She stood and looked at herself in the mirror. “If he’s not going to play fair, then I shan’t, either,” she told herself out loud.
If he could be like a vampire or a snake, she’d be like a spider in a web, and she’d wrap him up in a little threaded ball at the soonest opportunity. Or perhaps she’d be more like a governess and torture him with boring lectures so that he’d fall asleep, whereupon she’d write nasty things on his forehead, words like GO AWAY, RUDE MAN.
She strode out of the drawing room to Papa’s library and then to her bedchamber, where she lay on her quilt and searched through a text on agricultural tools, vowing to find the perfect tedious lecture.
But as she was reading about chaff cutters, dibbers, and flails, she fell asleep.
CHAPTER 11
When Nicholas knocked on the door at 17 Clifford Street at precisely seven o’clock, he was rather irritated and deflated, having waited all day to see if Groop would contact him to tell him Operation Pink Lady would be his.
He hadn’t. And it wasn’t.
Which was why he was scowling when the door was opened by the butler.
“Good evening, Your Grace. I am Kettle, at your service. Do come in.”
With his protruding ears and round face, he certainly matched his name. No doubt Lady Poppy set him to boil often.
“Thank you, Kettle.” Nicholas handed over his cape, gloves, and hat, a wad of cash tastefully hidden under the brim. “I presume you mean Lord Derby is expecting me. He received my note about security measures?”
“You presume correctly, Your Grace.” Kettle discreetly pocketed the bills. “He made sure Lady Poppy’s bedchamber window is locked, and we’ve a servant guarding every exit from the house. Regrettably, the earl was called away with Lord Wyatt on emergency Parliamentary business and is still not back. He begs you to be patient as he’ll be a trifle late for dinner.”
“I’m happy to wait.” Nicholas had dreamed about Lady Poppy’s snapping emerald eyes and coppery mane. And now he’d see her again. He felt exhilarated at the thought, especially because he already knew she wouldn’t be easy.
Not easy at all.
He wondered if a good night’s sleep and almost a full day to reflect upon the advantages of a connection to him had softened her outrage into something more … tamable.
And almost hoped it hadn’t.
“By the by, Lady Charlotte is out for the evening,” Kettle said. “But Lady Poppy awaits you in the drawing room.” He gave Nicholas a meaningful stare. “I know you’ve been approved by Lord Derby, but Cook has told us all about you and your scandalous exploits, Your Grace. And let me assure you, I shall be on the lookout myself, on Lady Poppy’s behalf. Yes, indeed.”
“Shall you?”
“I most certainly shall.”
“Very good, then.” Nicholas patted the butler on the shoulder, and they walked in comfortable silence to the first door on the left.
He waited for Kettle to announce him and heard Poppy bid that he enter. He braced himself and walked into the room.
She was posed by the pianoforte, her back ramrod straight, looking like a diamond of the first water, a large ruby necklace snuggled between her breasts.
Drummond raised her hand to his mouth, turned it over, and kissed her palm, sending a distinct pattern of gooseflesh racing up her arm.
“I’m sorry to have missed your aunt,” he said. “She seems a lively sort of chaperone.” Lady Charlotte had even winked at him last night, after he’d proposed.
Poppy lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “Yes, she’s that way because she’s a Spinster.”
“What has that to do with anything?”
“She can do what she wants with whom she wants whenever she wants,” Poppy said.
“Spinsters are to be envied, then.”
She lifted her chin. “I somehow doubt your sincerity.”
“You should, perhaps,” he agreed. “Except when I’m complimenting you. You’re exquisite tonight.”
“Thank you.” She flushed.
There was the sound of a carriage rattling to a stop in front of the house.
Drummond inclined his head. “Is that your father?”
“Yes. He’s often grouchy. Aren’t you afraid?”
“No, of course not,” he said. “We see eye to eye. I’ve told you.”
She bristled. “Don’t remind me. I demand to know something before he arrives. What does IF mean? And MR? And OPL?”
