May 15th, 1892 — Hogsmeade Derby, Padmore Park

Poppy was thrilled to be at the derby. It had been so charming of Atticus to invite her out here today for her birthday. So far she’d had nothing short of a spectacular time. Her dress was pristine, her hair coiffed perfectly and even her usual propensity for not eating had been curbed as the sight of macarons enticed even the ever-weary Poppy Dashwood into a bite. All in all, she was very well situated in their tent, on this beautiful day, surrounded by family and… June. (Poppy was glad Juniper had asked her father for permission to attend. It wouldn’t be the same without her.) In fact, Poppy was so content, that there wasn’t anything at all that could possibly entice her away from her chaperone.

Not a thing.

Poppy looked from her Aunt Viola’s face to Atticus and suddenly realized… her chaperone was nowhere in sight. At least, her official chaperone for the day. Looking around, Poppy didn’t see Atticus anywhere. Big blue eyes blinked in confusion. He’d… been right there a moment ago? She peered about curiously; perhaps he’d found a lovely lady to spark conversation with? For that matter, where had Juniper gone? Poppy excused herself from her aunt’s side and wandered over to the refreshments.

From her place by the footmen offering petite fours and champagne, Poppy had a clear line of sight down to the races. The horses were lining up to start another round. Perhaps June had wandered off down there for a closer look? A big burly chestnut reared as it approached the gate and the sound of whistling and calling floated up towards her tent. Poppy bit her lower lip. She was very interested in getting a closer look. If only Atticus were about somewhere to walk down with her! Instead, the brunette accepted a glass of something that was handed to her and sighed. How dreadfully exasperating it was to always wait around to be chauffeured anywhere.

Poppy took a sip and looked back around towards the gates. A brunette head came into view by the betting stands and Poppy… well she swore that was Atticus, was it not? Standing on her tiptoes, the girl tried to get a better look. Yes! That was definitely Atticus Foxwood. Peering towards her aunt, Poppy made a small gesture. Her aunt didn’t notice, as she was too fully engrossed in her own conversation, but Poppy supposed it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like she was wandering off. Taking a large sip of her drink, the brunette set her glass aside and made her way towards the commotion.

It was very much noisier down here than up by the upperclass tents. With every step, Poppy felt the excitement buzz around her louder and louder. Atticus had explained the layout earlier that day, how the Merlin Enclosure was aimed towards the middle class and that somewhere there was a tier for the working classes. She hadn’t paid all too much attention to his explanation, as excited as she was to simply reach their tent and see her first race, but now… as the path became muddy underfoot and the noise seemed to crow in a less refined manner than she was used to, Poppy wondered if she’d wandered too far. The brunette head she’d thought was Atticus had vanished and now she wasn’t quite sure how to get back.

Poppy frowned and looked left, then right. A group of men were laughing boisterously in a huddled little circle nearby. She turned away from them, not quite stupid enough to venture in that direction to ask for help. She wandered around for a bit longer and eventually found herself in a crowd. She was by the rail where the horses were still being loaded into their gates. The excitement of the cheering crowd around her soared through Poppy’s veins. The girl just managed to peek through a gap between a woman and man when suddenly someone brushed past her. Poppy teetered forward into the man and practically tripped into the dirt. The man whirled around and with him came the overwhelming scent of alcohol. Poppy’s delicate nose wrinkled in offense.

“I-I’m terribly sorry,” she apologized. “I was just trying to see and—” The man interrupted her with a nasty grin and Poppy felt her sentence fade off. She was definitely much too far from where she ought to be. A forced laugh escaped her then. “I think I’ll just be on my way! I’m sorry to have bothered you—” Poppy turned to go and push her way back through the ever largening crowd, but before she could manage a hand had wrapped around her arm. “Where you rushing’ off to so quick pidgeon?” A voice rasped much too close to her head. “If you want to see, by all means - see!” Poppy let out a yelp as fingers tightened around her arm and tugged her back towards the rail. She scrambled for her wand, ready to give this ungallant twat a piece of her mind - rules be damned! “Unhand me!” She demanded, small fingers finding holly wood. Poppy didn’t know what she wanted to fling at him, but in that moment she raised her wand anyway - ready to stab him with it if she had to! Oh, where was Juniper with her knowledge of the Dark Arts when she needed it?

