Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

by Kieran Kramer

  He leaned forward suddenly and put a hand on her knee. “I must confess something,” he said. “I enjoyed last night. Very much.”

  Her eyes widened. “I did, too.” Her grin was wide and bright. “I’m glad you mentioned it.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “I think we’re feeling better now, aren’t we?”

  “I think so.” She looked down and back up at him.

  But it wasn’t true. His confession had made things worse. Neither one of them said a word. There was too much tension between them, and now they were at the Merriweathers’. He got out and lifted her down, and when her feet touched the pavement, their lips were so close he could have kissed her.

  But he didn’t.

  He was afraid if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and he had a job to do—to keep her safe in a place with hundreds of people and convince the world that he was about to marry her.

  He grabbed her hand—she was silent again—and brought her into the crush that was the party. He loved feeling her fingers grasped in his and her body brushing up against him. She was his fiancée, and he wasn’t going to let her go. Not tonight, to any thugs intent on hurting her, nor later, when she tried to break off the engagement.

  He was going to fight for her, convince her they should be married. The idea of the marital bed was no longer something he dreaded but looked forward to with great pleasure.

  They also laughed together often.

  What more could a man want in a wife or a wife in a husband than an ideal sexual partner and an abundance of laughter?

  He wasn’t sure yet how or where the test between them would take place, but it would, and he vowed to be ready.

  A half hour later, they’d walked through several rooms inch by inch. The noise was deafening. Many people stopped and grabbed them and begged for a few minutes’ conversation.

  Nicholas noticed Poppy began to appear distracted.

  “Let me get you a refreshment,” he suggested.

  It would be her third. The first lemonade had been knocked out of her hand by a random stranger. The second she’d already downed.

  “Actually,” she said, “I—I think I need a few minutes.”

  “Oh? What’s wrong? A fallen hem? A curl out of place? I think you look lovely.” And she did, all peachy skin and dampened brow.

  She blushed. “I haven’t talked to Eleanor or Beatrice today, and I’d like to. Would you mind?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

  He wouldn’t tell her he’d be keeping a very close eye out, thanks to Groop’s alert.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

  He put a hand on her waist and squeezed lightly. “Be good,” he said, even though he longed to be bad with her, to wrap his arms around her, kiss her madly, and caress her plump breasts and curvaceous bottom.

  “I will,” she said.

  And she began to squeeze through the crowd to get to another room, presumably one where her friends were.

  Nicholas watched her go, feeling lonely of a sudden. It was all right, though. He enjoyed being able to see her from afar. He could observe the slender nape of her neck, her abundant, shining hair reflecting the candlelight. And when she looked to the side, he admired her delicate profile.

  He followed her from a distance, feeling pulled as if by a magnet.

  And then Natasha stepped in front of him.

  CHAPTER 26

  At the rout Poppy found Eleanor in a corner in a small crowd watching a mime pretend to crawl up a ladder. Where he came from, no one knew, but odd things like that tended to happen at routs.

  Poppy had gone to see her best friends earlier in the day to explain to them what she was doing this evening. She couldn’t tell them about the painting called Pink Lady—that was a Service secret—but she did tell them she needed further closure with Sergei and required their help to get it.

  “He doesn’t seem to comprehend I’m not interested in him,” Poppy had told them.

  “That’s obvious,” both of them had said.

  As usual, the Spinsters stuck together. Beatrice and Eleanor endorsed her plan wholeheartedly. They were well over lamenting the fact that the only man for Poppy no longer suited—that he was, in fact, a roué. They couldn’t wait to hear what the special event was that he had planned and only asked her to be careful.

  Now Poppy tugged on Eleanor’s sleeve. “You promise you and Beatrice will stay in separate rooms and on separate floors until I get back?”

