Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

by Kieran Kramer

  “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?”

  “I have not been pining. Besides, even if I had been—which I repeat I have not—your reasons go beyond that.”

  “Your instincts are good.”

  She sucked in a breath. “I knew it.”

  “I do need a wife quickly, and for more than financial security,” he said, not apologetic in the least. “I’m not at liberty to explain why. But it certainly doesn’t reflect poorly on you that you are my choice.”

  She crossed her arms. “I might be your choice, but you aren’t mine.”

  “A dozen rejected suitors would say otherwise, but who is he, this man who has your heart?”

  She pursed her lips. “There’s only one man who can tempt me to give up my Spinster status—”

  “You’re not a spinster—quite yet.”

  “But I’m close,” she said, “and I have no desire to marry anyone but—” She hesitated. “I can’t say.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s private.”

  He sighed. “You have no desire to marry anyone but Prince Sergei.”

  She felt her face pale. “How did you guess?”

  “It’s easy to see you have a tendre for him. And he’s besotted with you—that is, you or your father’s money. I can’t tell which one yet.”

  “How dare you.”

  He gave a small chuckle. “Are you sure you want him? You know nothing of him.”

  “I know this,” she said, leaning forward and poking him in the chest with a finger. “I know that I have my own plans for my future, and they don’t include marrying a smug, insufferable man. It will suit my purposes to remain betrothed to you for one month, which will ensure that I may stay in Town. But then I plan to break it off, no matter how angry it makes Papa.” She nodded firmly. “You can take my offer or leave it—and find yourself another fiancée. I refuse to budge.”

  “Even though your father will cut you off without a farthing?”

  She crossed her arms and made a face. “He didn’t mean it.”

  “I assure you, he does. He told me so. And remember, he vowed upon your mother’s—”

  “Don’t bring my mother into this.” She inhaled a deep breath. “All right,” she conceded, “perhaps he really meant it.”

  He didn’t say a word.

  “But I refuse to marry you. Even if I’m cut off without a penny. No one tells me whom to marry.”

  “But you said you wanted the Duke of Drummond.” Over and over again, apparently.

  She made an exasperated face. “That was a mistake. Of course I don’t want you. I was referring to a fictitious duke, one that Cook tells stories about. As for Papa, I’m not some piece of meat to be bartered, and if he condemns you for backing out of your agreement, I’ll be sure to tell him I forced your hand.” She arched a brow. “Which I’ve just now managed. Haven’t I?”

  “No. You haven’t.” He heard the resolve in his voice and hoped it was having an effect. “I intend to adhere to the agreement I made with your father. We shall marry, whether you like it or not. Even if it means I have to drag you kicking and screaming up to Gretna.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Her bravado was rather intoxicating.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I would. And your father would do nothing to save you. You see, he believes we’ll make a fine match. I happen to agree. You’re a pleasure to look at, an adequate kisser—”

  “Adequate?”

  “So far.”

  “I’m far more than adequate for any man! You’d be lucky to get another kiss from me, but you won’t. Oh, no.” She gave a breathy chuckle. “I’ll get out of this. Just you wait and see.”

  “Believe me, it will be a long wait.” He wondered if his fascination with her was evident and hoped it wasn’t. Cool. Calm. Detached. That’s what he needed to be in his Service work, and that’s what he’d be with her. Even though something in him was responding to her like a dog to the scent of a fox.

  “I’m committed to my IF,” he said, “and I’ve no desire to turn back now, especially as you’ll bring me a hefty dowry. Our betrothal leaves me open to receiving a massive MR to boot. That is, of course”—he let out a satisfied sigh—“if OPL comes through. Which it should.”

  “I have no idea what you just said.”

  “Good.” He moved to her seat and wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed just hard enough that she couldn’t get away without a struggle. “As much as you seem to despise me, I’m not a beast. I’ll give you one month to get used to this betrothal, and if you manage to play at being a docile fiancée during that time, I’ll kindly delay the wedding three months to accommodate your—ahem—timidity.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “But in the next thirty days,” he went on, “you’ll make our attachment clear to polite society, or I’ll explain to your father in vivid terms why we need to marry immediately.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a stocking, and held it up for her examination.

  “Why, that’s one of my stockings! It even has my initials on it. Where did you get that?”

  “I have my connections.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t bother firing your scullery maid. She’s probably in Portsmouth by now. I gave her a ticket on a packet to America.”

  She tried to slap him, but he grabbed her wrist. “And don’t you try to run away, either. When I find you—and I will—we’ll marry that day. Or perhaps we’ll simply live in sin at Seaward Hall, my family’s estate, until the special license comes through.”

  Her lips thinned and she yanked her wrist back. “You’re a beast.”

  He put the stocking back in his pocket and patted it. “Seaward Hall is lovely this time of year. The freezing winds off the North Sea in the spring aren’t nearly as bad as the polar ones in the winter. And there’s a dungeon.”

  She shuddered. “All right. I’ll act truly engaged to you for a month—whatever that involves.”

