Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

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 your 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.