Everything in Kristoffer’s expression then, and the three little words that slipped from his mouth, made a current of goosebumps rise all along the brunette’s arms. She wasn’t one for curse words, finding them in fact quite vulgar and proof of poor breeding, but the surprise coupled with her name was enough to raise a dangerous little thrill that shivered all along her spine. That had been a genuinely real reaction and some small part of Poppy was almost smug at having cracked through Kristoffer’s facade. Still, she continued to blush and quickly averted her gaze, turning towards the door. He’d looked so disheveled when she came in that her heart couldn’t seem to calm in its rapid pounding. What a sight, goodness gracious. It was like walking in upon Adonis at the temple of Aphrodite: alarming, enrapturing, and entirely inappropriate! (There was something endearing, however, about the dumbstruck look on his face and the messy bedhead that she couldn’t quite seem to shake.) So too-- Poppy was a little bit keen on the notion that even Kristoffer Lestrange slept in bedclothes like everyone else and the thought made a small smile come to her face. She couldn’t help but grin at the door while she waited, listening to him bustle about. At his quip, her grin only turned into a small laugh that the brunette attempted to swallow.
“Well, you’ve certainly learned your lesson,” she teased, as if there was nothing at all unusual about this circumstance. Rocking on her toes a little bit then, growing (predictably) impatient, Poppy studied the wood paneling on the door. It was about the least interesting thing in this entire room right now and she was positively confined to it. As Kristoffer moved about the room, likely gathering his things, Poppy sighed a little bit to herself. She was not a patient person, by nature, and found herself wondering if it would take him nearly as long as it had taken her to attire himself and get a move on. Luckily, it would seem he would not because the blonde spoke again and Poppy found herself turning to address him properly.
“No,” she quipped, rolling her eyes as she went. “There’s nothing interesting about—” Her voice fell away then as Poppy realized she had turned much too early. Merlin’s beard what a mistake. Face flushing redder than she was sure it had ever flushed in her life, the brunette blinked once, twice, and three times in rapid succession. “A-about… this hat,” she finally concluded. Then, realizing she was unabashedly staring at the gentleman’s bare torso, Poppy flickered her hazel gaze quickly up to his face (another mistake) and pointedly turned to look towards the window.
She felt quite warm suddenly under all these layers. It was as if someone had taken and pushed her directly over an open flame. Pale skin about the same color as a tomato, Poppy made a small noise in the back of her throat as if clearing it. “It’s erm— Charles,” she tried, dropping her gaze to the hat and pinching the brim between her fingers. Any words that may have followed thereafter, particularly those in explanation, seemed ridiculous now and Poppy wondered if this escapade was at all worth the trouble anymore. Originally her intention had been to bring Kristoffer along as she collected Charles from the field, giving the blonde a chance to meet her horse properly. Maybe even try his hand with the gelding in private before Charles inevitably won the negotiation. But… all of this might just as easily have come during, or even after breakfast. (There may have been more hands and guests about, but surely it wouldn’t have been nearly so ridiculous?)
Poppy felt herself grow infinitely more embarrassed and quickly pivoted in her spot back towards the door. It was too late to turn time now. She would have to face his chagrin with her head high.
© Fox