“Ch-chicken Kiev? Veal Orloff?” Poppy said, her hand fingering the beads at her neck.
“Franco-Russian cuisine,” Natasha explained. “The preferred cuisine of the Russian elite.”
“Although rustic Russian dishes do have their charm,” Sergei said, sucking on a bone and grinning.
Rustic.
Nicholas saw Poppy try not to wince at the word.
“I adore rustic,” Lady Charlotte piped up.
“So do I,” said Beatrice.
Eleanor, Lord Derby’s Cambridge friends, Lord Wyatt, and the Lievens agreed, as well.
But Nicholas could tell Poppy was bereft. The twins—and her father—had taken away her fun.
He felt enraged on her behalf. But there was nothing he could do.
He hated that feeling. He burned, yearned, to do something to make her feel better.
Perhaps to diffuse the tension, Lady Charlotte hit the side of her wine glass with a knife, and the table went quiet. “And now,” she said, “I’d like to conclude the meal by asking the newly betrothed couple, Nicholas and Poppy, to share a kiss for their adoring family and friends.”
Poppy looked at her aunt as if she’d been asked to jump off a cliff.
Lady Charlotte merely smiled. And then she locked eyes with Nicholas. What was the old girl up to? he wondered. Surely she was aware her niece didn’t want to marry him.
Poppy cleared her throat. “It’s probably not a good idea.” She flicked her eyes at the Countess Lieven.
“Oh, yes it is,” the countess said with a sweet smile, looking back and forth between him and Poppy. “Go right ahead.”
Nicholas was surprised at her amenable reaction, considering how stuffy she was at Almack’s. Perhaps it was Poppy’s affinity for Russia that had softened the countess’s usually strict rules about propriety.
“Very well,” he said with a grin, and stood. But inside, as he walked around the table, he felt anything but lighthearted. Lady Charlotte had set before him a task that he didn’t think he could accomplish. Poppy got no comfort from him. He rubbed her the wrong way. He’d forced her into an engagement, after all.
He couldn’t make her happy.
She almost cowered when he approached but then must have thought better of it. He took her hand and pulled her up from her chair.
The tension in the air was palpable.
She looked into his eyes—hers were full of confusion and definite reluctance—but what could he do?
He would kiss her.
And when he did, he would try, to the best of his ability, to make her feel happy and relaxed, even though the circumstances of the kiss were awkward and she felt anything but.
He pulled her close and touched his lips to hers.
It’s just me, he tried to convey.
Nicholas.
Forget everything else. Forget your father’s stern face, and Natasha’s rude comments. Forget Sergei’s leers and remember …
Remember that you’re beautiful. And kind. And fun. And …
The most interesting girl I’ve ever known.
Miraculously, she softened and relaxed, and then …
She was kissing him back. Kissing him as if she needed him somehow.
He needed her, too.
God, did he need her!
The kiss was fairly chaste, however, to those who watched. He was sure of it. But the jolt of connection he’d felt with her had been real.
An intimate message between the two of them.
Too bad it was in a code he couldn’t fully understand.
As if by mutual agreement, they parted.
Her face was flushed. His hands were sweating.
She sank back into her chair, and there was the sound of one pair of hands clapping. He glanced around and saw that it was Lady Charlotte, who was grinning ear to ear. And then the others clapped, too.
Nicholas looked around the table. Sergei’s enthusiasm was obviously feigned, as was Natasha’s, but everyone else’s was genuine.
He felt drained somehow—confused—and was glad to find his seat.
He and Poppy avoided looking at each other for the rest of the meal, but he was very aware of her presence. The meal ended with fruit, nuts, and cheese, as well as a delicious Russian dessert and a spirited discussion about the latest play at Drury Lane from almost everyone but Natasha.
“Didn’t you and Drummond see that play?” Lord Derby asked Poppy.
God, that was the night they’d gone to the top of St. Paul’s.
Poppy smiled. “Yes, indeed.”
Nicholas kept his fingers crossed.