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Kristoffer Lestrange

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   Kristoffer Lestrange

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© Fox

He’d left his place to make a wager of his own – and slightly out of boredom already, because horse-racing was dull as muck and slumming it was usually fun for a brief interlude – but then he’d caught a flash of a familiar face and blinked, because surely that wasn’t her. Miss Dashwood ought to be sitting somewhere far removed from the rabble, eating tea and cakes.

But no, that was her, sneaking around chaperoneless, he was convinced of it – but he lost sight of her in the crowd for a few moments and once he spotted her again, she wasn’t alone anymore.

For Merlin’s sake, Kristoffer moaned in his head as he shoved through the throng to reach the ruffians she’d attracted. Of course she would have the gall to make a white knight of him. It was only because he found her diverting, he told himself, trying not to hear her ordering them to unhand her, as if louts listened to instructions. He rolled his eyes and drew his wand as he plunged into the scene, shooting a stinging jinx at the man who’d laid his hand on her. With any luck he’d snatch his hand back and Miss Dashwood would seize the moment, if his yelp was anything to go by. (Maybe there was a pang to see it, some mirror memory of the moves he had tried on her at New Year’s – without avail, obviously.) Hell, he couldn’t believe he was doing this, but Kris lurched between them, wand at the ready. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to duel all day,” he drawled, looking disparagingly at the lecher. “Touch her again and I’ll have my reason.”

He did half hope he’d get to make good on his word and give the fellow a good flaying, but the man seemed to have sense enough not to provoke an upper class gentleman in broad daylight. Disappointing – but as he stared at the stranger, daring him to flee, he did offer Miss Dashwood a sidelong glance and a murmur in her ear: “This is where you go looking for adventures, Miss Dashwood?” Of all the trouble she could get into, she had really decided to get muddy at the racecourse?

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   Poppy Dashwood

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To claim surprise when a spell went zipping by her head and the hand on her arm disappeared was a bit of an understatement. Poppy was absolutely stunned that something, anything really, had managed to come to her aid in that precise moment, and she didn’t hesitate to take advantage. Jabbing the vile man with her elbow and turning to face him as he doubled over, Poppy finally raised her wand defensively. Too late it would seem, as another imposing figure took a stance between her and the ruffian. The brunette blinked in surprise as a familiar voice touted its strength and threatened the cretin that had snatched at her. Kristoffer!

Of all the white knights to come by… Never in her wildest dreams had Poppy imagined Kristoffer Lestrange would ever need to come to her rescue. (Well, perhaps in her dreams, but certainly never like this.) He was so handsome, even from behind, his broad shoulders shielding her from the villain. Fodder for the daydreams, surely! Momentarily distracted in her surprise, Poppy let out a shaky laugh as his familiar voice hummed just next to her ear. “A lady has to find her thrills somewhere,” she murmured back, teasing. Still, she couldn’t help the unconscious need to reach out.

Poppy grasped onto to the back Mr. Lestrange’s sleeve from behind, fingers still wrapped too-tightly around her wand as the somewhat parted crowd turned to eye them. Now that her savior had appeared, almost as if from nowhere, the brunette felt a wave of relief come with him. Her arms and legs were still trembling from the fright, but she wasn’t alone anymore. If there was one thing to be said for making friends of unlikely gentlemen, at least Mr. Lestrange’s penchant for roaming had managed to bring him to her in this time of need!

After a silent standoff, the ruffian seemed to realize he was too drunk to fight off an able bodied gentleman - and ministry official! Poppy thought to herself smugly - and turned to stumble off in another direction. Letting out another shaky breath, the brunette forced herself to relax the too-tight grip on her wand. (Any more of that and it risked snapping!) “Thank you,” she breathed quietly, still holding onto Mr. Lestrange. She wanted so badly to get out of there but breeding drove her to polite thanks, much due, before she could think to run back to her tent. Hopefully Mr. Lestrange would join them; maybe then Poppy’s heart would stop hammering so tumultuously in her rib cage! (Or, perhaps, not.)

