue to say that it was Nick she wanted.

Mrs. Harmon took hold of her shoulders and jerked Poppy to face her again. “My sweet girl. I know there’s someone out there for you. Lord help him,” she added with a chuckle.

Poppy smiled, then threw her arms around Mrs. Harmon’s meaty shoulders. “Thank you, Mrs. Harmon,” she said. She kissed her on the cheek, then skipped off through the kitchen door and out into the autumn sunshine.

She wasn’t entirely sure where Nick would be, but chances were, he’d be near the greenhouse. Her heart was light and her steps, well, reasonably light as she hurried through the gardens to the far corner, where the pretty flowerbeds and manicured yards gave way to more serviceable beds where Nick grew and tested plants for the formal gardens. Poppy spotted Nick’s outline beyond the foggy greenhouse windows and let out an excited squeal. She could do this. She could charm Nick into wanting to marry her.

The second she threw open the door to the greenhouse, a potted fern to her right tumbled off its shelf and smashed on the floor at her feet. Poppy stood there staring at it, feeling as though her insides were melting like candle wax.

“Sorry,” she said with a wince.

“Poppy?” Nick was at the other end of the greenhouse. He glanced up from whatever he was doing with a tray lined with pots no bigger than Poppy’s fist. The second his eyes met hers, he smiled. And when he glanced down to the smashed pot and its floundering fern…his smile widened even more. “Oh dear.”

The way he said those two syllables, his voice low and as rich as the soil at her feet, made shivers break out along Poppy’s spine. They coalesced in that secret spot that ached whenever she thought about Nick. It was lovely and exciting. However, the fact that she was too embarrassed to move a muscle wasn’t helping her mission at all.

“I didn’t mean to,” she sighed, holding her hands up, as if keeping them at her sides would dirty them, even though the destroyed plant was around her feet. “It just jumped off the shelf when I came in.”

“Ah, yes,” Nick said, striding up the long aisle from the other end of the greenhouse. “It’s a rare Peruvian Jumping Fern, after all.” His eyes sparkled, which raised a giggle in Poppy’s throat.

“There’s no such thing,” she laughed. “You’re teasing me.”

“Of course I’m teasing you.”

Nick reached her, scooping his arms around her waist and lifting her clear off the ground. She gasped, not so much in surprise, but because his arms felt so perfect around her, and the heat of his body made her ache even harder. He took her a few steps to the side, between the rows of waist-high tables lined with sprouts and potted plants. When he put her down, his hands stayed on her waist.

“Did you do something to your hair?” he asked, his smile glowing.

Poppy could have died and gone to heaven. He’d noticed. “Do you like it?” she asked tentatively, glancing up at him through her lashes.

He didn’t answer at first. He swayed subtly into her, his mouth going soft as if…as if he were about to kiss her. Poppy’s heart sped up, and she tilted her face to him, more ready to be kissed than she’d ever been.

But he held off, saying instead, “I do like it.” He raised a hand to cup one of her bouncy curls. And even though those hands were just a bit dirty, even though he smelled like compost and hard work instead of exotic spices, Poppy drew in a deep breath of him, closing her eyes.

“I love you, Nick,” she sighed.

Her eyes popped open, going wide. Had she really said that? Said it out loud?

Nick stared at her, watching her. The fire in his eyes flared, and his smile grew. It was devilish and enticing and genuine all at the same time. He moved his hand from her hair to cradle her face. His lips parted.

“I think we should get married,” she blurted before he could tell her she was a silly dreamer. “I think I would make a very good wife, especially if I was your wife. And I think that we could be happy together. I know I could make you happy.”

His smile widened, causing his eyes to dance with light. “I think you could too,” he whispered. His thumb stroked her cheek. He leaned closer.

“We would have a beautiful family. Lots of children. And I would love them and take care of them and raise them all to make you proud.”

“I’m sure you would.” The laughter was in his voice now as well as his eyes. He moved his hand from her waist to her back, pulling her closer, while his other hand continued to cradle her blazing-hot cheek.

“And I know there are a lot of things I’m not very good at,” she went on, her voice rising higher and higher, even as her knees went weak and her heart thumped against her chest, “But I would be so good at others. I just know I would. And—”

“Poppy.” He stopped her.

She was tense in his arms, her chest rising and falling rapidly, as though her heart wanted to leap right out of her and cling to Nick forever. “Yes?” she squeaked, her brow inching up.

He answered by closing the distance between them and slanting his mouth over hers. It was as if the sun had shattered above them, reigning drops of pure happiness around them.