“What did you think of it, Lady Poppy?” Lord Wyatt seemed anxious to hear her opinion.
Poppy touched the edge of her bodice and cleared her throat. “It was delightful.”
Count Lieven drew in his chin. “Even with that sad ending? And the murder scene?”
Poppy gave a little laugh. “Oh, those.” She waved a hand. “The rest was a lark, and the ending was apropos, so I consider it delightful to have a sad ending if it works. Don’t you agree?”
Nicholas restrained a grin. He looked at Eleanor and Beatrice and saw they appeared very confused by Poppy’s answer, too. But then in the next instant, Beatrice flung her elbow out when she raised her wine glass and knocked Sergei’s arm, which shoved the apple he’d raised to his lips against his teeth.
“Ow,” he exclaimed, staring at her. Then he rubbed his gums.
“Oh, dear,” Beatrice murmured. “I’m so sorry.”
Sergei puckered his brow. “All right.”
He picked up the apple again, and then from the other side, Eleanor knocked an entire glass of wine into his lap.
“What the devil?” He stood, his brows lowered and his face reddening. “You two are dangerous.”
A footman rushed over with a serving cloth. Sergei vigorously wiped himself down, threw the cloth back at the footman, and in a great sulk, sat back down.
“I’m so sorry,” Eleanor said to him, her hand to her gaping mouth.
Funny, her eyes didn’t look sorry. Nicholas cast a glance at Beatrice and then Poppy. Neither of them looked sorry, either. In fact, Poppy had her wine glass to her lips, but he could detect the barest twinkle in her eye.
She was in on this somehow.
The minx.
In the midst of the tension, Kettle came in with a message for Lord Derby and Lord Wyatt. They’d been called away to another important late-night meeting.
“We shall all depart,” Sergei declared. “Everyone, rise. Sitting in wet breeches is not comfortable, and if I must depart—”
“So shall everyone else,” finished Natasha with a toss of her head.
Sergei directed a dark look at Eleanor and Beatrice, both of whom murmured their apologies once more.
At the door, Lord Wyatt thanked Poppy for a delightful evening, made a gracious bow, and said he’d go ahead to the meeting and see Lord Derby there shortly. The Cambridge contingent were also perfectly proper in their thanks.
Behind them, Count Lieven said, “I hope we do this again.”
“We shall also have you for tea very soon,” the countess assured Poppy. “Can you come?”
“Your duke, too,” added the count with a chuckle.
“I’d be thrilled,” said Poppy, smiling a real smile for the first time in an hour. She looked up at Nicholas with a genuine gleam of satisfaction in her eye.
She’d done well, very well, to have received such an invitation.
But he merely nodded graciously at the Lievens. “I look forward to it. Thank you very much.”
Natasha had become even more sullen than usual since he’d kissed Poppy. Now she kept her thanks to a minimum and swept by Nicholas without a word.
Good.
He needn’t put up with her flirtations anymore. He’d been invited to the Lievens’ home, and the twins dared not take that portrait when they knew the Lievens were so looking forward to showing it off.
Sergei, on th
e other hand, apparently had forgotten his momentary pique and fervently raised Poppy’s hand to his mouth to kiss it. “Next time I insist on being here before everyone else arrives,” he said, “to sample the most delicious morsels first.”
Nicholas clenched his jaw.
Delicious morsels.
He knew what delicious morsels Sergei was talking about. He was staring at them—Poppy’s breasts, which were exposed to perfection in her gown, just enough creamy white skin to get a man wanting to see the rest.
Deuce take it, the prince deserved a beating, and if Nicholas weren’t surrounded by lovely people with delicate sensibilities, he’d have pounded him right then and there.
When every last guest was gone, except for him—and he wasn’t really a guest, he was practically a member of the family, wasn’t he?—Poppy shut the front door and turned to her father and Lady Charlotte.
“I hope you enjoyed yourselves,” she said, her brow furrowed with concern.