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Kristoffer Lestrange

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   Kristoffer Lestrange

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© Fox

The elbow jab was quick thinking (and a tidy little touch of violence, Kristoffer thought approvingly).

And, although his eyes were still ahead on the fellow, and he was somewhat aware of the stares in the crowd around them, Kris couldn’t help but feel the tug of her hand on his sleeve as well. She wouldn’t see it, and no one else would quite understand it if they noticed, but there was a curl of smugness creeping in at the corner of his mouth.

She could say what she liked – could pretend this was all situational, if she wanted, that it was a necessity, some way to secure her own safety – but the man had staggered off and she was still holding on. (Kristoffer, naturally, let this go straight to his ego.)

But he relented and turned to face her, now it seemed that his wand wouldn’t be any more use and that the spectators around them had found other things of interest. “My pleasure,” he returned – and, admittedly, getting to shoot off hexes at wayward strangers was something of a bonus.

But the primary pleasure here was bumping into Miss Dashwood at all. “And, well, I would offer to escort you back to your tent, but you’ll think I’m trying to lead you into trouble rather than get you out of it, won’t you?” Kristoffer said, half accusatory and half amused. He eyed her slyly. Whatever they had said about forgetting it, they both knew how a chivalrous escort from him had ended up at New Year’s; but – sadly – this time it would have to be in broad daylight, so there was unlikely to be any more mischief or indecency on the cards.

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As Mr. Lestrange turned around to face her, Poppy reluctantly let her hold on his sleeve drop (but not without a small blush coloring her cheeks noticeably, first.) She realized there was no danger anymore, but holding on to him felt so much more secure…

His quip then about leading her into trouble only brought a small smile to Poppy’s face however, and she couldn’t help the bubbly little laugh that accompanied it. She tucked her wand away delicately and tried not to show him just how perfectly alright she was with his company. Despite their mutual agreement to forget about the run in some months ago, Poppy had done nothing of the sort. In fact, she’d thought about it more than she really cared to admit! She’d even mentioned it to June recently. That was how little she’d endeavored to forget.

Deciding that their agreement didn’t so much matter, and that she trusted him anyhow, Poppy smoothed her crumpled, slightly muddy skirts as best she could. “Not if you promise to comport yourself in a manner that becomes the both of us,” she replied, eyes twinkling mischievously. “I am almost a debuted young lady,” she continued, teasing. “I will soon have standards to live up to.” Soon, but not quite yet, her tone implied.

Then, sobering a touch, she bowed her head discreetly. “Besides,” Poppy sighed. “I’m sure someone will have my head for being about without a chaperone anyhow, and I’d much rather have you by my side in case I run into that man again.” She wrinkled her nose at the thought and unconsciously reached for Mr. Lestrange’s sleeve again. Hopefully that wouldn’t happen, especially as they made their way back towards the upper-class tents.

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Kristoffer Lestrange

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© Fox

The gall! She had had the indecency to blush at herself, which meant his gaze was caught on her cheeks and his mind was already turning to other things – and that was very unfair of her, the tease.

At least her pre-emptive admonishment was coupled with that mischievous look. Clearly she didn’t mean it too terribly. Kristoffer could live with that. (For now.) “Almost debuted, indeed,” he echoed, with a real grin: soon, she’d said, and he knew exactly how she’d intended that. She still had a little freedom first, before her life became boring and dull and heavily supervised.

“Well then, we still have a little time. And I am almost a gentleman,” Kristoffer returned, with a joking roll of his eyes, “so I suppose I’ll do for a companion for the moment.” He offered her his arm more properly, so that he could better steer them through the crowds and stands and the disgusting muddy patches. Also so he could set their speed of promenade – to as slow and ambling a pace as possible, to make the moment last as long as humanly possible.

He could be a gentleman and still be in no hurry to see her safely returned, couldn’t he? “So have you been enjoying the races?” Kristoffer asked idly, glancing sidelong at her as they walked. “Or were you too busy being attracted to the first mortal peril you could find to see any of it?”