  “Yes,” Eleanor replied, patting her hand. “If Nicholas finds me, I’ll chat with him for as long as I can, and when he gets antsy and asks after you, I’ll say I just saw you but that now you must be talking to Beatrice. And then when he goes looking for her, she’ll say you just left her and came back to me. It should work for at least a half hour. And it should take another half hour before he becomes desperate enough to seek us out. Which gives you an entire hour to go see Sergei. Good luck.”

  Eleanor kissed her cheek.

  “Thank you!” And Poppy scurried off, or tried to. The crush was getting bigger, and she had to avoid Nicholas, which would involve a lot of luck. Her hair was like a beacon, and she had no idea what rooms he’d travel through.

  But the crowd served as a good cover, and although leaving was difficult, three minutes later, she was finally out the front door and down the steps.

  Her young stableboy waited a little ways down the street, beyond the long row of carriages pulling up to the Merriweathers’ or departing.

  She grinned when she saw him, relieved not to be alone. London had its dangers, especially at night, and only a foolish girl would allow herself to be alone in the darkness.

  “We must hurry,” she whispered when she saw him.

  “Right, mum,” he whispered back with a grin.

  “Do you have your pistol? And the slippers and mask?”

  “I do.” He handed her the slippers—sturdy and comfortable—and she quickly donned them.

  “Very good,” she said. “Off we go.”

  Together they covered the two blocks to Sergei’s apartments in record time, racing beneath gas lamps, in and out of shadows the whole way. Once at Sergei’s door, she handed the stableboy back the sturdy slippers and her shawl and put on the delicate slippers he gave her. The last thing she did was don the mask he’d been holding for her.

  “Right,” she said with a nervous smile. “See you in forty minutes.”

  “I’ll be standing here waiting, miss.” He threw her a little salute.

  She knocked on the door and was shy and anxious when she saw the stern face of the Russian guard appear.

  “You’ve arrived just in time for dinner,” he said. “Everyone has gathered in the drawing room.”

  He took her down a long, gloomy hall lit only by a few sconces, each holding only one miserable candle, to a room at the far end emanating light.

  It was like being in one of Cook’s stories …

  Poppy’s hands began to sweat. When she turned into the drawing room, she saw a colorful tableau—masked women in bright gowns and feathers sitting on several sofas with masked men in fabulous waistcoats and intricate cravats lounging between them.

  Something inside her recoiled. She didn’t like the masks. They lent a faint air of menace to the atmosphere. And the whole scene appeared … too informal.

  Sergei was bending over one of the men, filling his glass with an amber liquid. A woman next to that man laughed loudly, leaned over, and whispered something in his ear. He laughed back, grabbed her knee, and caressed it with his hand.

  Goodness.

  That was awfully familiar of him. She wasn’t sure if they were married, but even husbands and wives, at proper dinner parties, didn’t show such obvious physical affection to each other. It was ill-mannered. Such touching was to be kept private.

  She had a strong recollection of the extremely private moment she and Nicholas had shared in the l
ibrary.

  “H-hello, Prince.” She forced herself to smile.

  He looked up, the crystal decanter still in his hand. She could see his eyes widen behind his mask.

  “It’s you!” he said loudly, and chuckled. “Lady X!”

  One of the men put a quizzing glass up to his mask. “This is your Lady X?”

  “Yes,” said Sergei, approaching her and kissing her hand. “And isn’t she a beauty?”

  “She’s got amazing eyes,” a woman with wild hair cackled. “She’d make a lovely Cleopatra.”

  “I’d be her Antony,” said one man with burnished curls. “We’d complement each other perfectly.”

  No, you most certainly would not, she longed to tell him.

  “Where’s my dagger?” said yet another man.

  One of the women giggled. “By the bottle of sow’s blood, you idiot.”

  Sow’s blood?

  Poppy felt herself freeze in place even as her heart thumped harder. Why on earth were these people talking about sow’s blood and daggers? And even though she knew Sergei called her Lady X to preserve her anonymity, it felt disrespectful, rude, and even frightening to be in a place where people’s actions weren’t connected to their names.

  Who was Sergei, really?

  And why had she ever thought that spending one week with him when she was fifteen meant she knew him?

