“I’m sure Lord Crowley or Sir Benjamin would be happy to oblige.” He moved on, ignoring the princess’s loud sigh.
But his efforts to disentangle himself came too late. Lady Poppy had disappeared.
CHAPTER 5
Poppy thanked God she had a strong constitution. Her momentary dizziness had been almost instantly replaced by a strong survival instinct—
To flee.
She gave Prince Sergei a flimsy excuse—her hem had come down—and left him before he’d had a chance to reply.
“Lady Poppy!” Lord Cranston called to her. He’d been the first suitor to have proposed to her at Vauxhall. “Your duke is here.”
“Yes, we shall finally meet him,” said the gentleman next to him, Sir Gordon, who’d proposed to her at the haberdasher’s.
And straight ahead she saw Lord Winsbury and Lord Beech, the Corinthians who’d proposed to her on horseback. And to their left was the pompous Marquess of Stansbury, who’d proposed to her over tea in her drawing room.
She pretended not to hear either Lord Cranston or Sir Gordon, and she must steer clear of Lords Winsbury and Beech and the Marquess of Stansbury. In fact, she must leave the ball immediately.
But the stairs to the front hall were blocked by a cluster of four more of her old suitors—Lord Greenwood, Sir Jared, Baron Hall, and Lord Nottingham—all of whom were staring avidly at the Duke of Drummond and searching the ballroom—
For her, no doubt.
Fear was a new thing for Poppy. She despised it. It took all enjoyment away. She was tempted to cry, but she threw off that idea and put on her most neutral expression instead.
Beatrice and Eleanor came up to her, their brows smooth but their eyes alight with surprise and concern.
Eleanor laid a hand on Poppy’s arm. “We don’t understand what’s going on with this duke who calls himself Drummond. We thought he wasn’t real.”
“I thought so, too,” Poppy said in an anguished whisper. “I’m done listening to Cook. She tells tales—tales that are supposed to be tales but they’re true.”
“Too true,” said Beatrice with a shudder, looking over her shoulder, presumably for the Duke of Drummond. “So they’re not tales, after all.”
“But Cook pretends they are.” Eleanor nodded.
“Which is telling tales, isn’t it?” Poppy hissed.
“No matter,” said Beatrice, all business. “Let’s get you out of here.”
“The only way out without attracting notice is through the gardens,” Eleanor whispered.
“So I’ve surmised,” Poppy said. “I was heading there now.”
She’d sneak round to the front of the house and call a hackney, or if she were unable to, walk home. It was only two streets over.
“I’ll clear a way.” Beatrice did her best to find the path of least resistance toward the terrace.
They were almost to the double doors to the garden, which were flung wide open, when a large figure planted itself in front of the trio and blocked their way.
Lord Washburn. He’d been the one to have no breeches on when he’d proposed to her. He’d lost them in a drunken fight that had taken place in the basin of a fountain.
“We must talk, you and I,” he said to Poppy.
“I can’t.” She didn’t like the look in his eyes. He appeared drunk. Angry. Worthy of the reputation he had of being rather volatile.
“No, she can’t, Washburn,” said Beatrice breezily. “She’s ill.”
Eleanor gave him a stern look. “Please get out of our way.”
“I must ask a burning question first,” Washburn insisted. “The Duke of Drummond is here tonight, Lady Poppy. Yet you’re nowhere near him.”
She hesitated but a moment, not sure what to say, but it was enough of a pause for Lord Washburn.
“Ah.” He nodded his head sagely. “I see how it is.”
“No, you can’t possibly,” Poppy said.
He gripped her wrist. “He’s dishonored you. Cast you off.” His face was beet red. “How dare he.”
“You’ve got it all wrong, Washburn,” said Beatrice.
“And let go of her wrist.” Eleanor hit his arm with her reticule.
“Yes, Washburn,” Poppy said, “I’m not a child.”
“Fine, then.” Washburn glowered and dropped Poppy’s arm. “But you’re hiding something, my lady.”