“You are curious, aren’t you?” He gave her what he hoped was an enigmatic smile. “But I won’t tell you. You have no need to know.”
“So? I know many things I’ve no need to know.”
“Well, this will be one less thing. And even if you did need to know, I’d think twice before telling you. Sorry, but my instincts tell me you’re not good at keeping secrets.”
“Your instincts are wrong. Why should you have secrets anyway?”
“Because often the most exciting, most pleasurable things in the world are done in secret.” He pulled her closer and kissed the tender hollow at the base of her neck. Her scent was sweet and seductive.
She arched her neck, then seemed to recall herself. “My goodness.” She gasped and pushed him away. “You are a scoundrel.”
“You think so?”
“Of course.” She gasped again, but he was determined to be completely unmoved by her outrage and shock.
She drew her brows together. “No one should have secrets. And no one should be invisible. Don’t ever think you shall whisk me away to the north and make me a docile, dutiful wife.”
Nicholas laughed. That was exactly what he intended.
“What’s so funny?” she asked him.
But Lord Derby arrived before he could answer.
“Let’s tuck into our dinners right away,” Poppy’s father urged them. “Lord Wyatt is a demanding colleague. He’s called another meeting.” He took a rather hasty gulp of wine.
Nicholas saw Poppy wince.
“Again, Papa?” she asked in a thin voice.
“You know I have duties at Whitehall, my dear, and Wyatt has the country’s best interests at heart.” Lord Derby looked over his spectacles at Nicholas. “So, when will the marriage take place? Sooner is better than later.”
Nicholas slowed the sawing of the piece of beef on his plate. “I’d say after a month we could start having the banns read.” He kept his tone jaunty. “Until then, we’ll have a getting-to-know-you period.”
Poppy appeared to be seething, but she didn’t disagree.
“Excellent idea.” Lord Derby speared a potato. “Poppy will have plenty to tell you.”
“I was actually referring to getting to know you both, sir,” Drummond said immediately. “I know very little of your political beliefs. I’m sorry to say my father never took his seat in Parliament, so if I’m to become up to snuff, I really must become better informed. Unless it’s too much trouble, that is.”
“Not at all.” Lord Derby’s eyes lit up. “Where shall we start?”
“The economy,” Nicholas replied.
Poppy nudged him with an elbow and narrowed her eyes at him.
And no wonder. Nicholas was sure no subject could be larger, or nearer and dearer to Lord Derby’s heart—outside his affection for his daughter, of course—than the state of the English economy.
Sure enough, a quarter of an hour later, Kettle had to appear at the dining room door with Lord Derby’s hat before he seemed to break loose of his political theorizing and return to the present moment.
“The time has flown,” said Lord Derby.
Poppy appeared shocked by his pleasant manner.
“But before I go,” her father went on, “I must make mention of an unsavory topic. According to an impeccable source I heard from today, there is a missing uncle in your family tree, Drummond, an uncle who should have been duke. I’m not quite sure I approve of mysteries. Especially as they relate to titles.”
“So you spoke to C
ook, Papa?” Poppy intervened.
“No.” He glared sternly at her. “She dared speak to me when she brought me my coddled eggs this morning. I gather her twin is your cook, Duke.”
“That she is.” Nicholas nodded soberly. “Marvelous with the roast beef, the two of them, I must say. But as for the mystery about my uncle, you’re right, Lord Derby. It exists. But what can one do with an uncle who’s been missing forty years? Other than notice he’s gone—and carry on.”
Lord Derby stared at him for a good ten seconds, then shook his head. “You’re very lucky I admire intelligent men with nerve. We need more of those types in Parliament.” He stood from the table. Drummond rose, too. “I must go. My daughter shall see you out in a few minutes.”
“But Papa!” Poppy’s cheeks pinkened. “We haven’t even served the fruit and cheese.”
Nicholas felt the awkwardness of the moment. He understood her concern. She was probably thinking they should linger over this getting-to-know-you meal. And afterward, Lord Derby should lead him to the library for a brandy and a cheroot and shoo Lady Poppy off to bed because they’d be ensconced in those big brown leather club chairs for hours.