  “Don’t look so despondent. Men want women who are unavailable. I assure you, Sergei will find you more desirable than ever now that you’re engaged. Not that you have a future with him.”

  “So you think. It’s either with him or no one. I’d rather live alone than marry a man I don’t love.”

  “I admire your stubbornness. To an extent.” He yawned. “I’m the same way. But there does come a point when it’s best to see the forest for the trees. And that time is now.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Poppy felt her heart thumping fast against her chest when the Duke of Drummond slung an arm about her waist. “Exactly what are you doing?” she demanded to know.

  “Kissing my fiancée,” he murmured, and lowered his mouth to hers.

  She refused to think the kiss might be on a par with the sweet, yearning kiss Sergei had given her in St. Petersburg six years ago, even though it was definitely doing something to her insides, something shocking.

  “You can’t do that,” she insisted, yet she couldn’t help but continue kissing him. “I never said yes to our betrothal. I pinched your arm. That was meant to be a distinct no.”

  “But we’re betrothed anyway.” His mouth, warm and teasing, nuzzled her neck.

  She was furious. His lips were doing outrageous things to her. And he smelled like a man, all woodsy and lineny and something indefinable that made her want to put her hands to his shirt and rip both left and right at the same time.

  Drummond laughed, and twirled one of her curls about his finger. “So … you won’t call my driver to yo
ur rescue?”

  “No, you ridiculous man,” she said. “I can handle you myself.”

  His eyes gleamed. “I believe you can,” he said, and kissed the column of her neck, lingering on her pulse point. Then he pulled her onto his lap in one deft swoop of his arms.

  Oddly enough, she felt cozy. Comfortable. Aroused.

  Confound him.

  “Perhaps I’ll scream,” she said.

  “Don’t bother.” He kissed her ear.

  She lifted her head. “What happened to your brother? Or was it your uncle?”

  He stunned her by taking one of her fingers in his mouth and sucking on it. Good God, it felt impossibly rapturous, and she felt a sharp, sudden urge to—

  She didn’t know. But he had better stop sucking.

  Now.

  She pulled her finger out, quite rudely, she thought, but he didn’t seem to care. He went right to rubbing her bottom with the flat of his hand.

  It was shocking of him.

  And she didn’t want him to stop.

  “My brother—blast his hide—is still here in London,” the duke murmured, still rubbing away at her bottom, “but my uncle disappeared. He was only thirteen when he ran away. We think he became a sailor and was lost at sea.”

  She let him kiss her again. Perhaps he wasn’t the wicked duke of Cook’s tales, after all. Perhaps he was even an amiable, kind, patient man. As harmless as a—

  She blinked. He was none of those things. He was like a cobra in a basket, waiting to strike. A vampire who wanted to suck blood out of her neck. A Venus fly-trap—and she was the fly.

  “Wait a moment.” She sat up a fraction. “I still don’t trust you. I’m only kissing you to prove I’m more than an adequate kisser. Far more.”

  “How many times have you practiced?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I thought so.” He looked back down at her and caressed her temple with a scratchy thumb. “You are a spinster, through and through. Don’t you believe in having fun?”

  “Not with scoundrels,” she said, feeling prim and prudish even as she insulted him.

  But he didn’t seem to care. He laid her out on the seat, and now his mouth was on hers and she couldn’t get enough of him.

  Never, ever had she felt this way when she’d been kissed. She felt greedy, insatiable.

  So what did it mean?

  She forgot to wonder as he lifted her leg and slipped his hand underneath her gown. He ran that hand over her knee and down her calf. And then he ran his hand almost all the way up her thigh and let it linger there as he kissed her, teasing her mouth open so he could explore her with his tongue in a most intimate, daring fashion.

  Please keep doing what you’re doing, she thought, and it was as if he read her mind. He kept kissing her mouth and caressing her thigh, but then he kneaded her breasts through her bodice with his other hand, running his thumb over her nipples as if they were buttons to play with.

  And then he moved his mouth to the cleft between her breasts. And then—

  And then he did more.

  He nudged aside one side of her bodice with his mouth, moved his lips lower and lower …

  And suckled her breast.

  She had no words for what it felt like. All she knew was that she felt the sharpest twinge of pleasure between her legs the instant his mouth and tongue touched her nipple.

  He was the devil himself to make her feel this way.

  But she wanted it to go on forever, especially when the hand on her thigh began to move closer and closer to her most intimate flesh.

  But he didn’t touch her there. Of course he wouldn’t. That would be shameful, wicked, and altogether—

  Please. Please touch me there, she had the insane thought.

  She clung to him and moaned and ran her fingers through his hair—it was silky and springy and oh-so-thick—and she was dying for him to suckle the other breast.

  And move past her thigh with his nimble fingers.

  Her list of wishes was getting longer, and all because he was the most maddening, tempting man she’d ever encountered.

  But instead he drew back, gently lifting her bodice into place again.

