“Am I?” Poppy laughed. “I hadn’t even noticed.”
“Well, you are, so enjoy every moment of it.” Eleanor hugged her.
Beatrice eyed her thoughtfully. “You already appear to be enjoying yourself. I’m rather intrigued by the spark of liveliness in your eye. I haven’t seen that in quite a while.”
“You’re right,” said Eleanor. “I wonder if you don’t like your duke, after all.”
“Of course not.” Poppy huffed.
“Have you kissed him?” Beatrice asked point-blank.
Poppy’s mouth fell open. “I—I—” But it was as if she had a piece of bread stuck in her throat.
Eleanor clapped her hands. “You have.”
“And apparently he’s a marvelous kisser,” said Beatrice with a mischievous grin.
Poppy finally recovered. “All right. I have kissed him. But that doesn’t mean anything.”
“It does if it sends tingles to your toes,” said Eleanor. “It’s one of the requirements of the early dispensation clause, as you know.”
“Tingles … warm, heady feelings—” Poppy began.
“Warm, heady feelings?” interjected Beatrice.
“Whatever you want to call them,” Poppy said dismissively, “they don’t mean anything without the other requirements in the early dispensation clause.”
“True,” said Eleanor. “I can’t imagine he respects you the way Sergei must.”
“Or that he’s as interested as Sergei in what you have to say,” Beatrice said. “The prince was most attentive at the Grangerford ball.”
“No, I’m sure you’re right on both counts.” Poppy tried mightily to be annoyed at Drummond for not being a gentleman and for not hanging on her every word, but it was difficult when she couldn’t stop thinking about the daring and pleasurable way he’d nudged a knee between her legs and pinned her against the shed wall while he was kissing her after Lady Caldwell’s outdoor breakfast.
“But I have something to confess,” she told her two best friends. “I made a huge mistake with Sergei. He’s nothing like what I thought he was six years ago.”
Beatrice and Eleanor both widened their eyes.
“He’s not?” asked Eleanor, her strawberry-blond curls shaking.
Beatrice shook her head. “What a shame!”
Poppy bit her lip. “It’s worse, girls. He wants me to be his mistress. Can you believe it?”
“I despise him,” Eleanor sputtered.
“As do I!” Beatrice’s brows became slash marks above her dark almond eyes.
Eleanor drew in her chin. “Why on earth did you invite him tonight when he’s such a scoundrel?”
Poppy’s mouth fell open. Oh, dear. She couldn’t explain that, could she? She couldn’t reveal anything about Operation Pink Lady.
She supposed she shouldn’t have told her two friends about Sergei’s true nature, but they were her closest companions. She couldn’t have held that back. She needed their support.
But … how to explain his presence tonight?
She gave them a weak smile, hating to lie. “I, um, I invited him and his sister because of old times’ sake. I think it will bring Papa a great deal of comfort to have a Russian meal with Russian guests, don’t you? St. Petersburg was the last place he had fun with Mama.”
Beatrice nodded. “That makes sense.”
“It’s a tremendous sacrifice for you,” Eleanor said, “but very thoughtful.”
“And I believe I can handle the prince,” Poppy said, assuaging her guilt with a genuine smile of affection for her friends. “Especially with you two in my corner.”
“Exactly,” said Beatrice. “We’re Spinsters. He’s asked the wrong girl to be his mistress.”
“Speaking of which”—Poppy grabbed their hands—“I put you on either side of him at the table. We keep our enemies close. So do take good care of him. But never let him guess what you know.”
“Poor Sergei.” Eleanor giggled.
And Poppy breathed a sigh of relief. Everything she’d said about Sergei had been true, hadn’t it? She’d simply left out that one small bit about his involvement with the portrait she was trying to help Drummond retrieve.
Fortunately, Aunt Charlotte arrived just then, resplendent in her gold gown, and diverted the talk away from Sergei by passing out her new version of the Spinster bylaws for the ladies to place in their reticules, with a strict reminder that wisdom was imperative in all Spinsters and couldn’t always be accrued in sufficient amounts by age twenty-one without some effort at seeking it.
