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.”
“It’s a marvelous afternoon. That is”—she arched one brow and stared at him—“it is now.”
A cringeworthy remark if there ever was one, he thought, and prayed Poppy didn’t sense the undertone of sensual invitation in the princess’s voice.
Poppy gazed around the park, then back at Natasha, and smiled. “Yes, since the sun has come out in the last few minutes, it is a marvelous afternoon, Princess. I’m glad you’re enjoying your day.”
Hmmm. Nicholas’s fiancée was either a true innocent or as wily as Natasha and pretending to misunderstand her. He felt distinctly protective of Poppy either way. No doubt he was swayed in part by the fact that her delectable bosom was almost spilling out of her gown, although Natasha’s was, too, come to think of it.
Yet he felt nothing but indifference for her charms.
The princess sucked in her cheeks and shot Poppy a displeased look. “I suppose I am enjoying myself, although when you spurned my invitation to go shopping today, Boris was most disappointed and refused to eat his morning partridge. However, I informed him it was best for newly betrothed couples to parade themselves before society as soon as possible, ere ill rumors spread about their lack of compatibility.”
Poppy’s brow puckered for only a moment. “How kind of you to keep Boris apprised.”
“Yes, and it was an insightful observation, Princess,” Nicholas added coolly. “Poppy shall indeed be very busy with nuptial preparations over the length of your stay in London.”
Stay away, was what he meant, of course.
Natasha obviously understood. Her eyebrows gathered over her nose, and she opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything else, Nicholas took the reins from Poppy’s hands.
“Good day, Princess,” he said, and urged the horses forward.
“Yes, good-bye, Princess,” Poppy called back to her. “Oh, and I’ve decided I would like to go shopping with you, after all. I’ll be in tooouch!”
They passed her and her collection of dogs in mere seconds. Nicholas was grateful his horses were prime goers.
“Drummond,” Poppy remonstrated with him when the yapping had faded. “How could you?”
“Here, take them back,” he said, and handed her the reins.
She immediately accepted them. “Not that. I’m talking about the princess. You cut her off as she was about to speak.”
“I didn’t notice,” he lied. “Feel free to maneuver where you wish. There’s a flashy clump of flowers over there you might enjoy. As pink as a drunkard’s eyes.”
But Poppy ignored the clump and drove on. “You told her I’ll be too involved in wedding details to see her.”
“You shall be busy.” He sighed inwardly.
“Not too busy for her. Not anymore, at any rate.”
“You mean, you won’t be too busy for him.” He took the reins back without asking, feeling a sudden pique. “We both know it’s Sergei’s attention you desire.”
“So? You should seek his attention, too. Natasha’s, as well.”
“I don’t give a diamond-studded shoe buckle about Russian royalty.” He felt rather bitter about being passed over for Operation Pink Lady.
“But Mr. Groop says you must pay attention to them,” Poppy said. “He said so in the note Kettle and I found in your cane.”
Nicholas pulled the horses to an immediate stop. “What did you say?” Truly, he couldn’t have heard her correctly.
“I said Mr. Groop. And it was really quite an easy code to decipher, especially if you’re familiar with Hamlet’s first soliloquy—”
“Not—another—word.” He gripped her hand to make the seriousness of his intentions clear.
“But—”
“Poppy. I mean what I say. If you speak again, I shall kiss you senseless in front of Lady Jersey, who’s approaching to our left.”
“Go ahead.” She tossed her head.
He sighed. “I was threatening you. If I kiss you senseless in front of Lady Jersey, you’ll never make it into Almack’s again.”
“The lemonade is blasted weak,” she asserted. “I don’t think I should miss it.”
He took a deep breath. “You won’t say another word to me until we may speak in private.”
She looked down her nose at him. “All right. But I’m not accustomed to people threatening me, staring down my bodice, baldly confessing they’re after my money, and having secrets. I find the whole situation quite reprehensible.” She leaned closer. “And in the oddest way … invigorating.”
He threw her a look. “Invigorating, did you say?”
The damned lust was rising in him like sap.
The chit was driving him mad.
Mad.
And not just in an annoyed sort of way. It was spring. The sun was shining. She was flushed and sweet-smelling, and there was a quiet little shady spot nearby that no one ever seemed to bother with. He’d always wanted to use it for kissing a delectable girl.
A delectable, brazen girl with a brilliant mind was even better. Those codes took him all night to solve.
“I’m taking you home now,” he said in neutral tones, to mask the covetous sensations burning through him.
She looked at him as if she were a bound-and-shackled prisoner—a bound-and-shackled prisoner with very kissable lips—but fortunately she said not a word.
Truth be told, Nicholas found threats and secrets invigorating, too, and if he understood the situation correctly, Operation Pink Lady—OPL—was now his.
His.
And the MR that went with it. Thank God, when it rained, it poured. A substantial monetary reward certainly couldn’t hurt matters, even if he were marrying an heiress.
But he was also alarmed. How in bloody hell had Poppy found out about Groop? How much did she know?
