Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

CHAPTER 10

Poppy had been caught. She was officially betrothed. Her engagement to the Duke of Drummond had made it into the morning papers. Every ounce of her being protested because it was so obvious—

I should be marrying Prince Sergei.

Dumbfounded, she cast the paper aside. She’d always been able to wrangle out of an engagement.

Until now.

Last night she’d slept so poorly that she’d given up when the moon was still high in the sky and sat at her window, listening to the sounds of London and taking sips from a restoring punch Aunt Charlotte had left outside her door.

Oh, who was she fooling? She’d taken no sips. She’d downed the entire thing in twenty minutes and gotten sodden drunk, flung open her windows, and yelled into the night, “Damn you, Drummond! Damn you to bloody hell!” at least twice before her father himself strode into her room and locked the window.

Now in Lord Derby’s drawing room, she sat with her two best friends, both of whom wouldn’t quite look her in the eye.

She was rather wincing at them herself. That cursed punch, after all.

“I can’t believe you two were grinning when he proposed,” Poppy said, treading lightly because of her poor head, but attempting to pace in front of the fireplace. “Aunt Charlotte, too. She explained it away by claiming stomach pains.”

“I couldn’t help it,” Eleanor replied, her head low. “You two looked adorable. It must have been the light. The candles put a certain glow on you that was, um, a bit magical.”

Beatrice shook her head. “I don’t know what came over me, either. In that moment, when he kissed you, it was as if all the fairy tales came true. And then I became sensible again. I realized he’d … he’d forced you into a metaphorical—and actual—corner.”

Beatrice was a stickler for details.

“As for the metaphorical corner, you had no idea it existed!” Eleanor huffed. “Who ever knew the Duke of Drummond wasn’t a legend?”

“Exactly.” Poppy threw up her hands. “He battles large sea monsters. He’s crazy, murderous, wicked, and—”

She’d kissed him. She’d kissed him to distraction.

She licked her lips and bit the inside of her cheek. She was in a nightmare. And she only wanted to wake up.

“Don’t worry,” Beatrice reassured her. “Despite the awful announcement in the newspaper, we members of the Spinsters Club will help you out of this somehow.”

“We know if you choose anyone to marry, it will be Sergei,” Eleanor added stoutly.

“But how?” Poppy said. “How can I possibly save myself?”

“Paris is out.” Aunt Charlotte popped into the room, and took the best seat by ordering Eleanor cheerfully out of it. “Your father caught on. He’s paid all the servants extra wages to report to him any havey-cavey packing of suitcases. In fact, we no longer have trunks of any kind. He’s donated them to charity. He’s confiscated our pin money, too, and even put all our jewels in his safe. We have to ask to use them when we go out, and we’ll be escorted by footmen at all times, unless we’re with Drummond, of course.”

“That’s not the worst of it.” Poppy sank onto a chair by her aunt. “Drummond says if I run and he catches me, we’ll marry that day—or live in sin until the special license comes through.”

“Did he now?” Aunt Charlotte drawled. And then gave a little laugh. A wicked little laugh.

“Aunt,” Poppy remonstrated with her.

The Spinsters’ mentor sat up. “Oh, yes, that would be dreadful.”

Poppy shook her head. “Something’s wrong. Something’s come over each one of you—”

“I assure you, niece,” Aunt Charlotte said in her haughtiest tones. “I’ve not forgotten Sergei’s the only man who comes even close to fulfilling the requirements for you to receive dispensation from the Spinsters Club rules.” She blinked. “It’s just that Drummond falls into the category that should make every Spinster wary: he’s dangerous. A dangerous man can make a Spinster forget like that”—she snapped her fingers—“every tenet of the Spinster way of life.”

God, she was right. Poppy simply had to think about the duke kissing her, and her Spinster knees almost buckled. Not that she would admit it out loud.

Eleanor raised her teacup. “Never fear, Lady Charlotte. We can recite those tenets backward and forward.”

“Our standards are so high, we’re bound to be Spinsters forever.” Beatrice clashed cups merrily with Eleanor.

Poppy felt guilty, terribly guilty. If they only knew the truth, she thought. Dangerous men were—

Well, they were dangerous.

