Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

by Kieran Kramer

  “Without a doubt,” Nicholas assured her, his voice rather tight. “I shall be overseeing Boris myself.”

  “Oh, you wonderful man!” Mrs. Travers threw herself at him. “Who ever heard of a duke following after a one-eyed dog to see if he’ll, um, produce a pendant? How could anyone say such bad things about you?”

  She covered her mouth with her hand, and her maid turned red.

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured, “my maid and I were in a discussion with Lord Derby’s cook.”

  “About his missing uncle?” Poppy asked.

  “Or the octopus?” Nicholas asked, throwing Poppy a look that made her feel as if she were the cause of all this gossip about him, when really—

  Oh, dear. She was, wasn’t she? Of course, she’d never told her suitors about the octopus, but she’d encouraged Cook to spin her tales. And Poppy had repeated them to Aunt Charlotte and her friends, and now—

  Now Cook was telling all of London—and some country folk like Mrs. Travers, too. It seemed everyone was in a tizzy over the duke’s supposedly wicked and daring exploits.

  Mrs. Travers bit her lip. “We heard about both the octopus and the uncle. But mum’s the word.”

  She turned an invisible key in her mouth.

  “That’s good of you,” Nicholas told her. “But I’m curious. What exactly did Cook say about my missing uncle?”

  Mrs. Travers looked to her maid. “You tell him.”

  The maid couldn’t quite look him in the eye. “He was a thin boy with beady eyes. But them beady eyes led him right to Viking gold. It was buried in the sand before your estate facing the sea. But someone in your family killed him for it, poor lad.”

  She rubbed her nose as if her pronouncement were nothing particularly shocking.

  “So you’re all cursed,” she concluded.

  “It seems that way,” Drummond said with great cheer. “Off we go, now, ladies. I hear a carriage out front.”

  Boris licked Nicholas’s face and began to whine.

  Poppy looked out the window. “It’s the Russian twins.”

  “I’ve got to ride with the dog,” Mrs. Travers said.

  “Then you shall ride with the princess,” said Nicholas. “Because she won’t part from him.”

  Mrs. Travers clapped her hand over her heart again. “My, how a day can change in a moment! Who ever thought Lily Travers would be riding in a carriage with a Russian princess!”

  Yes, and who ever thought Lady Poppy Smith-Barnes, daughter of the Earl of Derby, would be following a one-eyed dog to Surrey?

  CHAPTER 18

  Nicholas tried not to be disappointed that Poppy rode with Mrs. Travers, her maid, and Natasha. It made sense, of course.

  He rode with Sergei.

  Another carriage followed behind with a few Russian servants, Poppy’s maid, and a number of trunks.

  It was the longest ride to Surrey Nicholas had ever taken. The prince talked ceaselessly of his bachelor life in Russia—the women, the wine, the spectacular parties—as if Nicholas hadn’t had his own share of wild bachelor moments. And then he rattled on about his interest in cockfighting, a sport Nicholas had never enjoyed. Sergei also boasted about the number of bears he’d shot—nine—and described in minute detail how one goes about skinning one.

  Nicholas listened with barely suppressed annoyance. He preferred shooting quail, but it wasn’t the lack of mutual interests that caused him to wish himself elsewhere. It was the prince’s smug manner that he found so off-putting.

  The world, it seemed, revolved around Sergei.

  “I’m missing a very good card game right now,” the prince said with a bit of temper, and mentioned a well-established London gambling hell where he was quickly becoming a regular player. “Too bad we’re traipsing off to Surrey.”

  Nicholas shrugged. “It seemed the best solution at the time, and the ladies appear excited at the thought of spending time away from Town for a few days. You could have stayed behind, you know.”

  “Yes, I suppose I could have.” The prince shrugged his shoulders and yawned. “But it will be nice to spend time with Lady Poppy.”

  He was either stupid or extremely vain.

  Nicholas gave a short laugh. “Was that really the best thing to say to her fiancé?”

  Sergei finally seemed to notice him. “Lady Poppy and I are old friends. Surely you know that.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” Nicholas said coolly. “She told me you’re old friends. But at the present moment, she’s engaged to me. Or had you forgotten?”