Poppy inched closer to him. “My personal affairs are none of your concern,” she whispered, “but as you’re being quite vocal in your curiosity, I shall give you a short explanation. Drummond is simply busy this evening. As am I. We’ll meet on another day to discuss, um, our impending nuptials.” She made a move to the left, but Washburn cut her off again, his eyes blazing.
“You’re too good for him,” he said. “Duke or no duke, how could any man of breeding ignore you?”
She forced herself to smile, although she would have preferred to push past him and run. “That’s very kind of you to say, but my friends and I really must be going.”
He ignored her, turned, and called, “Drummond!”
Unfortunately into a lull. One of those rare lulls at a ball where the musicians are in the process of lifting their violins once more to their chins, when the women are taking another breath to gossip, and the men, to share information about their latest equine purchase at Tattersall’s.
The moment of stillness passed as quickly as it came, but there was no time to lose. Beatrice and Eleanor both elbowed Washburn in the side. Poppy managed to get in front of him, but he grabbed her arm. She twisted hard, kicked his ankle—“Ow!” he cried—and escaped.
Right into the path of the Duke of Drummond, who now stood before her, his face set in hard, unyielding lines, although she caught a glimmer of curiosity, and perhaps even amusement, in his eye.
“I’ll be glad to take you where you want to go, Lady Poppy,” he said in a dangerous voice that made her heart slam against her chest.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she responded, her chin in the air.
He knew, didn’t he? He knew she’d been pretending to be engaged to him for three years … that she’d been pretending to be madly in love with him, as a matter of fact.
Blast.
Whatever was about to happen next couldn’t possibly be good.
CHAPTER 6
Nicholas’s first thought when Lady Poppy stumbled into him was that he was a very lucky man. His future wife was gorgeous and ready for battle, her eyes snapping emerald fire and her breasts rising and falling above that low bodice with its winking diamond pendant.
Nothing like a worthy opponent with an abundance of sensual allure to make a man’s blood run hot.
She was flanked by two striking friends with the same confident look about them. He saw he’d have to force his agenda upon Lady Poppy quickly if he was to get anywhere at all.
Without preamble, he raised her hand to his lips and left a lingering kiss upon it. And why not? They were supposed to know each other very well. In fact, almost a dozen men at the ball thought they were on the verge of an engagement.
Her eyes flew open, and she appeared to be grappling for words, but nothing came out of her mouth. And no wonder. She was caught between a rock and a hard place, just as he was.
She was supposed to be in love with him.
He saw how much it cost her, that she couldn’t tell him to leave her alone.
Without preamble, he got down on one knee and pulled out his mother’s ring. The position felt as awkward as he’d imagined it.
“Wait.” The object of his quest laid a shaky hand over her heart. “What are you doing?”
“Yes, what is he doing?” Prince Sergei strode up with Lord Derby at his elbow. “Call him off, Derby. Your daughter looks none too pleased.”
“Not necessary, Your Highness,” Lord Derby said equably. “The Duke of Drummond has held the key to my daughter’s heart for three years now, and I’m most pleased he’s coming up to scratch.”
Sergei s
tared at Lady Poppy. “Is this true?”
She bit her lip. “Actually…” She gave a delicate snort. “It’s amusing, really. And quite a long story. Shall I … shall I tell it?”
“Go ahead,” Sergei urged her.
“Don’t torture yourself, Your Highness,” called someone in the crowd gathered behind Nicholas to watch the spectacle. He recognized the voice of Lord Eversly. “She told me the story herself just last week. Sadly for me, she’s in love with the fellow.”
“Not anymore,” Sergei said with a confident air. “Surely.”
And he looked at Poppy for confirmation that he was the culmination of any woman’s dreams.
Nicholas was tempted to roll his eyes.
Lady Poppy, meanwhile, stared at the prince, her strawberry lips parted. “Um, well, the duke and I,” she choked out. “We…”
She trailed off and looked back at Nicholas.