Which led her into a speech about acquiring as much experience as possible as soon as possible—from traveling to studying to flirting with interesting men … as long as that flirtation didn’t involve …
Disrobing.
“It leads to all sorts of complications,” their club advisor insisted. “Especially if the man in question is—how shall I say?—endowed with qualities you can’t really appreciate until you see them. Or, um, until you see it. It could be simply one quality. A very nice quality.”
Her brow puckered, and she trailed off.
“Do tell us more,” Beatrice insisted.
“Yes,” Eleanor agreed.
Poppy was highly intrigued, as well. She had a suspicion now what that one intriguing quality might be—after having pressed close to Drummond, she could hardly not be aware of it. In fact, the thought of that one quality in Drummond made her a bit weak in the knees.
But the shocking, titillating talk was interrupted by the arrival in the drawing room of Lord Derby, who greeted the party of ladies cordially. Only Poppy could tell that her papa wasn’t used to having guests for dinner. There was a certain endearing awkwardness in his manner that he usually lacked.
The next guests to arrive were Lord Wyatt and several of Papa’s old friends from his Cambridge days. Lord Wyatt kept the conversation lively with stories about his expansive castles in Devon and Cornwall, both on vast properties he’d recently acquired. Papa didn’t appear to know what to do with his old friends other than talk politics, which Poppy knew he could do in his sleep. Nevertheless, they seemed to enjoy his company, and he theirs.
“Good idea,” Aunt Charlotte whispered to her at one point. One of Papa’s friends had asked to bring his widowed sister. The woman was pretty and lively, with a tendency to laugh easily, and Papa seemed quite comfortable and jolly himself in her company.
But where was Drummond? And where were Sergei, Natasha, and the Lievens? Poppy could barely stand the suspense. She did her best to be a cheerful hostess, but her stomach was doing flip-flops.
Finally, a carriage was heard arriving out front.
Poppy was terribly excited. She stood, smoothed down her lovely gown, and waited.
Kettle appeared in the drawing room door, announced the party, and she saw—
Drummond and Natasha together.
Whatever for?
But before she could even wonder, she saw that Natasha was wearing her gown.
All of the blood in Poppy’s face rushed to her feet. She gulped, stung by the depth of her hurt.
How could she?
How could Natasha be so cruel?
And then embarrassment spread through Poppy from head to toe, scalding her face red. This was clearly no accident. She’d been played for a fool. And the worst of it was, the princess looked far more compelling a figure than she did. Natasha wore the dress dampened—dampened—to a perfectly respectable dinner party. A magnificent emerald necklace dangled between her breasts and glinted in the candlelight, calling every man’s attention in the room to her ample bosom.
“I’m sorry we’re late.” Natasha tossed her elegantly coiffed head. “Nicky here insisted on driving me himself.”
Poppy gulped. Nicky? She exchanged discreet looks with both Eleanor and Beatrice, both of whom conveyed to her with their eyes that they understood exactly how awful the situation was.
Drummond cleared his throat. “It was what any gentleman would d
o, Your Highness, when a lady sends an appeal for an escort.”
Natasha laughed. “You should give yourself more credit, Nicky. You went above and beyond to make me comfortable”—she drew a hand along his arm and gave a breathy sigh—“for which I thank you.”
This was too much. Poppy took a slow, discreet breath. The Duke of Drummond was her fiancé—at least for the time being. How dare the Russian princess act as if she were his lover?
She’d little time to fume, however, because Kettle announced the rest of the missing guests, the Lievens and Sergei. Countess Lieven was a supreme hostess herself, and both she and her husband were well acquainted with Lord Derby. Introductions were easy, but they eyed Poppy’s gown with faintly bemused expressions.
It was humiliating, to say the least.
Sergei looked back and forth between her and his sister. “Who cares about my sister’s gown?” he said in jovial fashion for all the company to hear. “She may have a bigger bosom, but she has only a duke to admire her, while you have a prince, Lady Poppy.”