  The prince arched a brow. “I don’t like your manner, Drummond. You’re cocky. I even detect a threat in your tone. Against a Russian prince? That’s not very diplomatic of you.”

  Nicholas shrugged. “If you’ve harmless intentions, you needn’t fear any threats.”

  Sergei made a sulky face. “You take things too seriously, Duke. I’m only a guest in your country seeking to enjoy himself, and one way is by associating with people with whom I’m already acquainted. Surely you would grant a visiting aristocrat that much.”

  “Do enjoy yourself, Sergei.” Nicholas intentionally used his first name. “Just be careful where.” He leaned back and pulled out a cheroot. “Care for one?”

  Like a spoiled child, Sergei pretended not to hear him. He stared out the window, a steely look of indifference on his face.

  But Nicholas knew better. The prince wasn’t used to being crossed in any way. In fact, Nicholas’s negative impression of him had only deepened after this latest conversation. Sergei was self-absorbed, not particularly bright, nor noble in character.

  Nicholas wondered that Poppy had ever had a tendre for him, but she’d been only fifteen when she’d met him in St. Petersburg. The prince was handsome—charming, even, when he tried to be. But nothing deeper than that.

  Obviously, for a girl in the throes of first love, it had been enough.

  * * *

  When they arrived at their destination in Surrey, Poppy found Lord and Lady Caldwell were nothing but smiles and warm hospitality. After a lovely tea in the drawing room, she repaired to her room, washed her face, and allowed her maid to fix her hair. But then she dismissed the girl to enjoy herself, putting away her own clothes and storing her bag at the foot of her bed.

  It was time to do what Aunt Charlotte had suggested.

  Explore.

  The manor house was three stories high and Elizabethan in style, so she had plenty of wings to roam about, her objective being nothing more than to satisfy her curiosity about new places.

  It was a wonderful thing to be a Spinster.

  After a brief chat with the housekeeper, she found herself in the portrait gallery.

  “There I am,” someone whispered over her shoulder.

  She jumped. “Drummond! You scared me!”

  He laughed out loud, a hearty laugh that she’d never heard before. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. You were so absorbed in looking for someone. Who?”

  “I don’t know. The housekeeper told me I’d recognize a familiar face on the left-hand side.”

  “She must mean me,” he said, and pointed to a portrait of a small boy with a twinkle in his eye and a charming half-smile. One of his childish hands lay on top of the head of an adoring dog. The other held a lush, pink rose.

  “That is you.” Poppy instantly recognized the restrained mischief in the boy’s stance and expression.

  He was adorable. And sweet.

  Now she cast a discreet glance at the man he’d become. The boy had grown up to become sinfully handsome, and that childish air of mischief about him had been replaced by a sense that he could be dangerous if provoked.

  “Yes,” he said. “That is I. My godmother insisted on having me sit for a portrait when I was here one summer.”

  “The summer you picked all the roses off her prize bush.”

  “That’s right. You heard that story already?”

  Poppy chuckled. “She told all of us when we first arrive
d and you were out seeing to Boris’s business.”

  “Which came up short, not that I’m surprised this early in the watch.” He held out his arm. “May I continue the tour with you? We’re supposed to appear a happily betrothed couple, after all. And not simply happy—in love. A couple united after three, angst-filled years of being apart.”

  He sighed, a most over-the-top sigh.

  Damn the man. There went her Spinster freedom. And he was rude to keep bringing up the lavish tale of love she used to tell her suitors.

  “Very well,” she bit out, more than a little dismayed that her plans for wandering about unencumbered had changed. “I’ve been directed to the east wing, primarily to the second floor to a room where Queen Elizabeth once stayed.”

  He wrapped her hand in the crook of his arm. “Yes, we’ll stop and see that first.”

  The Queen Room was vast and opulent, not a thing out of place and everything well dusted.

  “The room hasn’t been used since,” said Drummond. “It’s rather a shrine. See over there?” He pointed to a beautiful dressing table. “There’s a comb on top. The queen either forgot it or left it as a memento of her visit.”

