Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right ib-2

by Kieran Kramer

  He’d never enjoyed a waltz more.

  “Felicitations on your birthday,” he said into her ear.

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  He squeezed her hand. “This day, as happy as it should be, must be difficult for you.”

  She lifted her shoulders. “It gets a little easier each year.”

  “I wish you’d told me,” he said.

  “Why?” Her forehead puckered.

  He sighed. “Because you shouldn’t go through it alone.”

  She bit her lip. “Even Aunt Charlotte, as kind as her note was, won’t bring up the connection between my mother’s death and my birthday. It’s a small thing, but yes.” She smiled again. “It’s much nicer not to bear it alone. Thank you.”

  “Your mother would like you to dance on your birthday,” he said. “Every year, from now on, you should. I’ll make sure of it.”

  She laughed. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. I do love to dance. Although—”

  “Although what?” He loved having her in his arms and found himself getting lost in her eyes again.

  She arched one brow. “Although we shan’t be together on my next birthday,” she reminded him with a puckish smile. “Or any of them thereafter.”

  He looked around at the others and then back at her. “That’s what you think. But let’s not worry about that now.” He paused in the dance but kept her hand in his. “Is there a fiddler in the house?” he asked the room, and winked at Lady Caldwell.

  They both knew the answer to that question.

  Lord Caldwell’s face lit up. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

  With his wife’s blessing, Lord Caldwell abandoned her on the dance floor and went to a cabinet, where he took out a fiddle and, without even shutting the cabinet door behind him, started playing a lively Scottish reel. Lady Caldwell urged two footmen to join the party to make eight.

  Nicholas’s brain registered no one but Poppy, not even Natasha, with her plump lips pursed in a sulk, or Sergei, who elbowed him more than once, nor Mrs. Travers, so giddy she could barely breathe.

  Twice Nicholas and Poppy spun together, hands locked, and when they did, there was nothing but her face, bright and happy, set against a colorful, spinning scene.

  At one point the eight of them clasped hands and turned in a circle. Poppy was across from him, much too far away, but their gazes locked—and she grinned at him shyly … gratefully.

  As if she should be thanking him for anything.

  Thank God for you, is what went through his head at that moment. Thank God you were born.

  And then he told himself it was much too maudlin a thought to have on such a merry evening. She was happy. On her birthday.

  That was enough.

  * * *

  In her room two hours later, Poppy sat on her bed and stared at the words on the pages of the endless novel she was reading, Clarissa, but she didn’t really see them. She was thinking about the night, about the dancing.

  About Drummond.

  Not Sergei.

  Drummond had been so blasted presumptuous, telling her that from now on, he’d insist that she dance on her birthday—as if they were going to marry—but it was difficult to be angry at him. He was so much more charming than Sergei could ever be, yet …

  Yet he was the wrong man for her.

  Love, she reminded herself. Love, and not mere physical attraction, was what she wanted in her marriage.

  And it must run both ways.

  Involving herself with an Impossible Bachelor wasn’t very sensible.

  She sighed and shut her book. Sleep wouldn’t come any time soon, she could tell. She swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  “Time to explore again,” she muttered.

  Why not the library?

  She knew exactly where it was. She needed time away from Clarissa’s travails. Perhaps she’d look for an atlas. She loved looking at maps of other countries.

  Quietly, she opened her door and ventured into the corridor with a candlestick, and on silent feet padded down the expansive staircase to the first floor. The library would be on her right.

  When she got there, a low fire still flickered on the hearth.

  She closed the door firmly behind her, advanced to a bookshelf, and began to peruse the volumes.

  “So,” she heard a man’s low voice from behind her, “you couldn’t sleep, either.”

  She whirled around. Sitting in a chair by the floor-to-ceiling window was Drummond. One booted leg was sprawled over the other, and his chin rested on his fist.

  She put her candle on a side table and gave a little laugh. “Why, Drummond. Whatever’s the matter? You look as though—”

  “As though I’m doing miserably at my job?” He pushed himself out of the chair and came to her. His eyes flared with challenge.