Her aunt hugged her. “Of course I did. You were a splendid hostess. Although Princess Natasha is a churlish sort.” She turned to Nicholas. “She appeared quite fond of you, Drummond.”
Was he supposed to answer that somehow?
His cravat felt suddenly tight. “Did she?” was all he replied. “I hadn’t noticed.”
His answer apparently satisfied because no one pursued the subject.
“Papa.” Poppy tugged on Lord Derby’s arm like a little girl. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“The meal was serviceable,” he granted, vaguely patting her arm, “although you know I prefer English dishes.” He hesitated. “I need no reminders of our time in Russia, daughter. They pain me.”
Poppy visibly deflated. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know they caused you hurt, Papa.”
He cleared his throat. “Don’t waste time worrying about me.”
“Of course I worry about you! Did—did you not enjoy seeing your friends?” she stumbled on. “And meeting that lovely widow?”
His lips thinned. “I don’t need to meet any widows, but as for my friends, yes, it was good to see them. Thank you for arranging it. Perhaps we can do that again. Someday.”
“Really?” Nicholas saw a tiny glimmer of hope in Poppy’s eyes.
“Yes, really,” her father said, his voice softening just a tad. “I know you mean well, so no regrets about tonight.”
He chucked her chin, and Poppy nodded, a small, genuine smile on her lips.
Lord Derby then turned to Nicholas. “I’m off to that meeting with Wyatt now. Kettle will see you out, or you may stay a few moments if you’d like. There’s brandy in the library. Poppy can show you my new atlas.”
Nicholas inclined his head. “Thank you, sir.”
The privileges of the betrothed. He must be in good standing with Lord Derby. Must have been that political talk they’d had the other night. It could be, too, that Lord Derby realized his daughter wasn’t the sort of young lady that made a man’s life … easier.
“I think I shall head upstairs with Aunt Charlotte.” Poppy yawned behind her hand. “I’m rather tired. Sorry, Drummond.”
“Not quite yet, daughter,” Lord Derby chided her. “You’ve given three hours tonight to your Russian guests—let your English betrothed have five minutes.”
Nicholas was tempted to smirk, but he knew it would only rile Poppy.
Lady Charlotte kissed his cheek. “Who needs Russian princes with you around?” she whispered in his ear.
Gad. If only Poppy had heard that. She’d have been none too pleased.
Of course, he himself was. He enjoyed Lady Charlotte’s company and felt almost proud that he was gaining acceptance amid the other members of the household—with the exception of Kettle and Cook, and, um, his own fiancée.
True to form, after Lady Charlotte and Lord Derby said good night, Kettle made it very clear with a quelling glance that he’d stay within calling distance of Poppy should she need him.
Kettle was a very intelligent butler.
When Nicholas and Poppy entered the library, he poured himself a brandy, and for her, a small glass of ratafia.
“You did splendidly,” he said.
“Thank you.” She gave him a brilliant smile. “We succeeded in some ways. All right, perhaps not with the food—and the gown was a disaster—”
“And Sergei seemed to run into some very unfortunate problems,” he interrupted her.
She had the grace to blush.
“But we’ll get to see the Lievens’ home,” she said. “And even Papa said he managed to have a good time, in his own fashion. Although he’s still very touchy, isn’t he? About Mama.” She sank into a chair and stared at the small fire burning in the grate, the glass dangling from her hand. “Overall, however, I’m pleased.”
“You should be.” Nicholas knelt before her and took her hand. “Neither the food nor the conversation nor your gown mattered tonight as much as your intent. Your goal was to make your guests feel at home, and that can never be criticized. I’m sure your mother would have been very proud for how well you succeeded.”
She gave him a pensive smile. “Thank you.” She squeezed his hand. “But if you don’t mind, I really am tired. I’d like to go to bed.”
He backed up only enough to give her room to stand.
When she stood, they locked gazes.
“Did you think that kiss Lady Charlotte demanded of us was a disaster—or a success?” he asked her.