Aunt Charlotte chuckled. “I’m proud to say I had the devil of a time drawing up the latest edition of the Spinster bylaws. Lord Bimmington was blowing in my ear the whole time. And Sam-the-footman was quite leering at me. No wonder—I was wearing my teeth, of course. And that recklessly red silk gown from Milan.”

Poppy knew the very one. It really was reckless.

She gave her aunt a hug. “You’re the best chaperone a girl could ever wish for,” she whispered in her ear.

And it was true, but part of Poppy felt rather wistful for a shrew of a chaperone, one who might tell her all the naughty things she’d done with the Duke of Drummond the night before would come back to haunt her—and put her plan to win Sergei in jeopardy.

She needed reminding, and an embittered battle-ax might restore her to the lofty daydreams she’d harbored for six years about Sergei.

“Do you think the duke really did have his uncle murdered?” Beatrice asked her in hopeful tones—and no wonder, she wrote shocking novels with an occasional dead body in them.

“Whether he did or not,” said Eleanor, “there’s absolutely no chance he’s ever fought an octopus as large as a Royal Mail coach.” She was the artist, so her sense of proportion was impeccable.

“Heavens, of course not, on both counts.” Although a perfectly silly part of Poppy still wondered.

But thankfully for her fanciful imagination, not for long.

There was a loud commotion outside and a forceful knock on the front door, followed by a demanding exotic voice and much yapping.

Kettle came into the drawing room. “Princess Natasha and her dogs to see you, Lady Poppy,” he announced.

She shared a surprised look with her aunt and Spinsters Club sisters. “Show them in, Kettle,” she said, not sure what to think.

Natasha strode in, strikingly elegant in a pale green morning dress with a sheer overlay and a high, frothy collar framing her long, slender neck. Her only accessories were the two panting corgis she carried, one of whom was missing an eye.

Poppy stood, her knees a bit wobbly. “This is indeed, um, an honor, Princess.”

“Yes, an honor,” Eleanor echoed.

Beatrice surreptitiously hit Eleanor’s thigh.

Poppy moved in front of the two of them while Natasha looked about the room as if no one else were in it, even though Aunt Charlotte was staring goggle-eyed at her.

“I had hoped for a private audience,” the princess said in a honey-thick Russian accent.

“Oh, we’ll oblige,” Aunt Charlotte said, picked up her teacup, and left.

Beatrice and Eleanor, too, picked up their cups and exited the room right behind her.

“Wait!” Poppy called to them.

But they shut the drawing room door, and she was alone with the princess and her two dogs.

Natasha sat on the settee with them. “So,” she said, “you’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“What you did last night with those chamomiles in your hair. Calling attention to yourself, when really, you are better served blending in.”

“I am?”

“Only a rare few of us are meant to shine, Lady Poppy, and you are not one of them. But don’t despair. Yes, you’re to marry the Duke of Drummond, but no doubt he shall remove you to his estate in the north, where you can be a docile, almost invisible wife, which is your duty.”

Poppy cringed inside. She did not want to be a docile, almost invisible wife to anyone. She must explain that she was not to marry the duke. But how could she?

She’d no idea.

“Yes,” she said vaguely. “We’re, um, betrothed, but you know how those things go. Can’t look too deeply into the future. Would you care for some tea?”

“It’s much too early,” Natasha returned abruptly, and eyed the painting of St. Petersburg over the pianoforte. “My English contacts tell me you have a passion for my country, and now I see for myself that you do.”

“I do my best,” Poppy said, “to learn about all the world’s cultures, although, yes, I have a special place in my heart for Russia.”

And Sergei.

Natasha leaned forward. “Tell me, when did this courtship between you and Drummond take place?”

What a shame she’d changed the subject. Her courtship with Drummond was hardly Natasha’s business, but Poppy dared not tell her so. “I recently purchased a Russian icon that I’ve yet to hang on the wall,” she said instead. “Would you like to see it?”

Natasha gave an impatient sigh. “I see icons in Russia all the time.”

“Of course.” Poppy swallowed hard.

Natasha appeared quite content to sit where she was. Forever, if need be, judging from the way she eased herself farther back into the settee. “You were about to tell me how you and Drummond came together.”

Goodness gracious, Poppy thought, what was she to do? She’d have to make up a grand story, the way Cook did. She only wished she had a simmering pot to stir.