And how would he keep her out of his business?
He turned the horses toward the east. She’d no idea what she’d stepped into, did she?
He stole a glance at her.
Apparently not.
The “tortured captive” look was gone. She had a self-satisfied “I’ve-got-a-secret” look. She should never play card games for money, he thought. And she most certainly would never make it in the Service. She wore too many emotions right there on her flimsy, puffed-up sleeve.
A shabby steed bearing a portly young man in an ill-fitting, stained coat pulled alongside the curricle just before they were to leave the park. Nicholas was disappointed to see that it was Frank.
He prayed for patience. “Yes, little brother?”
Frank ignored him and leaned close to Poppy. “I wouldn’t marry my brother if I were you. He’s only marrying you because the estate needs money. You’re filthy rich, so you’ll suit.” He chuckled. “Not to mention I’ll cost you a fortune. I’m an inveterate gambler, you know.”
She stared at him for a cool few seconds, long enough that his horse grew restless and a pucker of uncertainty marred Frank’s brow.
“You’re not fooling me for a minute,” she told him. “You’re terribly excited I’m marrying your brother because you hope I’ll be the big sister you never had. Well, you’re right. I’ll not tolerate your gambling for a minute. I’ll box your ears if you misuse my fortune.”
“Is that all?” Frank laughed.
“You’ve obviously never had a sister.” She arched her brow at him. “We’re capable of more. So much more.”
Frank wheeled about on his horse and scowled at Nicholas. “You think you’ve got the best of me, aligning yourself with this Lady Poppy person, don’t you?” He tried to laugh, but it was a poor imitation. “Well, think again.”
He tore off on his horse.
They watched him wreak hav
oc among a party of picnickers, galloping over their blanket.
“My goodness,” said Poppy. “What a brother.”
“You’re almost as provoking as he is.” Nicholas shook his head and picked up the reins. He was amused by her just a tad, even though the amusement wasn’t nearly as strong as the desire he had to peek down her bodice again.
She cast him an arch glance. “You’re not my father, nor my employer. I do what I want when I want—”
“With whom you want. I know. You spinsters are quite a handful.”
When they rode out of the park into the busy streets of London, he wondered how in hell he was ever going to explain her to Groop.
CHAPTER 13
“Five hundred thirty steps.” Poppy stopped, took a deep breath, and wondered how many other young-ladies-turned-spy the gray-eyed duke had brought up here. “We’re only on three hundred ten.”
“It’s worth it,” Drummond said, and held tight to her hand.
They were climbing up to the Golden Gallery at the very top of St. Paul’s Cathedral—at night. “No one can hear us up there,” he said. “And no one can approach without our knowing. We can speak freely.”
She withheld the comment that they could speak freely in her drawing room, too—if Cook or Kettle or one of the maids didn’t eavesdrop, which would be a rarity. So perhaps she should grant that he knew best where to conduct a clandestine meeting.
She’d lied and told Papa they were off to see a play on Drury Lane, and she’d begged to be allowed to go unchaperoned, claiming her advanced age and betrothal to a duke were sufficient protection against any gossip.
Besides, she’d said, the play in question was one Aunt Charlotte had already seen.
Aunt Charlotte had merely winked at her. She hadn’t seen that play, but she knew, of course, that Poppy was doing all in her power to maintain her membership in the Spinsters Club, and sometimes that dedication required some creative thinking that went beyond the usual evasive techniques a Spinster employed with her suitors.
“As the betrothal is official, you must take Drummond head-on, I’m afraid,” Aunt Charlotte had told her earlier in the day, sympathetically patting her hand. “Even if that means you have to be near his handsome personage quite frequently and devise as many moments as possible alone with him.”
Although Poppy hoped their attachment would be temporary, her duty as a Spinster, according to her aunt, was to continue asserting her own interests and desires to the duke.
“Preferably at close range,” Aunt Charlotte had clarified.
Poppy knew from her former governess’s assessment of her that she was more sensible and astute than most young ladies. But the desire of her heart had nothing to do with books or rationality. Her primary desire, having been brought up on Cook’s stories—and having lived her young life as the daughter of two people very much in love—was for adventure and romance herself.
She hadn’t realized she could have either here in England, but Sergei was here now, so he’d take care of the romantic part, and she was climbing onward and upward with Nicholas to a secret place where they could discuss secret things, and at night, no less, which certainly counted as an adventure.
Although the adventure was dragging on rather a long time. Step after step she climbed. Finally, after many odd turns—with one brief rest so she could fix her slipper—and many more steps, they were there, at the top of St. Paul’s.
When she walked outside and to the railing, her mouth almost dropped open.
“This is London?” She’d never seen it this way.
It was beautiful—even the drifting smoke that floated over portions of the city.
She looked out over a sweeping panorama of thousands of glowing lights, dignified architectural silhouettes, narrow streets, and the winding Thames, all encircled by a starry night sky and a waxing moon.