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Poppy could sense, almost immediately, that Mr. Lestrange had in fact caught the drift of her meaning and for a moment she almost considered regret. She did not want to purposely lead him astray, this time implicitly aware of how she might do so, but not even Mr. Lestrange could possibly be so brazen as to try and kiss her, again, in public right? Poppy certainly hoped not, if only for her reputation’s sake and not actually because she didn’t want him to. A sigh tickled at her lips but the brunette held it back, opting instead to echo his grin with her own. They had an understanding at least, even if she was was a touch exhilarated by it.

As the gentleman offered her his arm properly, Poppy was relieved to be able to grasp him. She couldn’t help but linger a touch on his eye-roll and think to herself how much she liked his animated responses. His words however where what made her laugh again and a small hand came up to cover her mouth delicately. “Almost a gentleman,” she echoed, teasingly. “Well, we’ve both some time to get our act together. Not much,” she laughed again. “But certainly enough.” (If she emphasized the word ‘both’ more than she’d meant to it was only because the idea of it made Poppy twitchy. She rather liked the way Mr. Lestrange was, and the way she was with him. It was only society that could find them wanting.)

Poppy was pleased when they began to amble about at a snails pace. She was not in any hurry to make it back to the upper-class tents now that she had a willing guardian and an entire racecourse to see. Still, she made no mention of traipsing off in another direction and instead rolled her own eyes playfully at his tease. “I’ll admit it has been rather dull up to this moment, what with my penchant for danger and chaos,” she indulged, teasingly. “But I am pleased to be here regardless. It was sweet of Atticus to invite June and I out. I’ve always wanted to see a race up close, hence why you found me so near the rail.” Poppy blushed again. “In my defense however, I thought I’d spotted my cousin down there! I didn’t amble freely with no direction!” She didn't know why it was so important Mr. Lestrange not think her a dimwit, but it was.

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Kristoffer Lestrange

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   Kristoffer Lestrange

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© Fox

“Long enough,” he agreed with a laugh, about time to get their act together. (We, she had said: so they still had more in common than she wanted to admit.) And there was a certain frisson in being polite and unassuming and courteous on the surface whilst both feeling the subtext that Kristoffer had never appreciated in a conversation before. Of course, he hadn’t usually stolen kisses – unwanted or otherwise – from the people he was talking to, so there wasn’t ordinarily so much lingering tension.

He could hardly admit that the tension they had supposedly put to bed and forgotten was still driving him mad though, could he? He had to play this cool, and convince himself that she regretted it more than he did. Friends, he reminded himself. He knew how to be friends... he thought. He probably ought to have asked after Atticus or June, since those were the names she had mentioned – but to be perfectly honest Kristoffer was not a kind enough soul to care about her friends and family to no end. Better not to think about her family altogether, really – for what little he knew of the Dashwoods themselves was that they weren’t as pureblooded as most of the people in his circles, and if he thought about blood he would be forced to disdain her as beneath him, which he didn’t want. (There was only one way he wanted Poppy Dashwood beneath him –)

He cleared his throat, plunged back into the conversation before he got carried away. “Oh, I believe you,” he drawled back, in a tone and with a smirk that blatantly suggested he didn’t believe her at all. “Of course you didn’t,” he teased, “you’re not a wild thing. How much do you like horses, then?” he inquired. “Do you ride?” (He could envision her, ahem, riding.)

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   Poppy Dashwood

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Hearing Kristoffer laugh freely, openly, and without any particular attitude was everything, and Poppy’s heart fluttered at the sound. It was such a liberating feeling, hearing someone laugh entirely as themselves and not with any type of forced semblance; it was a sign of trust and honesty, often given in the heat of the moment without the owner’s permission. Tucking the sound into her memory for future playback, Poppy turned a fond, slightly love-sick look on the blonde without realizing her face had melted as such. As he responded to her hasty explanation, evidently not believing a word of what she said, Poppy found herself growing alarmed.