Drummond guessed that Lord Derby viewed his daughter’s engagement like a bill to be passed before Parliament rather than as a milestone in her life—the biggest milestone she’d probably yet encountered.
Unfortunate as the situation was, Nicholas could do nothing but bow and say, “Thank you, sir, for a most enlightening evening.”
Lord Derby merely grunted, then turned to Poppy. “You’ll need a trousseau.”
“Yes, Papa,” she said in a bland tone.
Nicholas assumed most young ladies would look ecstatic at the thought of a trousseau. But Lady Poppy apparently felt no joy.
He supposed he should feel humiliated or concerned, as he was the man she was to marry, but their mutual die was cast. Regrets could serve no purpose.
* * *
With Papa gone and the servants plainly lingering, Poppy knew Drummond had no choice but to go himself. She rose from her seat, and he took her hand. Leaning over it, he left a lingering kiss on her knuckles.
If only he would leave a kiss elsewhere on my body, she had the unwelcome thought.
“It’s been a challenge meeting your father,” he said, “and a huge pleasure. I shall come round tomorrow afternoon to take you up in my curricle. We shall circle Hyde Park at the fashionable hour. Remember, you’ll be a proper fiancée. For one month.”
He patted his pocket—the one with the stocking in it—then smiled.
The rat. She’d find a way to wipe the smug look off his face. Soon.
“Very well,” she said.
The corner of his mouth tilted up. He’d won this round, and they both knew it.
His mouth was dangerously close to hers, but he looked over his shoulder at Kettle, who handed him his cape, gloves, and hat.
“On your way, Your Grace,” the butler warned him.
Drummond put the hat on his head. “No need to worry, Kettle,” he said with a grin, his eyes on Poppy. “I’ve no time to give her a proper kiss good night this evening anyway. I’ve a card game to get to—and I’m fifteen minutes late.”
“A card game?” Poppy couldn’t help saying in disbelief. She was furious her curiosity about what constituted a proper kiss would not be satisfied because of a card game.
He was already at the bottom of the steps, and he’d donned his cape and gloves. When he looked up at her, her heart pounded in an entirely unacceptable manner. A lady couldn’t help thinking very bad thoughts about him. He didn’t have to wear his hair so long, nor did he require that swagger. Or the obvious attention he paid to maintaining a superb physique.
“Good night, Drummond,” she said primly.
“Good night, Poppy.” He chuckled. “I know what you’re thinking again.” And then he went walking merrily down the street.
“You don’t,” she cried after him.
He spun around, his cape swirling about his thighs. “Oh, but I do.”
“Really?” She found she couldn’t breathe.
“Really,” he said, his square jaw lowered, his dark brow arched, and his eyes full of—
She didn’t know, but it drove her mad with longing.
“Shut the door,” he called to her as if she were a child.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” She was furious, but she did shut the door. Slowly.
He stood watching her the whole time. When the door was finally closed, she leaned her forehead against it, still furious but feeling rather weak in the knees again.
She knocked her head against the wooden panel. What was wrong with her? She didn’t like the Duke of Drummond. He was smug, bossy, and rude.
Rather like her, actually.
“My lady,” Kettle interrupted her thoughts.
She’d forgotten he was there. She pivoted her forehead slightly and peeked at him. “Yes, Kettle?”
“I forgot to give the duke his cane.” He held it up.
“Oh.” She stood up straight and sighed. “I suppose he can get it next time.” She was about to walk upstairs to think about kissing him while she brushed her hair when she was struck by a thought. “Wait a moment, Kettle. He didn’t come in with a cane. I was peeking around the door of the drawing room when he arrived. Are you sure it’s his?”
Kettle pulled in his chin. “You’re right, miss. Fancy my not being able to recall. But it must be his. It was sitting here in the corner by the door. And his name is carved on the side.”