Heavens, was that meant to be a compliment to her? If so, it was the rudest one she’d ever received, and it was an obvious slight to Drummond, as well.
There was an awkward silence.
It was her duty as hostess to cover it up, wasn’t it?
“Um, it won’t be long before dinner,” she said but could think of nothing scintillating to add.
Fortunately, Aunt Charlotte, Beatrice, and Eleanor took over. They began small conversations here and there, so that a few minutes later, it was as if her embarrassment had never happened.
“My little Spinster,” the prince murmured for her ears only in a corner of the drawing room, “you do look delectable. Have you thought any more about my proposition?”
“No, I haven’t,” she whispered back. “Because I’m not interested. I told you already. We’re friends only.”
It was at moments like this that Poppy most missed her mother. Mama would have come up with a sparkling comment about the gowns to make all the company laugh and feel at ease. She wouldn’t have needed her aunt and her friends’ help. Mama also would have devised a proper set-down for Sergei that would have shamed him and kept him well-behaved.
And later, after everyone had left, she would have wrapped her arms around Poppy and told her she could cry all she liked about having a bosom smaller than Natasha’s—there were some things a girl simply didn’t have to apologize for.
But Mama wasn’t here.
Poppy bent the fingers of her right hand so she could feel her mother’s rings squeeze into her palm. She made the decision to focus on her party, to be a superb hostess despite the fact that it had gotten off to a bad start.
So she brushed past Sergei and went straightaway to Natasha, hoping to ease the tension. “What a droll coincidence we’ve chosen the same gown,” she said warmly.
Natasha shrugged. “It’s of no consequence to me. But perhaps it should be to you.”
Poppy’s hand itched to slap the smug expression off the princess’s face, and her stomach roiled with the new and unexpected crisis of confidence. But she would deal with it as any good hostess would.
“You’re entirely correct,” she said, then excused herself from the room and hastened to the stairs. But she was stopped from ascending them by a hand on her elbow.
“Just where do you think you’re going?”
It was Drummond.
Her heart began to hammer. He’d been instrumental in her choosing to throw a dinner party tonight. And now she wasn’t sure she could carry it off.
She schooled her expression into a cool smile and turned. “I’m changing my gown.”
Drummond rolled his eyes. “Only women would call wearing identical dresses a disaster, but even so, the damage is already done. Why bother?”
She inhaled a breath. “Because it will diffuse the tension everyone is feeling. Besides, I can’t compare—”
“You’re right,” he interrupted her. “You can’t. Which is one reason the princess is so jealous of you and is milking the situation.”
“She’s hardly jealous. She looks much more—”
“Much more jaded than you, for starters. But enough of her. I’m your guest, too. So what about my comfort?”
“What about it?”
“I’d like a kiss. And a glimpse up your skirt. If not that, a squeeze of your bottom.”
“Absolutely not.” She made a face at him. “Leave me be. I’m going upstairs now.”
She’d better. Part of her desperately wanted him to squeeze her bottom, she realized. She lifted her hem and started walking quickly up the stairs.
“Fine,” he called up to her in a low tone. “Just know that if you change your gown, you’ll be telling Natasha that you agree she’s better than you. And for that, I’ll punish you by kissing you in front of all the company. We’re engaged, after all.”
She stopped climbing. She knew Natasha wasn’t better than she was. But wouldn’t a good hostess alleviate her guests’ discomfort?
“I’m only being a good hostess,” she said, not looking at him.
“Is that so? Then I wish all good hostesses to perdition. We have enough cowards in this world as it is.”
She bit her lip. The truth was, she was changing her gown because she felt second-best. Not because she wanted to be a good hostess.
It was a lowering thought.
“I’m serious,” Drummond went on. “Change gowns, and I’ll kiss you senseless in front of the countess. Who knows when you’ll get into Almack’s?”
“I told you—I don’t care about Almack’s.” Poppy gripped the stair railing and closed her eyes. She felt so confused. What would Mama have done about the gown debacle?