“No, truly, I do mean it!” She replied in earnest. “I saw the top of his head—” she gently patted the top of her own in demonstration “and then he vanished. I thought he’d been conversing with Mr. Blackwood, but perhaps I was mistaken.” She hummed a little on the thought, not wishing to linger too much on Blackwood. Poppy still wasn’t sure how she felt about the gentleman, despite knowing her friend’s affinity for him. She turned a suspicious glint to Mr. Lestrange then as he continued. “Not a wild thing indeed,” she echoed loftily, ignoring his quip about horses. “I don’t believe you are sure of me, Mr. Lestrange,” Poppy teased with a growing smile. “Other than a romantic penchant for daydreams, I’ve both feet most solidly on the ground.” And, leveling him with a look that dared him to contradict her, Poppy raised a delicate brow.

She took the opportunity to study his face then and couldn’t help but find her eyes drawn to his lips. There was something so distracting about Mr. Lestrange that the diminutive brunette found made her pulse quicken. Perhaps the sweaty palms and quick heart could serve to undercut her argument, but Poppy knew he would be blissfully unaware of either. She was glad of it too; there was no reason to make him suspect she had replayed their little moment from New Years almost consistently in her mind since.

“I do ride, however,” she finally acquiesced, still gazing at him. “Unlike most ladies, I actually rather enjoy a good hunt.” There was something about riding along with the group, vaulting over hedges, that let Poppy free her inner spirit. It was a rarer sight than she normally embraced, often trying her best these days to button-up her hellion, but something told her it was not a facade of hers Mr. Lestrange would find particularly off-putting. “Perhaps one day you shall have the honor of meeting the leading man in my life,” Poppy continued, teasingly. “His name is Charles and he’s a wonderfully spirited dear, too much to handle really for those with little experience.” If her gaze twinkled with mischief again, Poppy couldn’t help herself. Just the thought of anyone trying to wrangle her pretty little grey was humorous. It was too bad he resided at Dashwood Hall. She would have actually liked to introduce him to Mr. Lestrange.

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Kristoffer Lestrange

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   Kristoffer Lestrange

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© Fox

She was a little bit adorable, patting the top of her head like that. And he grinned at the mention of Mr. Blackwood, wondering if that meant she knew Olixander, but didn’t get a chance to ask before she was trying to make him think he’d misjudged her entirely.

Had he misjudged her entirely? Maybe she was more down-to-earth than he’d imagined; she was more practical, to be sure, even if she had just wandered into mayhem and he’d had to all but sweep in to her rescue. She was a dreamer, he knew – she had rambled about all kinds of fantasies of Paris – but she wasn’t stupid, either. She was a little too clever, always with a teasing word, never quite baited by an insult, impervious to everything he did – and, conversely, one lift of her eyebrow had too much power over him.

His face spread into a slow smile at her enjoyment of a hunt. That was something he would like to see. “Please,” Kris scoffed, but there was less disdain and more humour in it, because they were talking about a horse, “I could take him on any day. And Charles?” he echoed, rolling his eyes in mock-despair. What a ridiculous name for a horse. Charles! He leant into her a little on the side she was on his arm, lightly enough that it might have been teasing or purely accidental. “Tell me you didn’t name him yourself.”

(Somehow, if he forgot to think about what they were doing here, or anything that had happened previously or anything else he might want from her – and if he forgot himself just enough – Kristoffer thought he might be genuinely enjoying himself. A rare, unadulterated feeling, one that couldn’t be dampened by facts. This was fun. He liked talking to her. Everything else was – for a moment – irrelevant.)

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   Poppy Dashwood

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At the small, expected, scoff that came from Mr. Lestrange, Poppy couldn’t help but laugh her twinkly little laugh. She could imagine it now, Charles throwing his head at the iron grip he might have and dancing about with so much displeasure that poor Kristoffer might slide right off. There were few that could manage the high-stung gelding’s temper, and the more domineering one tried to be the worse it went. Though, Poppy considered, she might not be giving him enough credit. For all his bravado and pomp, perhaps Kristoffer Lestrange was a gentle soul as far as animals were concerned. She could certainly give him the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise. He was tame enough around her compared to the terror she’d hear stories of at Hogwarts.