  Poppy went over and stared at the comb. “That can’t be her hair.”

  “It is,” said Drummond. “Can you believe it’s still there? Although for all we know, it could be the maid’s hair and they keep replacing it.”

  Poppy laughed and looked about the room. “I must admit, it’s the perfect place for a queen to sleep.”

  “And the perfect place for a man to steal a kiss,” Drummond said. “Especially on the queen’s bed.”

  “No,” she said firmly, although her heart picked up its pace. “We can’t.”

  But he pulled her down to the bed anyway, the rogue. She was pinned beneath him, and as indignant as she felt, she couldn’t help laughing with him.

  Just as suddenly, they stopped.

  She felt a sudden rush when she looked into his compelling gray eyes.

  He bent low and teased her lips with his own. She let out a sigh and wrapped her arms around his neck. And then he kissed her, slow and sweet, his tongue playing with hers, his mouth hot on her own.

  His jaw was pleasingly rough, and she could feel the restraint emanating from his body as he ignited something hot and fierce within her. She arched her back, pressing upward—

  And then she remembered. He wasn’t kissing her just for the sweet pleasure of it, was he? This was a game to him. This was his way of trying to persuade her to be a docile fiancée, a female madly in love with the Duke of Drummond, and ultimately, a strategy designed to make her give up her Spinsterhood for a man she didn’t love. The man had her stocking in his pocket, the better to coerce her into his plans. And his plans were entirely self-serving.

  Well, this was one woman who wasn’t so easily manipulated.

  She pushed him away.

  His eyes, which had been smoldering with an appealing heat, became inscrutable gray pools.

  “Well,” he said dryly, standing up. “That certainly ended that.”

  She stood up herself and smoothed her skirts. “It did, indeed.” Her heart was pounding, but she strove for the calm dignity of Queen Elizabeth. “Now, if you would be so good as to show me the rest of the east wing.”

  Which he did. She saw gorgeous rooms, priceless paintings, statues that could have been in museums, and lovely views of the countryside from massive windows framed in rich velvets and damasks.

  But she hardly noticed. She couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss on the queen’s bed.

  Blast Drummond for getting under her skin.

  When they walked back, he stopped and showed her a portrait of his parents as a newly married couple.

  “Did your parents love each other?” Poppy dared to ask him, even though it was none of her business, she knew.

  He nodded. “Very much. After my mother died—I was thirteen—my father was completely lost. But he remarried less than a year later.” He paused, his mouth thinning. “To a neighbor who took advantage of his vulnerability. She was a profligate spender and unfaithful, to boot. She also hated me and my brother. Probably because we made it very clear we hated her.”

  His profile was beautiful, she thought. But there was an air of sadness about him that made her heart ache for him.

  “How awful,” was all she knew to say.

  He turned to face her. “What about your parents?”

  She sighed, just thinking of the old days. “We were a happy family. Mama and Papa were very much in love. And then she died on my sixteenth birthday—of smallpox. We think she got it in our last days in Russia.”

  He lifted up her chin. “Are you all right? It hasn’t been nearly as long for you as it has been for me.”

  She nodded, even though she felt shaky. “I’m all right. But not Papa. It’s as if he died, too. That’s why I’m”—she hesitated—“not happy.”

  Oh, God. She still wasn’t, was she?

  Being away from her house and her daily life, it was so much easier to see things clearly. How could she be happy when her father was so grief-stricken that he no longer had dinners with her and hardly ever laughed?

  Drummond’s gaze was concerned. “I’m sorry. And to have that happen on your birthday, of all days.”

  Poppy swallowed hard. Her heart’s steady rhythm increased, became irregular. “Me, too,” she whispered.

  He pulled her forward. “Time to go,” he said, and led her back to the middle wing of the house.

  She wouldn’t tell him, of course, that today was her birthday.

  She was twenty-one.

  CHAPTER 19

  Duty over love. It was as simple as that. Nicholas drank his wine and ate his dinner at Lord and Lady Caldwell’s with that simple fact uppermost in his thoughts. It helped assuage the guilt he felt at marrying Poppy for convenience’s sake.