“We’re madly in love,” he said, taking her hand in his own. Then he gazed into her eyes and put on his best besotted grin. “Why, she’s my sunrise. And my sunset. She’s my everything.” He let out a long sigh. “And what am I to you, dearest darling?”
“I can think of no words,” she gritted out. “None at all.”
“That’s quite all right,” he said, with an understanding smile. “Love has made you speechless.” He grabbed Lady Poppy’s hand and winked.
“Just nod at the appropriate moment,” he whispered to her, then cleared his throat and said the words he had hoped he wouldn’t have to say for years to come. “Lady Poppy Smith-Barnes, will you be my wife?”
* * *
Poppy took in the large crowd gathered around her, Princess Natasha and Aunt Charlotte among them. She could hear everything, too—a tiny gasp from Beatrice, the random screech of a violin bow accidentally rubbed against a violin string, the cough of a gentleman behind her—and especially the pounding of her own heart in her ears.
The Duke of Drummond was proposing to her—after mouthing all sorts of sweet nothings to her?
Sweet nothings that had made her want to gag, incidentally, and box his ears—because they’d been entirely false. Somehow—
He’d found out.
She wished she were dreaming. She wished she could go back to her waltz with Sergei, where everything had seemed perfect. Surreptitiously, she pinched her thigh through her gown to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
Her heart sank. Nothing changed. Drummond was still there on bended knee, staring at her with that smarmy look that made her want to slap him across that freshly shaven cheek of his.
Papa (how had he found out?), Sergei, her best friends, Aunt Charlotte, even Natasha … all of them were waiting.
This was really happening. But Poppy had no idea how. Or why. Cook had made those stories up. Hadn’t she? And even if the duke were real—why would he be proposing? She had no time to think on the matter. He needed an answer, obviously.
Right now.
“I—” She knew she should say yes. All her suitors would not only not scoff at her—they would commend her for staying faithful to her supposedly one true love, who happened to be extremely eligible. She’d be a duchess and married to a man so handsome that just looking at him sideways took her breath away. She couldn’t even describe what happened to her when she looked at him head-on, when her eyes locked on to his unfathomable gray ones.
But she was a Spinster. She would marry only for love.
She straightened her spine, prepared to say no as graciously as possible—no matter the consequences. Eleanor, Beatrice, and Aunt Charlotte would support her.
“Yes!” shouted someone from the stairs.
Poppy looked up.
It was Prinny—he’d arrived late, and was carrying his usual open bottle of wine. “Is that Drummond on bended knee?” he cried.
“Yes, Your Highness,” the wily duke called up to him. “I’m proposing to a young lady.”
Prinny laughed. “She says yes, yes, yes! She’ll have you, Drummond, and it shall be the wedding of the Season! Shan’t it, everyone?”
“Yes!” replied the crowd. And broke into wild applause. “Yes, yes!”
Poppy blinked.
Drummond stood and tugged her close.
And then he kissed her. Thoroughly. A possessive, sensual kiss that sent shocking tingles to her toes. She had no time to think when she finally managed to pull her head back. She could only feel. And what she felt was rage.
Hot, burning rage.
Her hand itched to slap him. But she couldn’t. She was supposed to be in love with him.
Damn the man.
“You never said yes,” he said into her ear. “But don’t get any ideas. I’ll be one step ahead of you.”
That was exactly the kind of rude statement the wicked, unscrupulous Duke of Drummond would make to an unsuspecting girl.
And then he had the temerity to raise her fingers to his lips for another kiss. The crowd went wild; everyone, that is, except Sergei, Natasha, and of course, Eleanor, Beatrice, and Aunt Charlotte. She swung around to see them, to gain strength from their indignation.
Sure enough, her dear friends and aunt stood frozen like statues and staring at her and Drummond together—
With silly grins on their faces.
What were they thinking?
The Spinsters were in crisis. One of them had been entrapped!
Poppy had never felt so alone in her life. She pretended to smile graciously at the duke. “I don’t know what you’re about,” she murmured for his ears only. “But hell will freeze over before I marry you.”