“I’d certainly like to see you try!” she laughed again. “If I were a woman to place bets, I should not bet against Charles, but I do have my bias.” Tilting her head a touch at the thought, Poppy agreed with herself: yes, she would absolutely not bet on him against Charles. At the gentleman’s following comment, she turned a mock affronted look and gasped. “How dare you!” she exclaimed, with no mind at all to the distance between them as she leaned a little bit upon the other to give a playful shove. “Charles is an excellent name; regal and royal in its heritage! I shall name my son Charles one day, and my next cat, just to spite you!” Poppy huffed again, giving him the closest approximation to the stink eye she could manage, despite her laughter. She wasn’t even really one for cats, but she would do it. For him.

The whole of their little exchange made something in the brunette’s soul settle into an easy happiness. She very much enjoyed Mr. Lestrange’s company and was already looking forward to the next time they might meet. Hopefully, something small and niggling inside of her determined to push forth, he too felt the same enjoyment.

“If you’re so clever, what would you name a beloved pet?” Poppy continued, mischievously. “For that matter, have you ever had a pet, sir?” For some reason she couldn’t imagine it.

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Kristoffer Lestrange

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   Kristoffer Lestrange

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© Fox

He was not one to back down from a challenge, to pause before throwing the gauntlet down – but neither, it seemed, was she. It took all the restraint he had to suppress his smirk at her little spiel about Charles – he had to keep a straight face even more at the prospect of her using her future child to win this little tussle. (Whose child would that be –)

He cast away even the opportunity of pondering her future, because her future was none of his concern. Nor were animals and their names, to be perfectly frank: if he ever owned horses of his own, he would keep whatever names they had been sold to him with – or not name them at all, if he could get away with it.

“I don’t really do pets,” Kristoffer admitted. His tone was haughty, but he felt a slight, unnatural, squirm of sheepishness about it. He didn’t want Miss Dashwood to think... Hold on, since when did he care about what anyone thought of him? He wasn’t even so self-conscious around his friends: why should he be around her? No. He wasn’t going to be abashed about anything. She could think what she liked, and if she thought less of him, that was her fault and not his.

“I had an owl during school,” Kristoffer said, shrugging with affected carelessness, “but I didn’t bother with a name. Mostly I called him Owl.” (Oh no. That was stupid, wasn’t it? She would think him stupid. He probably should have kept his mouth shut about Charles.)

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   Poppy Dashwood

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Poppy wasn’t surprised, per se, at Mr. Lestrange’s answer, but she did find his honesty awfully endearing. She regarded it for the genuine emotion it was, and appreciated all the more how rare it must be for one usually so boisterous to share such a sheepish confession even if he seemed to pretend otherwise. (She liked to think she might know him well enough to guess as much, at least.) As the blonde went on to mention his owl, happiness ran like an undercurrent through her and a pleased little smile caused Poppy’s nose to wrinkle as she twisted her mouth and held back a laugh. She didn’t want him to think she was laughing at him, so she tried to school her features.

“We might very well get on when it comes to pets then,” Poppy replied, all serious fastidiousness. “I don’t doubt you’ll call Charles ‘Horse’ if you do ever meet, and for my part - I make no promises not to dub your owl something mawkish. It’s a habit of mine, to give out pet names,” Here Poppy turned her gaze to the ground, face heating a touch. Then, musing upon it further, she laughed. “A family quirk, perhaps,” she added, with a little smile.

Turning back to Mr. Lestrange then, Poppy offered him another mischievous grin. “Shall I ever have the chance to meet this owl of yours?” She teased. It was perhaps a bit forward, inviting herself to correspond with him, but frankly - Poppy didn’t much care. She’d long since decided to keep Mr. Lestrange in her confidence and correspondence was key.

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Kristoffer Lestrange

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© Fox

He noticed the wrinkling of her nose, because he was looking intently at her, however hard he tried to convince himself to be watching the racecourse sights as they walked. For a split second, he was worried about what it meant (if she dared laugh at him, he would...) but the moment and the flurry of worry passed him by, and she saved herself with that answer.