  Or perhaps frustration.

  Whatever it was, the firelight cast shadows and light on the planes of his face, making him more handsome and mysterious than she’d ever seen him.

  She backed up a step, her heart picking up its pace. “I should think you’re doing splendidly,” she assured him. “We’re spending lots of time with—with the subjects we’re supposed to spend time with, and—”

  “And my diplomatic skills are being stretched to the limit.” He raked a hand through his hair and stared at the fire. “How many Service members follow dogs about? Endure petulant Russian princesses? Kowtow to know-it-all Russian princes?”

  She blinked. “I—I don’t know. But of course you endure what you must endure. It’s part of the profession, I suppose.”

  He gave her a flat look. “You’re right, of course. It’s just that…”

  He hesitated.

  “What?” she asked him.

  He let out a gusty sigh. “It’s difficult to focus on my work—on my objectives—with you around. Damn it all, I could put up with Sergei if it were just he and I, but I loathe the way he looks at you. And as for the princess, she’s obviously jealous of you and takes pains to put you in your place whenever she can.”

  He looked at her then, and neither of them said a word. The fire danced and popped, the candle flickered, and everything else was blanketed in darkness and silence.

  She knew what he wanted. What he needed.

  She stepped forward and pulled the lapels of his coat toward her. “Come here,” she whispered.

  And she stood up on tiptoe and kissed him. They fit together perfectly. She allowed him to completely encircle her with his body, to devour her lips with his own. Through her thin night rail, she relished feeling every contour of his body, including his masculine hardness thrust up against her lower belly.

  And then she pulled back.

  “God, Poppy,” he said low.

  She raised her chin. “It’s kind of you to be concerned about me, Your Grace, but I can take care of myself. My presence should in no way deter you from your objectives.”

  His pupils darkened. “So I should proceed as I always have, with no concern for your well-being.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I don’t need you, Drummond. And you most certainly have made the point that I get in your way.”

  “Devil take it,” he whispered, looking down at her. “Go to your room before I chase you up those stairs and ravish you in your bed.”

  She picked up her candle, straightened her back, and strode past him.

  She would secure her door tonight just as Aunt Charlotte had warned her to do. She only wished she could lock up the new, bewildering feelings welling inside her, all of them centered on the Duke of Drummond.

  CHAPTER 20

  Thank God for horses. And open fields. And other men who understood that when a man was frustrated with a woman, the best thing to do was to shut up, go with him on a blistering early-morning ride, and hand him a fine cheroot afterward.

  “Dear heavens, Max and Nicholas,” lamented Lady Caldwell. “It’s too early in the morning for those.”

  “We’re outdoors
, my love.” Lord Caldwell complacently puffed away at his cheroot and patted her hand.

  Poppy made a moue of disapproval at Nicholas. “Surely you should eat first.”

  Underneath a large oak tree, Lady Caldwell had set a beautiful breakfast picnic composed of eggs, meat, hot rolls, Bath buns, pound cake, toast, tea, and cocoa. Liveried servants stood at attention nearby.

  “Sorry,” Nicholas said, leaning back in his chair and blowing out a plume of smoke. “I promise I’ll partake as soon as I’m done savoring this.”

  “Well, then,” said Lady Caldwell. “If you two insist on being large boys bent on defying the common sense of women who know better, I shall take this opportunity to regale Poppy with a perfectly frivolous tale of romance and heartache.”

  “Do tell,” said Poppy with a captivating grin. She pinched off a piece of pound cake and ate it with relish.

  The girl did everything with relish, Nicholas had the unwanted thought, and tamped down the image of her pulling him toward her last night and planting a sensuous kiss on his mouth.

  Fortunately, Lady Caldwell distracted him with the sad tale of an unhappy, noble gander who’d lost his gorgeous mate some time ago and was still mourning.

  “I visit him every day,” she said. “He absolutely refuses to rejoin the flock that lives on the pond. And he won’t cheer up. His grief is too great.”

