But it didn’t.
She stole a glance at his perfect lips. She’d heard from her aunt’s maid, who’d heard from the maid of a widow who’d had an affair with him, that he was a splendid kisser.
“We should,” she said with a little intake of breath, “were we to marry.”
Lord Eversly arched an eyebrow. “Aren’t we?”
“No, we aren’t,” she said in a small voice.
“What?” The earl’s voice became a mere squeak.
Poppy bit her lip. It was always at this point she reminded herself of the Spinsters Club and the vow she’d made with her two very best friends, Lady Eleanor Gibbs and Lady Beatrice Bentley. None of them would marry except for love.
And then, to inspire herself further, she imagined herself kissing Sergei.
“I can’t marry you,” she said to Lord Eversly, feeling braver now. “I’m so sorry.”
And she did feel sorry. He was such a dear.
He winced. “But your father said—”
Poppy blinked. “He doesn’t know.”
“Doesn’t know what?”
She was reluctant to hurt him, but she told her usual story. “I’m to be engaged,” she said. “And it’s a love match. Surely you understand.”
“I demand to know his name,” the earl said rather breathlessly.
Sergei, she wanted to say. But instead she said, “The Duke of Drummond.” Her tone was firm but gentle. She’d been through this scenario many times before.
Her other suitors believed she’d met the Duke of Drummond on a walking tour she’d taken in the Cotswolds, but he was totally fictitious, actually, a product of Cook’s lurid imagination. Cook enjoyed making up tales as she stirred her pots and chopped her vegetables, but that was part of her charm (if a floury-faced, wild-haired harridan in the kitchen who tippled occasionally could be called charming).
Indeed, just this morning, Cook had told Poppy another outlandish tale about the duke. Poppy already knew he was the mightiest, fiercest duke ever to have walked the earth. And she knew as well that his ancestral castle jutted out over a cliff above the swirling waters of the North Sea. According to Cook, he’d murdered his brother so he could become duke, and to forget his guilt, regularly plunged off this cliff for a swim. Occasionally, he came back up from the depths with a writhing sea creature under his arm, usually one with large, snapping teeth.
Today, Poppy learned the dreaded duke had even fought an octopus the size of a Royal Mail coach—and won.
“Did you say the Duke of Drummond?” the earl demanded.
Poppy yawned. “Yes, he rusticates somewhere far away.”
Eversly drew in his chin. “Never heard of him.”
“He’s quite wicked.”
“Wicked?” The earl raised his brow.
“Wickedly handsome, that is,” Poppy recovered. She thought again of Sergei. “We met three years ago. Remember the year I missed that impromptu boat race on the Thames?”
“Oh, yes. I do recall. My side won, actually. I had a prime spot at the front of the boat, and Miles Fosberry fell in the river. We couldn’t fish him out until we’d finished.”
“Right.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “Well, while you and your team were rowing past your less-favored acquaintances, I was on a walking tour of the Cotswolds. The duke was on one, too. We met at a village fair.”
“But your father—” The earl’s brow puckered. “Lord Derby never mentioned it. He said you were free to accept my offer.”
“Drummond hasn’t exactly offered for me yet,” she explained. “But he’s”—she paused—“on the verge.”
She’d been quite clever to have come up with that phrase—on the verge. Her previous suitors had found it suitably vague, so that when they saw her dancing for weeks and months—and some, for years after her rejection of them—they didn’t think to question her story.
“It’s simply a matter of time,” she said. “I’ve never told my father. It’s my secret”—she laid a hand on her heart—“my secret of the heart.” She allowed her voice to go a bit trembly. “And I’m not willing to reveal it yet, even to Papa.”
Lord Derby would be furious, of course, that she’d turned down the earl’s suit. But surely he’d recover. He was far too busy toiling away for England to waste time being angry at her for long, especially if she cried and told him she was waiting for a true love match, like his and Mama’s.
The earl looked down at his well-polished Hessian boots, and when he looked up again, his gaze was both besotted and disappointed.