“It’s magical,” she choked out, nearly overwhelmed.
Drummond stood behind her, his hand lightly touching her waist. “Isn’t it, though?” he said near her ear.
She was tempted to lean back in the circle of his arms and simply gaze at the glorious view … but she couldn’t very well assert herself if he unleashed her recently discovered appetite for kissing. When they were kissing, all thoughts of defying him went out the window.
Besides, she was trying to save her kisses for Sergei.
“I can’t see the stars like this from the street,” she admitted. “And the city is … breathtaking.” She’d never known it could be. Nothing in her experience had ever compared to St. Petersburg, but here she was—in the midst of a majestic scene—right at home.
She looked back at him. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
His eyes were dark pools. “You’re welcome.”
Poppy couldn’t breathe, he was so handsome. But he’s not Sergei, she reminded herself. He was an arrogant Englishman with her silk stocking in his pocket, ever ready to force her hand. Who cared that when he kissed her, she longed to disrobe and have him run his hands all over her body?
“The paper, please,” he said.
“Oh, yes.” She pulled it out of her bodice—realizing a bit too late that hiding it there might not have been the best idea. She hoped he couldn’t see her blushing. “Kettle and I enjoyed playing with that clever cane.”
Drummond took the scrap from her, lit a match, and burned it without reading it.
She gasped.
“I already know what it says,” he explained.
“We could have burned that at home.”
“Yes, we could have, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.” He leaned on the railing next to her, his eyes on the city landscape. “Up here, you’re much more likely to listen to what I have to say. There’s something about this view that gives one clarity. Are you ready?”
“I suppose.” She leaned next to him, elbow to elbow, and marveled at the incredible vista.
“You must stay out of my business while we’re engaged,” he said, staring straight ahead. “For your own good. I get involved in things that a proper young lady should know nothing about.”
“Then I don’t want to be a proper young lady,” she blurted out.
“Of course you do,” he said, censuring her with a look. “Proper young ladies don’t create risk. Risk is part of my business. I must eliminate all unnecessary danger.”
“Are you saying I’m a danger?” She backed away from him a step.
He was the Duke of Drummond, after all. Perhaps he’d planned to take her up here so he could throw her over the side of the gallery to her death.
“I’m not going to eliminate you,” he told her with a chuckle. “Although I fear you could wreck the operation.”
“What operation?”
“Operation Pink Lady. My assignment. My secret assignment. The one mentioned in that paper inside the cane.”
Heavens.
For a moment, she could barely speak. “So that’s what OPL means.”
“Exactly.”
“I want to help,” she said. “And by the way, you’re not the only one who deals with subterfuge. My friends and I have our own secret organization.”
“Is that so? What’s it about?”
“None of your business. It’s secret.”
“I’ll bet it has to do with men. Women always have secrets about men. How to capture them, stifle them, and break their hearts.”
She scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. Men are the ones who do that to women, and yes—that’s a bit what our secret organization is about, protecting women’s interests.”
He gave a short laugh. “And you want me to entrust you with secrets? Look how easily you just told me yours.”
“I was making a point. And I never told you any details.”
“I got details enough.” He lifted her chin. “The best way you can help me is to do nothing. Say nothing. And behave yourself, as any good fiancée would.”
But she wasn’t a good fiancée. She was a Spinster.
“No,” she said. “I know too much now. Your employer shouldn’t have left that cane at my house—”
“You shouldn’t have been nosy.”
“If you want my silence, you’ll give me something to do.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m having fun. And if you don’t, I shall find a way to get involved anyway. You’re right. I am a danger. I know just enough to wreak havoc. You’d best keep me close.” She crossed her arms and raised her chin. “In case you haven’t guessed, this is my way of paying you back for stealing my stocking.”
She was asserting herself and her desires, wasn’t she?
He stared at her a moment. “I wonder if I’m not insane to have brought you up here thinking you’d cooperate.”
“You’re not insane,” she said, then wondered if she were wrong. All the stories Cook told almost made him out to be crazed. But surely he wasn’t, she decided, even though she had no clue what had happened to his uncle.
Nobody did. It was still a mystery.
She cast a sideways glance at him.
“Very well,” Nicholas said, his eyes boring into hers. “I’ll keep you close. But this won’t work if you don’t trust me.”
She bit her lip. “All right.”
“I’m about to confide secrets to you, and I need a sign that you’ll not go back on your word.”
She drew in a deep breath. “Give me your pinky finger.”
He laughed. “That won’t do.”
“Then what?”
The heated look he gave her made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and warmth spread through her limbs. “You’re not suggesting—”
“I am.”
“What?” she whispered. “A kiss?”
He shook his head. “Nothing so paltry.”
She gulped. “You already have my stocking.”
“That was to guarantee your adhering properly to your role as devoted fiancée. This is to get your pledge that you won’t reveal secrets of another sort.”
“What must I do?”
“What all my colleagues and I must do, those of us who work for Groop. Disrobe. And run around the gallery three times.”
Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right Page 8