The picture came very quickly.
I’d have held my head up high, dear, and not let a rude princess make me feel small, in the bosom or in my character. You’re a Derby, and don’t ever forget it.
She must face the disconcerting truth. Drummond, rude man that he was, was right. And Mama would have completely agreed with him.
Poppy mustn’t let Natasha get to her.
And even though the duke was wise in his own way, Poppy certainly didn’t want him stealing any kisses, either. It was all well and good to make Lady Caldwell and Lord Caldwell think they were in love, but not the rest of the world.
She turned back around, descended the stairs, and swept by him.
“You’re incorrigible,” she muttered, and returned to the drawing room, aware of his low, amused laughter the whole way.
CHAPTER 22
Nicholas sat opposite Poppy in the middle of the table. He was glad she hadn’t changed gowns, even if it meant he couldn’t carry through on his threat to kiss her in front of all the company.
She tapped a knife on her wine glass, and the table chatter died down. Sergei, who sat between her best friends, gazed at her with a mix of possessiveness and barely disguised lust. Nicholas had seen Natasha attempt to switch place cards and place her brother next to Poppy, but Beatrice and Eleanor had come behind her and, in charming tones, had insisted on keeping the prince between them.
Little did the princess know her strategy to encourage Poppy’s interest in her silly brother wouldn’t work—at least, not any longer. Poppy appeared completely oblivious to Sergei’s charms, what there were of them.
“Tonight’s meal,” she said, her cheeks a becoming pink, “is composed of Russian dishes, in honor of our Russian guests.” She hesitated a moment, then added, “And in memory of my mother, who spent her last days as a happy wife with my father in St. Petersburg.”
Lord Derby sat up as if jolted.
Poppy beamed at him, but his face was stern. Implacable.
Nicholas’s heart sank. Poor Poppy. She wasn’t having much luck tonight, was she? But at least everyone else made the appropriate murmur of interest at her announcement, except for Natasha. Not that he was surprised at that. If she were a cat, she’d be spitting at her hostess t
his very moment.
The servants brought in the first course, cabbage soup, or shchi.
He sampled it—it was tasty enough.
“A traditional first course in Russia,” Poppy said. “Is that not so, Princess?”
Nicholas felt a burst of admiration. Good for her for not shying away from Natasha.
“Yes, you could say that,” the princess answered. “Although”—she took one sip from her spoon and laid it down—“if it is not prepared in a Russian oven, it is not true shchi.”
Nicholas cast a subtle glance at Poppy. Her face was smooth, but her mouth was rather frozen in place. He wished he could take Natasha aside and teach her some manners—by ejecting her from the party. He wished he could do a lot of things …
But duty constrained him. Duty to the Service. To his country. To his family name.
He drained a glass of wine too quickly to forget his discontent, which was easy enough, as course after course followed, all authentic Russian dishes. He found them delicious and robust, cleverly prepared, and presented by Poppy with a touchingly sincere appreciation for Russian culture and cuisine.
“Count, Countess,” he said at one point, “I understand you have many Russian treasures at your home.”
“Yes, we do have amazing treasures,” Count Lieven said. “And when Prince Sergei chooses to share it with us, we shall soon be watching over the portrait by Revnik.”
“How delightful.” Poppy smiled. “All of London can’t wait to see it.”
“The night of the ball, the portrait shall be revealed in all its glory,” said the countess. “You and the rest of London may bask in it then.”
“And not a moment before,” said Natasha, sending a steely glance Poppy’s way.
Nicholas detected a faint bit of disappointment in Poppy’s eyes, so he raised a glass in her direction. “Splendid meal,” he said.
There was a chorus of assents and compliments made to the cook, although none came from Lord Derby—Nicholas hoped no one else noticed—or Natasha, who made her displeasure clear.
“Of course,” the princess said with a sniff, “we prefer to use a French chef at home. His chicken Kiev and veal Orloff have no compare.”
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