Sure enough, the name Nicholas Staunton was carved down its length. “How odd,” she said. “I wonder who put it there?”
Kettle looked almost abashed. “I was away from the door for a few moments, um, delivering a message to the kitchen. I’ve no idea.”
He had a crush on Cook, Poppy knew, but she never minded when he deserted his post to woo her.
“It’s quite intricate, the carving, isn’t it?” She ran a hand across the fine wood of the cane. It was a gorgeous thing. “Why would such a fascinating cane be left at my house? And with the duke’s name on it? Could it be a prank?”
“But it’s not amusing,” Kettle said, staring at the cane in his hand.
“No, it’s not,” said Poppy. “It’s merely baffling.” She drew in a breath. “Perhaps his valet slipped it in the door. It might be the duke’s favorite cane and he left it at home by accident. It could be the valet expected you to hand it to him upon his departure.”
“Yes. Someone could have opened the door and left it for him while—while I wasn’t minding my station.” Kettle’s face went red again.
And before Poppy could assure the butler that she didn’t mind his being human and abandoning his post for love, the bottom of the cane popped open.
“Bloody hell,” Kettle said, then put a hand over his mouth. “A gadget cane! I’m sorry, my lady, but I’ve never seen one open from the bottom like that. I knew this duke was a most unusual sort of duke. He exudes danger. And mystery.”
“From every pore?” Poppy asked, although it was really a rhetorical question. They both already knew the answer.
“Yes,” Kettle said anyway. “From every pore.” And shook the cane.
A tightly rolled piece of paper fell out.
She exchanged a wide-eyed look with the butler, then eagerly, they both bent to pick up the scrap.
Poppy got to it first. “Thank you, darling Kettle,” she cried as she bounded up the stairs. “I don’t think the valet left this cane, after all. I believe someone else did—and expected the duke to find this message. Perhaps this will tell me why he needs a wife.”
“And whether he murdered his uncle!” Kettle called up to her.
Yes, and that, too.
CHAPTER 12
Nicholas took the gawking in stride when he drove Poppy along Rotten Row in Hyde Park the next afternoon. She was a pretty socialite renowned for rebuffing suitors, and since their engagement, he knew rumors were
flying fast about him, the little-known Drummond line, and the mysterious, long-ago disappearance of his uncle. Together they were a London sensation, especially in his glossy black phaeton with yellow-trimmed wheels and a pair of matched grays.
Before he knew it, Poppy had taken the reins right from his hands. Her gaze as she maneuvered between other vehicles was shrewd and intelligent. She cast her eyes briefly his way and gifted him with a rather bewitching grin. “I do like to drive.”
“What a surprise,” he said mildly.
He wanted to relieve her of her clothing right then and there, but he wasn’t particularly astounded. He was a man, after all, with a man’s usual lustful thoughts, and she was a beautiful female extremely responsive to his attentions—when she forgot she disliked him.
Her driving so expertly was another reason to be sexually attracted to her. Helpless females bored him to tears.
She leaned closer. “Do you think we’re fooling everyone?” she whispered in his ear.
“Of course,” he replied. “Just look at them.”
Everywhere, people stood turned to stone as they passed. And their eyes were filled with hope and softness and indulgence.
Let that darling couple enjoy themselves, their looks seemed to say. He’s even letting her take the reins.
As if he’d had a choice.
From behind them, he heard the yapping of many small dogs. The next moment, Princess Natasha’s brougham appeared alongside his phaeton, and Poppy pulled up on the reins.
Natasha was sultry and magnificent, dressed in the first stare of fashion, and her dogs were clean, fluffy, and spirited—except for the sullen one-eyed one, Boris, which showed him his teeth—but Nicholas felt nothing but annoyance at seeing the Russian beauty.
He’d hoped she’d moved on from their liaison. But the way she looked at him gave him the distinct impression she hadn’t.
“Lady Poppy, Drummond,” the princess called out to them in a tone demanding attention.
He inclined his head. “Good afternoon, Princess.”
Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right ib-2 Page 7