“I still like you,” Poppy protested. “As a friend. This little…engagement thing between us—let’s forget it, shall we? I’ll see you throughout the Season, won’t I? We can share a waltz.” Although her dream was to share her next waltz with Sergei.
She dared to lean forward and give Eversly a small kiss on his cheek. She wasn’t one to dispense her kisses lightly, and the whole ton knew this of her.
“I shall hold you to that waltz,” the earl said, a little gruff. She could tell he genuinely cared for her. Nevertheless, his old good cheer sneaked back into his tone.
“I look forward to it.” She smiled. “Meanwhile, I know I can count on you to be discreet. Please don’t say a word to anyone about our…conversation.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” The earl bowed and left the drawing room without another word.
She waited a few seconds for Kettle to open the front door, then she ran to the window and looked out. Lord Eversly descended the front steps rather slowly. Poppy recognized that walk. It was the gait of a jilted bachelor. She’d induced it in many men.
But by the time he ascended the steps of his fine carriage waiting on the street, the earl’s pace had picked up to his regular jolly one. And why shouldn’t it? He was a wealthy, handsome peer of the realm with tremendous charm. Plenty of women would accept his suit. Why, she’d put a bug in several girls’ ears this very week.
She turned around to see Aunt Charlotte standing in the door, a loose curl from her wig hanging in her eye and making her look quite the scamp. “I heard every word,” she whispered loudly. “I’m so proud of you for following your heart. But—”
“But what?”
“We’re doomed. I hope your emergency suitcase is packed.”
“It is,” Poppy said in a thin voice.
“You know the procedure. Now that Waterloo is behind us, Spinsters in untenable situations no longer retreat to the north of Scotland. We’re forced to go to Paris!”
Aunt Charlotte appeared delighted at the prospect.
“Poppy?” It was her father’s voice. She could hear him in his boots, clomping down the hall toward the drawing room. “That wasn’t the earl leaving, was it? I’ve brandy and cigars in the library to celebrate your betrothal.”
Outside, Lord Eversly’s coachman cracked his whip, and he was gone.
But Poppy’s problems had only begun.
Acknowledgments
I’m so excited to be able to thank the many kind people who’ve helped me become a published writer:
My fun and fiesty agent, Jenny Bent: I can’t adequately express how grateful I am to her for launching me on this journey.
My brilliant editor, Jennifer Enderlin: a bedrock of support and inspiration always. Her mentorship has meant the world to me.
The team at St. Martin’s Press: they’re simply fabulous, and it’s a honor to work with such caring, talented people.
My fellow writers, especially my friends at Lowcountry Romance Writers of America—every member has great stories to tell—and the Beau Monde chapter of RWA, in particular, Nancy Mayer and Sue Pace.
A special thank you to Cherry Adair for first picking my contest entry out of a pile and sending me to the national RWA conference. She has one of the biggest hearts of anyone I know.
I’d also like to thank other writers who have inspired me with their awesome talent, wisdom, fortitude, and grace: Debbie Macomber, Jennifer Crusie, Nora Robert
s, Jane Porter, Christina Dodd, J.R. Ward, Jayne Ann Krentz, Susan Elizabeth Phillips, JoAnn Grote, Sharon Brennan Wray, Susan Wiggs, and Virginia Kantra. There are more, so many that I can’t name them all here. Every writer I’ve met has gifted me with something of herself, even if it’s simply the acknowledgment that we share the joys and angsts only writers can know.
Of course, without my family none of this would have happened at all. A special shout-out to my sister Kristin, who organized a sibling gift to me, my first laptop, so I could take my stories anywhere. My husband Chuck and my children, Steven, Margaret, and Jack, have provided me with endless hugs, encouraging words, and cups of tea. The rest of my family, on both sides, have also been unflagging in their support. I love you all!
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
WHEN HARRY MET MOLLY
Copyright © 2010 by Kieran Kramer.
Excerpt from Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right copyright © 2010 by Kieran Kramer.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 978-0-312-61164-4
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
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