“I shall explain the situation further tomorrow”—his voice was unperturbed—“when I arrive at your house for dinner at seven o’clock.”
“But I’ll be out tomorrow night. I’ve a musicale to attend—”
“You won’t be attending any musicale,” he said. “You’ll be waiting in your drawing room for me, if you know what’s best for you,” he added silkily, and held her hand up high, to the crowd’s delight.
She almost gasped. How dare he tell her what to do? And hold her hand aloft as if she were a trophy?
He left her side to accept congratulations from Prinny and all her former suitors, and she simpered for the company, accepting her own felicitations—but inside, she was livid. Absolutely livid.
This man was not going to get the best of her.
She was saving that for Sergei.
CHAPTER 7
Victory.
Nicholas tried not to savor it too much, as his prize despised him, but he couldn’t help feeling a little bit triumphant.
He’d never had his hand wrung so hard—never heard so many men say in awed tones, “You must be something extraordinary,” or “How did you manage it?” or from one fellow, a tear trickling down his cheek and a mumbled, “Take good care of her, will you?”
He felt as if he’d won Helen of Troy—and perhaps he had.
He looked over at Lady Poppy and she was glorious in her suppressed fury, so untouchable and fierce that if someone had brought him enough wood to build a gargantuan wooden horse for her at that moment, he might just have done it.
“Take her home, Drummond,” Lord Derby told him after the hubbub had died down slightly, which meant only that Nicholas was receiving a slap on the back or a cheroot stuffed in his pocket on an average of every twenty seconds versus every ten.
“But Papa!” Lady Poppy grabbed her father’s arm.
He gently but firmly pushed her hand off. “No ifs, ands, or buts, my dear. You’re an engaged woman now, and your fiancé shall escort you home with my permission, which I give freely.”
“No,” she interrupted.
“And if you don’t marry him,” Lord Derby went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “I’ll cut you off without a farthing.” He speared her with a look. “Don’t think I don’t mean it because I do. I swear upon your mother’s grave.”
“Ssssh, Papa!” Poppy looked around them. “How could you say such a thing
? That’s not like you!”
He shook his head. “I don’t feel a bit guilty. When you turned down a perfectly acceptable match like Eversly, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. You’re fortunate Drummond is willing to take you on. As far as I’m concerned, your days as a spinster are over.”
Lord Derby calmly kissed Poppy’s brow. She was apparently so incensed and shocked, she let him.
Nicholas held out his arm, and slowly, reluctantly, she took it.
“Don’t say a word,” she muttered, as he escorted her through the crowds.
He was doing his best to be a gracious winner, so he had no trouble complying. She’d had a severe shock, coupled with a blistering scold from her father. He’d be happy to grant her a few moments of silence.
But a few minutes later, ensconced in his comfortable carriage, she was ready to spar. She sat opposite him, her eyes flashing. “What was that proposal about?” she demanded. “You don’t even know me.”
“You’re the one who’s been using my name for three years to fob off your other suitors,” he said, refusing to be ruffled. “Isn’t this marriage what you want?”
“Huh,” was all she said.
The vehicle turned a corner sharply, and she shifted her gaze away from his to the window. He studied the curve of her jaw and the white planes of her shoulders, exposed in the folds of her shawl. She was gorgeous. And oblivious to the danger she presented to him and every other man who encountered her.
Perhaps he’d enjoy begetting those children with her.
She turned to look at him, her mouth pursed in an attractive pout. “You’re up to something havey-cavey. No doubt you need money, and I’m a convenient source. But I sense you’ve other reasons for proposing. I’ve good instincts.”
“Not as good as mine.”
“You can’t know that.”
“My instincts tell me they are.”
“How can your instincts tell you your instincts are better?”
“Easily,” he said. “Anyone with good instincts would understand.” He gave her his best diabolical smile. “But as for your assessment, dukes always need wealthy wives to prop up the properties and to beget future dukes. Why not choose a wife who’s been pining after you?”
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