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Before they came to Jolie, Dal would have described Poppy as pretty, in a fresh, wholesome, no-nonsense sort of way with her thick, shoulder-length brown hair and large, brown eyes and a serious little chin.
But as Poppy entered the dining room with its glossy white ceiling and dark purple walls, she looked anything but wholesome and no-nonsense.
She was wearing a silk gown the color of cherries, delicately embroidered with silver threads, and instead of her usual ponytail or chignon, her dark hair was down, and long, elegant chandelier earrings dangled from her ears. As she walked, the semi-sheer kaftan molded to her curves.
“It seems I’ve been keeping you waiting,” she said, her voice pitched lower than usual and slightly breathless. “Izba insisted on all this,” she added, gesturing up toward her face.
At first Dal thought she was referring to the ornate silver earrings that were catching and reflecting the light, but once she was seated across from him he realized her eyes had been rimmed with kohl and her lips had been outlined and filled in with a soft plum-pink gloss. “You’re wearing makeup.”
“Quite a lot of it, too.” She grimaced. “I tried to explain to Izba that this wasn’t me, but she’s very determined once she makes her mind up about something and apparently, dinner with you requires me to look like a tart.”
Dal checked his smile. “You don’t look like a tart. Unless it’s the kind of tart one wants to eat.”
Color flooded Poppy’s cheeks and she glanced away, suddenly shy, and he didn’t know if it was her shyness or the shimmering dress that clung to her, but he didn’t think any woman could be more beautiful, or desirable than Poppy right now. “You look lovely,” he said quietly. “But I don’t want you uncomfortable all through dinner. If you’d rather go remove the makeup I’m happy to wait.”
She looked at him closely as if doubting his sincerity. “It’s fun to dress up, but I’m worried Izba has the wrong idea about me.”
“And what is that?”
“She seems to think you’re going to…marry…me.”