  “Women know these things,” Lord Caldwell whispered to Nicholas, loud enough for his wife to hear.

  Lady Caldwell ignored him, of course, much to Nicholas’s amusement.

  “The poor old thing walks the same path every day,” she told Poppy. “It was the last place he saw her.”

  “How terrible,” said Poppy feelingly, her slice of pound cake all but forgotten as she listened to the tale.

  “Yes.” Lady Caldwell sighed. “I wish there were a happy ending. If only he could find someone else to love.”

  Nicholas caught Poppy’s eye. She stopped chewing and sent him an adorably tragic look. The minx. Just who was this girl who could fall for a story about a silly, lovesick gander and yet have the audacity to tease him the way she had last night?

  Without thinking, he leaned over and kissed her mouth. She tasted of cake and sugar.

  Her eyes widened at the contact, but he wasn’t sorry. They were supposed to be happily betrothed, and he was going to show the world that they were.

  Lord Caldwell looked at him assessingly—he’d been kind enough not to ask why Nicholas had been in an ill humor on their ride—then chuckled.

  “Young love,” he said. “It continues to inspire us old folk.” Then he leaned over and kissed Lady Caldwell, as well. “I’m as sick with love for you as that old gander is for his mate. Don’t you ever think of running off with the chimney sweep or the footman who danced with you last night.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Lady Caldwell, her cheeks as pink as Poppy’s.

  The two women exchanged a look, and then the two of them burst into laughter.

  “Who knew we were so irresistible?” Lady Caldwell took Poppy’s hand and squeezed it.

  It was another sign that Poppy was approved of, Nicholas noted with the same mix of pleasure and guilt he’d felt the evening before. But today the guilt was slightly worse. He’d never tell Poppy this, but her little speech last night had definitely reminded him that he wasn’t as in control of their situation as he’d assumed. He wasn’t as sure that a year from now he wouldn’t have to tell Lord and Lady Caldwell that their betrothal had been doomed from the start.

  It was a lowering thought.

  Lord Caldwell squinted, looking toward the house. “I see the prince is finally awake and about.”

  It was indeed Sergei, looking every inch the prince, and he was coming their way.

  Poppy sat up a bit higher. “I wonder if his sister is still abed. And Mrs. Travers.”

  “I rather hope so,” Lord Caldwell said dryly.

  “Max,” his wife chided him. “Don’t talk ill of our guests.”

  “Very well, my love,” said Lord Caldwell. “If you insist, I’ll wait until they depart to debate which one is best to forget—the spoiled royal or the unrelenting jewel-seeker, both of them obsessed with the same dog, albeit for different reasons. I dare say even Boris wishes them to perdition.”

  Nicholas couldn’t help but grin. He was glad to know another man was as fed up with some of the company as he was.

  When the prince walked up, he attempted to work his charms on both Lady Caldwell and Poppy, lingering overlong, Nicholas thought, when he kissed Poppy’s hand.

  “Drummond,” the prince said over his shoulder, “you won’t mind that I take your future bride on a stroll, would you, before I break my fast? It’s a fine morning, and I crave speaking in my own language. She’s the only one here who can carry on a conversation in Russian.”

  Right.

  Nicholas forced himself to recall he was supposed to be ingratiating himself to the prince, so he attempted a light tone. “That’s a fine idea,” he said. “Where shall we walk?”

  “Oh, we won’t need you,” Sergei said. “And I believe I can find my way about the property.”

  “Yes, Drummond,” Poppy said firmly. “You’ve no need to stir yourself.”

  She had that look in her eye, the one she’d had last night when she’d told him she could take care of herself. She turned to Lady Caldwell. “I could take Prince Sergei to see the gander.”

  “I doubt the gander understands Russian,” said Lord Caldwell.

  “Max.” Lady Caldwell made a face at him. “What has gotten into you today?”

  “Nothing more than the usual,” he said easily, and winked at Nicholas.