They might very well get on, she had said. (Kris, in turn, tried not to show any twitch of pleasure on his mouth. He certainly didn’t want to her to think he cared for her opinion of their prospects, getting on together.) Anyway, the less he said here the better, because the more he was learning about Miss Dashwood and all her idiosyncrasies. Pet names, she said? Hopefully he would never be so grossly familiar with her that she gained the courage to give him one. Hopefully...

“Perhaps,” he merely said, raising an eyebrow more affectedly than usual, if only to amuse her. It would be easy enough to arrange – as simple as sending her a letter. A trifling gesture if ever he’d heard of one, and yet... still not something he ever did. He barely corresponded with his own sisters. “Maybe once I’ve met your Charles I’ll think about introducing you,” he teased, aware there was no fair exchange in that order of things, with the special honour of meeting her so-called leading man and his dearth of affection for the owl in question.

But he was already giving Miss Dashwood a great deal of himself here – wasn’t he being polite and accommodating and chivalrous enough already? He didn’t need to debase himself by leaping at the chance to write letters of drivel to her, thank you.

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As the sight of her tent slowly drifted into view as they walked, Poppy knew she very much had no interest in returning to it in the slightest. The snails pace at which the pair had managed to crawl could only buy so much time however, and it was with great reluctance that Poppy realized as much. Sooner or later someone from the tent would spot her - likely having noted her absence - and all would be ruined. For now however, pushing the inevitable from her mind, the brunette was pleased to listen patiently for the answer to a question she very much held an investment in. The response was no more heartening than their progress back to the tent.

Oh. He was being polite in putting her off. Without much cognizance of her facial expression, Poppy felt a small pang settle somewhere near her heart. She tried to shake it, knowing full well she ought to be grateful he hadn’t embarrassed her for such brazenness, and decided to roll her eyes a touch playfully as she pinned her smile in place. It wouldn’t do to let him see her upset after all. Perhaps his suggestion could be turned into a challenge.

“I shall hold you to that, Mr. Lestrange,” she responded gently, teasingly. “Perhaps mother can be convinced to host a hunt or the like this autumn. It is rather a lovely time to ride amongst the foliage at Dashwood Hall.” She turned a sweet little smile onto the blonde, pausing their walk with the gentlest tug of her arm from his. “I’ll prove to you then, once and for all, how splendid a beast Charles is.” Her tone was light, pleased even, despite the weight of regret that pulling away from him introduced. Poppy sucked in a deep breath and resisted the urge to sigh.

“I’d invite you to our tent,” she continued then “But, to spare the both of us a peppering of questions that would be unpleasant at best, I shall refrain.” A mischievous little smile touched her visage again and Poppy laughed. “Thank you, Mr. Lestrange, for your assistance this afternoon.” She spoke warmly, pressing a gentle hand upon the gentleman’s sleeve. “You were perfectly gallant and I am wholly in your debt.”

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Kristoffer Lestrange

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© Fox

He could have sworn she was disappointed at his dismissiveness – but that would have meant she had meant it sincerely. Kristoffer had always supposed half of what young ladies said, what girls were taught to do, was pure waffle, designed to sound coy and coquettish at once. They didn’t mean any of it, did they?

And see, she was hardly lacking in wit – her tone, when she responded, was as airy as it had ever been. It was an invitation that may nor may not materialise, but Kristoffer had expected that. She was being nice to him because he’d helped her out of a bind today. That was probably all, and he’d be a fool to get his hopes up about it.

But she was doing them both a favour by not forcing him to mingle at the Dashwoods’ tent, so Kris shot her a sincere little grin for that. “No debt,” he answered easily. “I’ll call us even,” he said, giving her a conspiratorial, mischievous look back, to express that on balance, he’d probably had some making-up-for-himself to do to even the scales. (And – his grin went a little secretively crooked – the walk back had proven enough reward for the earlier intervention, though he certainly wouldn’t say it.) “Just this once. But next time, you’ll owe me.”

Kristoffer was quite sure there would be a next time, one way or another.

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