  The prince lifted her chin with a finger. “No need to worry. Tonight is to be a pure romp. Enjoy yourself behind that mask, and no one will be the wiser tomorrow.”

  “But Sergei—” She shook her head. “You said—”

  He’d said in his note he was sorry for being boorish. He’d written her a lovely apology.

  “Yes, Lady X?”

  She clenched her fists at her sides. “I—I can’t—”

  She couldn’t stay. That’s what she was trying to say. The room grew quiet. Everyone stared at her. Sergei’s brow furrowed, and Poppy felt alone.

  Very alone.

  She wished she could turn around and march out, but she couldn’t, not when everyone’s attention was focused on her. She had a horrible suspicion the prince or his bodyguards would come after her—make her stay.

  Those gloomy candles in the hallway were no help. She was beginning to panic.

  Yet she pulled herself together and smiled—a small, uneasy smile. “I can’t … wait to see the portrait. When shall we?”

  Sergei seemed to relax. “We’ll eat first,” he said. “I’ve had my cook prepare an eight-course meal. We’ll wine and dine and make merry, and then we shall have a surprise. Later, when the clock has struck midnight, we’ll view the portrait.”

  Midnight?

  Poppy’s heart sank. There was no way they’d finish an eight-course meal in an hour, and she certainly couldn’t stay to make merry and have a surprise—she’d no desire to find out what it was—and then stay until midnight.

  What should she do? Could she leave and come back again? How could she explain that to Sergei?

  Oh, bother, she was a terrible liar. He’d never believe her if she said she had to go home to get a draught for a headache and that she would return.

  The truth, of course, was that she wouldn’t return.

  “To the dining room,” he said, and held out his arm to her.

  Numbly, she laid her hand on his forearm and allowed him to lead her there, down that gloomy hall again.

  The dining room was cramped. She’d never be able to hang back and hope not to be noticed. When Sergei seated her on a corner of the table, in the chair to his right, she was elbow to elbow with the fellow who’d been looking for his dagger. Across from her was the wild-haired woman who’d commented on her eyes. And Sergei himself was so close at the top of the table, his knee touched hers.

  She wished she’d told Nicholas where she’d been going. At least Eleanor and Beatrice knew. And the stableboy. Perhaps he’d knock on the door after forty minutes and rescue her. But she doubted it. He’d be too afraid to knock. He’d wait for her for hours if he had to.

  Poppy’s chest tightened, but then she reminded herself that Eleanor and Beatrice would tell Nicholas where she’d gone, sooner rather than later. Although knowing them, she was sure they would do their very best—ironically, on her behalf—to keep Nicholas ignorant of her whereabouts as long as possible.

  She was stuck. She’d simply have to see what happened … and vow never to be so foolish again as to trust someone she barely knew, someone who’d shown her very clearly in recent days that he wasn’t the man she’d thought he was.

  Sergei’s foot brushed against her slipper once. And then he trod on her toes so hard she winced.

  Was he trying to get her attention? To flirt?

  “I find a have a new appetite, and it’s for Spinsters,” he’d told her at Lady Caldwell’s.

  And a thing for naked ladies with parasols.

  She’d been foolish to come. But it was too late. She cleared her throat, looked down at her plate, afraid to meet his eyes, and had a momentary pang of intense regret. She’d forgotten her pin, the one she usually kept in her sleeve in case of emergencies. She’d like nothing better than to stick that pin in his hand if he played with her foot again.

  But she couldn’t. She’d have to use wilier tactics to escape his attentions. And while she sipped a glass of ratafia, she tried to imagine what those tactics would be.

  * * *

  “No, Natasha.” Nicholas was firm when he pushed her hands off his chest. He saw Lady Eleanor on the far side of the room chatting with some women. Poppy was nowhere near.

  Perhaps that meant she was with Beatrice instead.

  Natasha sulked. “But why do you stay away? I don’t care that you’re to marry. Come back to me.”

