At the same time, what harm had there been secretly caring for Randall? Her devotion made her a better assistant. Her dedication making her more sensitive and attuned to his needs.

But now her secret was in the open. Did it have to change everything? Did she want it to change anything?

Did she want to say goodbye to Randall?

Poppy didn’t know the answer to the first two questions but she knew the answer to the third. She didn’t want to leave Randall. And the way she felt about him, she’d never want to leave him, but how could she continue working for him like this?

It wouldn’t be the same. She’d feel self-conscious and he’d be awkward. Better to end things while she still cared about him. Better to say goodbye while she wanted the best for him.

But just admitting that she had to go broke her heart.

* * *

Dal closed his computer, rose from his desk and put away the computer in his briefcase. The jet had just begun the final descent for Gila and he’d not only canceled the essential pieces of the honeymoon but had also created a short list of possible countess candidates to share with Poppy when he returned to the main cabin.

The list was for show. There was only one woman he was considering to be his wife, and that was his secretary, but if he told Poppy she was the one and only name, she’d be terrified. Far better to ease her into her new reality, and it would be her reality because Dal had to be married by the time he turned thirty-five, and his birthday was just sixteen days away.

Which meant he had sixteen days to find a new bride and marry her as he wasn’t going to lose Langston House, or the earldom, or any of the other Grant estates, because he’d failed his father.

He’d grown up with enough abuse. He wasn’t going to let his father win, even if he was in the grave.

So he’d marry Poppy and prove his father wrong and then Dal would finally be free of this burden he’d carried that he wasn’t his brother Andrew, and that he wasn’t fit to be the Earl of Langston, and he didn’t deserve the Langston House and estates.

Now he just needed to convince her that she was the perfect future countess.

Dal left the back office and returned to his seat in the main cabin. As he took his seat, Poppy stirred sleepily in her chair. Her lashes fluttered open for a moment before closing again. “You,” she murmured crossly.

“Yes, me,” he answered, his gaze sweeping her, studying her for the first time in an entirely different light.

She wasn’t his secretary anymore, but his future wife, which meant not just overseeing Langston House and the thousand different domestic tasks that encompassed, but also bearing him the necessary Grant heirs.

It wouldn’t be difficult taking her to his bed. She was pretty and tidy and wholesome, although at the moment she looked flushed and rumpled from sleep, her brown hair down tumbling to her shoulders while a rebellious tendril clung to her pink cheek.

His dress shirt overwhelmed her small frame, but it was refreshing seeing her in something other than her conservative navy and brown skirts, which she paired with equally conservative cardigans. In warm weather she swapped the jumpers for trim white blouses with oval collars and half sleeves. Her work wardrobe was neither well cut nor flattering, and while the pinstripe shirt wasn’t flattering, it revealed her curves. Poppy Marr was voluptuous with hourglass curves. Full breasts, tiny waist, rounded hips. He suddenly wished she wasn’t wearing jeans so he could see her legs. He’d very much like to see her in nothing but his shirt, and then without the shirt altogether.

“What do you want now?” she demanded, stretching and covering a yawn.

“We should be landing soon.”

“Good.”

He’d never noticed how firm her chin was until now. It matched her new backbone. He liked the spirit. Spirit was sexy and strong and his future countess would need to be strong.

“I’m not sending you back to England,” he said casually. “You owe me two weeks after giving notice. It’s in your employment agreement. You can’t just quit and walk away.”

Her dark lashes slowly lifted and she stared at him, clearly unhappy. “You’re going on holiday. You don’t need me.”

“I’m not on holiday, and I do need you.”

“For what?”

“To help find your replacement.