  Lord and Lady Caldwell had married for love. So had his parents.

  But they hadn’t been in the Service. He was. He’d chosen a different life, and with it came different choices.

  Still … he couldn’t deny the sick feeling he had every time he saw Lady Caldwell observe Poppy at the table with that look—the assessing look families typically give newcomers. Lady Caldwell was imagining Poppy as his future bride, as his beloved mate, and she appeared pleased at the idea.

  Nicholas knew he shouldn’t feel guilty. But it was difficult to believe he’d made the right choice when he was in the presence of so much love and warmth, which was made most evident when Lord and Lady Caldwell told everyone proudly about their three children and their numerous grandchildren.

  Even though he knew he was related to them, he was envious—their original little family was whole and happy and getting bigger every year.

  He thought of Frank, his only close relative. And then told himself not to think of him. It was too depressing.

  So was the situation with the Russian princess. At the beginning of the meal, Natasha had given Nicholas a meaningful look. “I switched your place card so you’d be seated next to me,” she’d whispered in his ear.

  “Did you?” He’d tried to keep his tone neutral and his face impassive. Now that he was working on Operation Pink Lady, he couldn’t afford to antagonize her or ignore her.

  And he’d discreetly moved his knee away from her roving hand, although she’d taken every opportunity during the meal to lean close to him, to place a hand on his arm, to press her hip next to his.

  He had no one to blame but himself. He only hoped no one else noticed Natasha’s overtures. It seemed rather impossible not to.

  But equally as embarrassing was Sergei’s extreme attentiveness to Poppy. Nicholas watched as the prince whispered something in Poppy’s ear. She gave a light laugh that sounded rather like choking.

  “Prince Sergei.” Nicholas didn’t bother to be overly pleasant. “Do share with us the observation that has caused Lady Poppy some amusement.”

  The prince low
ered his wineglass to the table. “I asked if she were enjoying her birthday.”

  A wave of shock went through Nicholas. He’d just been talking with Poppy about her birthday—Lady Derby had died on that day. He’d no idea at the time, of course, that today was—

  Oh, God. Poor girl.

  And she’d simply walked on with him and acted as if nothing were slightly wrong. And sad.

  “Birthday?” Mrs. Travers asked. “How old are you, dear?”

  “Twenty-one.” Poppy smiled, but Nicholas could see she was working very hard to be cheerful.

  “You’re practically a spinster,” said Natasha with a smug smile. “How fortunate Drummond has saved you from such a fate.”

  “How did you know about her birthday, Prince?” asked Mrs. Travers.

  Sergei stared daggers at her.

  Poppy cleared her throat. “Before dinner, I was reading a lovely note my aunt had slipped into my reticule. The prince, um, saw it, as well.”

  Mrs. Travers put a hand on her breast and looked at Sergei. “You looked over her shoulder?”

  He arched a brow. “Your point eludes me, madam. I am a Russian prince, you know.”

  Nicholas wanted to roll his eyes.

  Lady Caldwell, ever the hostess, clasped her hands together and smiled. “We have a tradition in our home on birthdays,” she said. “Everyone must dance.”

  Thank God. Nicholas wasn’t terribly fond of dancing, but anything to get away from the tension at the table.

  Rather than use the ballroom, Lady Caldwell decided they’d do better adjourning to the sitting room, where a few footmen pushed back the furniture and rugs to create a dance floor.

  Lady Caldwell sat down to play the pianoforte, but Mrs. Travers insisted on taking her place.

  “A waltz, then, Mrs. Travers, to be opened by our newly betrothed couple,” Lady Caldwell said with a great deal of affectionate anticipation. Lord Caldwell put his arm around her waist and pulled her close.

  When Nicholas spun Poppy about the floor, he held her hand lightly. But he was enchanted by how soft and delicate it was and by how her long, graceful fingers looped confidently over his. And touching her waist was enough to send his thoughts to places they shouldn’t go—not with his godmother looking on.