  He shook his head. “As I’ve already told you, it was a mistake. You’ve plenty of admirers, so you won’t be alone.”

  He left her abruptly. It was the only way. She was entirely too possessive, and he regretted ever spending time with her, much less getting into bed with her.

  Let it be a lesson, he told himself. You can only gamble so often before you lose.

  His gambling days were over, at least with women. And he was glad of it. It was an unanticipated benefit of marrying Poppy that he’d never considered.

  But where was his fiancée?

  It had been a good twenty minutes since he’d seen her. He battled his way through the crowds to find Beatrice and looked for Poppy along the way. No luck. Ten minutes later, he found Beatrice, laughing and talking with several admiring gentlemen on the next floor.

  “I’m so sorry, Your Grace,” she yelled in his ear. “I just saw Poppy, and she left. I think she was looking for you. Or maybe Eleanor.”

  “She’s not with Lady Eleanor,” he yelled back.

  “Perhaps now she is.” Beatrice grinned at him and shrugged her shoulders.

  They both knew how it went. It was a rout. Leave someone and it might be the next day before you found them.

  Heaving a sigh, he got back into the crowd and searched again.

  He didn’t feel concerned until he’d found Eleanor again and she’d said she hadn’t seen Poppy in some time.

  “Wait. How long?” His instincts told him something was off.

  Eleanor’s eyes widened only slightly. “Um, ten minutes, no more. I’m sure she’s around here somewhere. Probably with Beatrice.”

  He cocked his head. “Lady Eleanor, are you not telling me something?”

  Her mouth dropped open, but from behind him, a large gong sounded, effectively blocking any further conversation.

  “Here ye, here ye!” cried a drunken fellow at the top of the room. Nicholas recognized him as an old school friend. “It’s time for toasts, and the first one shall be in honor of two marvelous people, who are—amazingly enough, considering the lady’s record of spurning suitors—betrothed to be married. Where are you, Drummond?”

  Oh, good Lord.

  Nicholas felt all the embarrassment
of someone who had unwittingly become the center of attention. He raised his hand in the air. “Here,” he called in restrained tones.

  The drunken toastmaster nodded. “Very good. Now where’s Lady Poppy?”

  Blast. Nicholas had no idea.

  “Drummond? Your lady love?” called the toastmaster.

  “She’s here … somewhere,” Nicholas said, knowing full well how pathetic that sounded. He was at the rout to show the world he was settling down, preparing to become a dull married man—and yet, his future wife was nowhere near.

  Not only that, the flirty Russian princess somehow found her way to him again. “If she doesn’t show soon, some of us will take it to mean he’s free,” she cooed to the crowd.

  Everyone roared with laughter.

  The toastmaster raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure Lady Poppy hasn’t changed her mind about you, Drummond?”

  Damn it, Poppy’s voice hadn’t rung out from any corner. Where was she?

  The crowd laughed even harder.

  And suddenly, he knew. Poppy wasn’t even at the rout. He felt it in his gut. And Eleanor knew. The way she’d stumbled over her words and gotten flustered … probably Beatrice knew, as well.

  Where had Poppy gone?

  “What say you, Your Grace? Are you sure you still have a fiancée?” called the toastmaster.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Nicholas replied testily, but no one could hear him.

  They were still laughing.

  CHAPTER 27

  Her forty minutes inside Sergei’s apartment were almost up. Poppy had to do something. But what? They were only on their third course, stuffed eel, which she despised, and there was no end in sight.

  A lady had few acceptable reasons to leave the table. The only one she could think of was illness.

  “Dear heavens,” she said in a whisper, and put the back of her hand to her brow.

  “What is it?” Sergei asked her.

  “I feel a bit faint.”

  The woman across from her looked skeptical. “Do you?”

  Poppy drew herself up. “Yes, I do!” she said indignantly, then remembered she should sound weak—and sighed. “If you don’t mind, I’ll need to excuse myself from the table. I’ll need only a few minutes, of course.”