She looked down for a moment, then back up. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “It’s the only part of the evening that I can’t peg as either one.”
“Before you go up,” he said, “I’d like to show you something that might help you decide.”
“What is it?”
He pulled a lock of hair off her face. “The real meaning of thrilled.”
CHAPTER 23
Nicholas pulled Poppy close. The fire was at his back, heating his calves. But he had another fire inside, one that had been banked all night until he could get her alone, and it was now burning high.
He held still a moment and listened for Kettle on the other side of the half-closed library door. The butler was whistling through his teeth at his station near the front door.
Good.
As long as Nicholas knew Kettle’s whereabouts, he could do what he so wanted to do. He leaned down and kissed Poppy’s neck right below her ear.
She let out a sigh.
He kissed her once, a playful, openmouthed kiss that she responded to by melting into him. When he pulled back, he smiled inwardly. She obviously wasn’t as tired as she thought she was. Her eyes flickered and heated with want.
“I need you to trust me,” he said. “Will you?”
She looked at him with wide eyes and nodded.
Silently, he crouched on his haunches and pulled up her gown, exposing her jeweled slippers. He inched the gown’s slithery, beaded smoothness slowly up her legs. All the while, his hands held her close, and he dropped little kisses on her calves, then her knees, and finally her thighs.
Her breathing was jagged, which pleased him. He looked up, hoped his eyes told her he was enjoying himself immensely, and put an index finger to his mouth.
She swallowed, nodded, then bit her lip.
Gently, he pushed her legs farther apart, which—wonder of wonders—exposed her fully to him. Already hardened with desire, his need went up another notch, but he would ignore it.
Tonight was for her alone.
Lost in the sweet scent of her and the soft miracle of her skin, he kissed the insides of her thighs, going slowly higher, until he reached her most tender spot. He nuzzled it—she whimpered—and then he flicked it with his tongue.
She let out a gasp.
He stopped moving.
Kettle was still whistling.
Nicholas pulled back and motioned for Poppy to put her hand over her mouth. With a shaky hand, she did just that, and he went back to what was becoming his greatest delight—pleasuri
ng her.
He blew on her first.
She moaned again. Softly.
And then he probed her with his tongue, going deeper.
And deeper.
Her legs began to buckle, so he stopped, listened for Kettle, who was now whistling a sea ditty, and took the opportunity to stand and move Poppy gently back to the chair. “You’ll need to be very, very quiet,” he whispered to her.
She nodded, and he pushed her legs wide apart.
Her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, she kept that hand clamped over her mouth.
He couldn’t help grinning at her obedience—she so rarely listened to him. But he had little time to gloat. She chuckled behind her hand.
“Sssh.” He stared sternly at her and she resumed her quiet posture, although her eyes were full of mischief.
The minx.
With only the whisper of the fire, the ticking of the clock on the mantel, and Kettle’s occasional whistling as a backdrop, Nicholas gave the sensual game all he was worth.
Within seconds, Poppy had her free hand in his hair. Thirty more seconds of well-timed teasing with his tongue, and he could only tell he’d brought her to pleasure by the way she arched her back and held herself suspended, which brought her sweetest flesh even closer to his mouth.
He gave one last plunge of his tongue into her womanly depths at the same time she was peaking, and only wished it were the length of him inside her.
But that would come another time. He felt determined it would be so.
She might not think she was marrying him, but blast it, if he had to marry to keep his job, there was only one woman who interested him whatsoever.
Poppy.
He might not love her, but she fascinated him. And he wouldn’t give up trying to win her until he had her lying naked on a rug somewhere in front of a fire and they were coming to completion together.
For now, he’d have to be satisfied with teaching her the art of love without his full participation.
She sank back down and let out one long, slow breath.
Gently, carefully, he pulled down her skirt and stood.
“That, my dear, is thrilled,” he said. “Every time you tell Sergei or his sister you’re thrilled to see them, please remember what thrilled really is, and remember you experienced it with me.”
Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right Page 16