“We met at the circulating library. I’ll never forget it.” She laid a hand on her breast. “My heart—”

“I didn’t ask for maudlin details.” Natasha rolled her eyes. “Love has nothing to do with courtship, or at least it shouldn’t.” She stood, rather violently. “I came today to say that it’s unfortunate you’re involved with Drummond. I was beginning to think you should serve as one of my attendants at the Lievens’ ball, where my wretched brother and I are to unveil my uncle Revnik’s last masterpiece.”

Poppy’s face flamed. Wretched was a strong word. And Sergei was her beloved. But she couldn’t very well defend him. Family matters were family matters. And she wasn’t in the family—yet.

Nevertheless, perhaps she could serve as a mediator of sorts, remind Natasha of her brother’s good qualities. “Do you … do you and Sergei ride together?” she asked the princess. “Or play card games?”

“Shut up about him.” Natasha curled her lip. “He makes me ill.”

“W-why?”

The princess scowled. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Poppy gave a nervous shake to her head. “No. Not really.”

Natasha gave a short laugh. “He is a brother. Brothers rot.”

“Oh.” Poppy raised a shaky hand to her breast. “I’m an only child. I’d no idea.”

Drummond apparently despised his brother, too.

The mere recollection of the duke’s existence brought to her mind his captivating sneer and condescending manner. Both made her palms itch to wring his neck.

Natasha jutted her chin at her. “What’s your answer?”

Poppy flinched. “I’m afraid I forgot the question.”

She’d been thinking of Drummond, after all, and before that, all she’d heard had been the word wretched being used to describe Sergei. It had been like a knife through her heart.

“I asked if you will accept the great honor of serving as one of my attendants. You will be privileged to hold my gown and adjust my tiara, a gift of the czar himself. The ball shall be the event of the Season. But now you’re too busy preparing for your wedding. What a shame.”

Natasha raised her shoulders the tiniest fraction and let them fall.

“Oh, yes, I’ll be much too busy preparing for my wedding,” Poppy assured her. If she didn’t play the happy bride-to-be, the princess would report it all over Town, and then every suitor she’d ever had would call her a fraud. “And I wouldn’t be a very good attendant, I’m afraid.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t want to blend in, as much as you believe I need to.” Now she let her shoulders rise and fall a fraction of an inch. “I plan to attend the event at the side of my future husband. I shall waltz with him and perhaps even kiss him in front of all the company.”

Oh, God. She didn’t want Drummond. And she wasn’t a hoyden. Why had she said all that?

Natasha gave her a glittering smile. “Good luck with your duke, Lady Poppy. Rumor has it he has no heart, but that’s neither here nor there.”

Poppy tried to be grateful for the remark. She’d been reared to think the best of people, so there was the slightest chance it had been made with friendly concern.

But she doubted it. If the princess felt anything like she did now, she was hoping Poppy would trip over her hem and fall down. Poppy was wishing the very same for Natasha.

But the princess strode smoothly out the front door, down the steps—her corgis’ ears like little flags—and was swept up by a footman into her carriage, which went rollicking away with much yapping from its interior and at an unnecessarily high speed.

When Poppy turned back to the drawing room and sank into her seat, she couldn’t help releasing a wistful sigh. A royal from Russia had come to visit this morning. And not just any royal. Sergei’s sister.

How exciting such an event would have been even a day ago. But now that she’d met Natasha, Poppy was the opposite of excited, which was unfortunate. She’d had such hopes they’d be good friends.

Even more lowering was the fact that she was trapped in an engagement to the wrong man and he was to come to dinner tonight. Her temples grew damp at the thought. She had no idea what she’d say to him. She was beside herself that he’d interfered in her life without her permission.

She stood and looked at herself in the mirror. “If he’s not going to play fair, then I shan’t, either,” she told herself out loud.

If he could be like a vampire or a snake, she’d be like a spider in a web, and she’d wrap him up in a little threaded ball at the soonest opportunity. Or perhaps she’d be more like a governess and torture him with boring lectures so that he’d fall asleep, whereupon she’d write nasty things on his forehead, words like GO AWAY, RUDE MAN.

She strode out of the drawing room to Papa’s library and then to her bedchamber, where she lay on her quilt and searched through a text on agricultural tools, vowing to find the perfect tedious lecture.

But as she was reading about chaff cutters, dibbers, and flails, she fell asleep.