  “We can’t do any more than that at the moment,” he said, his voice low and his pupils dark. “You’re livid with me.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes.” He pulled her up to a sitting position. “It will hit you in”—he paused—“three, two, one—”

  “Don’t condescend to me.” The sweet pleasure she’d experienced only moments before evaporated, although her breast still tingled. And so did the vulnerable spot between her legs.

  “See? I’m right.”

  She refused to answer. Discreetly, she straightened her spine so as to push out her chest in the hope he’d lean down, pull down her bodice, and kiss her that way again.

  Or brush the tips of her breasts with his hand, at the very least.

  He gave her a lazy smile. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “Yes I do.” He had a certain gleam in his eye that made her breathless. But then he chucked her under the chin. “We’re here. In fact, we’ve been sitting outside your home for over five minutes.”

  She blushed. “I—I didn’t notice.”

  “Now go inside before your household dies of curiosity. Especially Cook. I’m sure she’s anxious to meet me. Is she ginger-haired?”

  “Yes.”

  “Freckle-faced and snub-nosed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Voice like a foghorn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tendency to embellish stories … and add too much salt to soups?”

  “Yes, on both counts.”

  “She must be my cook’s twin sister. She told me her twin cooks for a widower and his daughter in London, both of whom are sly, murderous types.”

  “Oh.” Poppy felt vaguely guilty, as if she really had killed someone.

  The duke gave her a stern look. “I saved your precious reputation tonight.”

  She stared at him. “You’re no gentleman to say so.”

  He laughed. “I’m merely the first gentleman who’s dared encourage you to be yourself—a nice girl who longs to be naughty. It’s why you’ve been telling your suitors fanciful stories. You’ll soon find that nothing is boring anymore. Not when you’re with me.”

  He threw open the carriage door, leaped out, and offered her his hand. She narrowed her eyes to convey her disapproval of him as he swung her down, which meant she wasn’t really looking at what she was doing and landed against his chest.

  “I’m sure it was the shock of that ridiculous betrothal that accounted for my behavior in the carriage,” she said in her most proper voice.

  “Indeed.” He bowed, a glint of wry amusement in his eye.

  She climbed the stairs, opened the door, and refused to look back at him, even though she sensed he was watching her.

  He was right about her being bored. And he knew she knew he was right.

  It annoyed her no end.

  CHAPTER 9

  It was a little-known fact about Nicholas that he always practiced archery when he was sexually frustrated. Of course, that meant he rarely did. He was usually a sexually sated male who preferred to spend his sporting hours boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s or fencing at Angelo’s.

  But in his view nothing beat piercing sandbags with arrows when it came to releasing tension caused by a craving for a female. In fact, he was bound to get a lot of good archery practice in until he wedded and bedded Lady Poppy Smith-Barnes. Even the thought of her pert little chin or those endearingly bony elbows drove him mad with lust.

  Which was why he was in Hyde Park much too early in the morning the day after his betrothal. He’d even managed to locate his brother at a dreary hotel in Cheapside and drag him along.

  “I can’t believe it.” Frank was breathing down Nicholas’s neck (in quite the literal sense) when he bent down to pic
k up the arrow he’d dropped. “You missed the bull’s-eye by a good half inch.”

  Nicholas ignored his unsporting behavior. “It’s been known to happen. Must you stand so close?”

  “Must you be my brother?” Frank scowled, his bantam-rooster chest pushed up to Nicholas’s stomach.

  Nicholas refrained from rolling his eyes. “You should take to the stage. Your gift for melodrama is wearing anywhere else.” He pulled back on the bow and focused on the sandbag target once more.

  Frank scoffed. “I might have to. Especially since I’m down to my last farthing.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  “Oh, yes, it is. You hold the purse strings.”

  “And you’ve been given a generous allowance. But you gamble it all away.”

  “That’s what a gentleman of leisure does. Stupid.”

  Nicholas tossed the bow and arrow aside. Frank had always gotten away with calling him names at home. Mother had intervened every time, and after she’d died, his stepmother had actually encouraged Frank’s insults. But both of them were gone.

  Nicholas grabbed his baby brother by the cravat and hauled him close to his face. “Grow up.”

  “No.” Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Big dummy.”

  Nicholas forced himself to remember that Frank was, quite simply, an ass. The last ass in the family had been Great-uncle Hesperus, who’d fathered six children among three housemaids.

  Nicholas supposed the family was due another ass now. Which gave him the wherewithal to drop his brother to the ground without killing him. “And your speaking like a two-year-old is somehow going to convince me to give you additional funds?”

  Frank stood up and wiped off his bottom. “It should. If you were a good brother.” He broke an arrow over his knee for emphasis.

  Nicholas bit his cheek and picked up the bow again. “Listen. If you’d stop gambling, which you’re not terribly good at, you might notice you can do other things better.”

  “Like what?”

  Nicholas thought. “Like, um—”

  He thought some more, poised the arrow, and then shot it directly into the bull’s-eye.