  He’s got it, Nicholas thought. He knows I despise Sergei, and that Sergei is a rude, obnoxious boor paying overmuch attention to my betrothed.

  Lady Caldwell ignored her husband again and smiled at Poppy. “You can tell the prince the gander’s story along the way.” And then she directed them to a small pond at the rear of the property.

  “Don’t be gone long!” Nicholas called testily after the retreating couple, and ripped into a Bath bun.

  Lord Caldwell chuckled.

  “What’s so amusing?” Nicholas asked him crossly while he chewed and swallowed half the bun in one bite.

  “What did Erasmus say about women?” asked Lord Caldwell. “Can’t live with them—”

  “And can’t live without them,” Nicholas replied, and had the sudden thought that he didn’t care for Erasmus. He stuffed the rest of his Bath bun in his pocket. “I’m going after them.”

  “Good for you,” said Lady Caldwell. “That prince is acting awfully possessive. I’m not sure I like his manner.”

  “Go, Nicholas,” said Lord Caldwell. “Show him who Poppy’s true love is.”

  “Right,” Nicholas said, in a bad mood again. He certainly wasn’t Poppy’s true love.

  But he was going to be her husband, whether she liked it or not.

  * * *

  Poppy was in a substantial quandary, and to solve it, she needed to be alone with Sergei. Which was why she’d insisted on this walk to see the gander without Drummond.

  “So,” the prince said, his voice velvety soft. “We are alone. Intrigued, aren’t you?”

  “By what?”

  “By me.”

  She laughed. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “My exploits. My charm. I knew the minute I saw you at the Grangerford ball you could be mine.”

  Good God, she’d been so blinded by her own infatuation, she hadn’t seen the obvious—Sergei was a conceited fool.

  Now she inhaled a breath. “Oh. Um, about us. You’re right. At the ball, I couldn’t help thinking of you the way I did when I was fifteen. But those lingering romantic feelings I felt were really just memories, ones I thought we could perhaps relive. But we’re both older now, and so much has happened in six years. We’re different people. And now I’m engaged to the duke.”

  “
We are not friends any longer?”

  She winced at how forlorn he sounded. “Of course we’re friends,” she reassured him. “But we’re nothing more. You live far away. I live here. We had a lovely romantic interlude long ago, but we must move on.”

  He gazed at her with an intensity that harkened back to her unfortunate interaction with Lord Washburn. But unlike Washburn, at least Sergei was a pleasure to look at. His gorgeous golden locks shone in the sunlight, and his masculine form was surely the envy of any man.

  “I can’t move on,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I find I have a new appetite, and it’s for Spinsters.”

  “Spinsters?” Her heart began to beat harder.

  “Yes. I know about your Spinsters Club, Poppy.”

  She drew in a breath. “How did you—”

  “Servants will talk.” He chuckled. “All those women who want to marry? They’re dull. You, on the other hand, are forbidden fruit. You’re a Spinster. Saying the word alone drives me mad with desire. Forget about marrying the duke or any other man. I can buy you great baubles. Give you pleasure like you’ve never known. And you may remain a Spinster throughout our wild, passionate interlude, which I hope shall span years.”

  She gasped. “So when you said you wanted to come to my room, you really meant—”

  He nodded, a lascivious smile on his face.

  So Drummond had been right. Sergei did want her because she was unavailable.

  “And the parasol? What was I to do with that?” she asked him.

  He merely chuckled. “Parasols and naked ladies … the combination is delicious.”

  “Listen closely, Sergei, and listen well.” She balled her hands into fists. “I will not be your mistress.”

  “You Spinsters have fire,” he whispered.

  “No we don’t. At least, not for people we—”

  Oh, dear. Drummond was heading their way. She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. With her love for Sergei gone, what was standing in the way of her engagement to the duke anymore? She’d spent more time dwelling on his kisses than on the tenets of the Spinsters Club … rules that she’d clung to rotely for so long.

  But they were good rules, she reminded herself. Especially the cardinal one: Don’t marry unless you love him and he loves you.