Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

CHAPTER 16

It was one of those moments when Nicholas wasn’t sure his Service duty was worth it. The day after the literary salon, while Prince Sergei attended to business in Whitehall, Nicholas found himself walking down an expansive wing at the British Museum with Poppy, Natasha, and her dogs. The princess had received special permission to bring the hairy yappers on their tour—in a pram, of all things.

Now Natasha came to a halt in front of a statue of a Greek goddess. “I must ask you to push the corgis now, Nicky,” she told him with a lazy yawn. “Only very dear friends are allowed to do so.” She cast a sly glance at Poppy, who fortunately was too busy examining the Greek goddess’s garments to notice the slight.

Already he’d lifted the pram up a massive set of stairs, which was no small feat with five dogs inside. And now he was to … push the pram?

Over his dead body.

A quick glance at Poppy showed she’d apparently heard every word, after all. Her eyes twinkled in amusement.

He gave Natasha a tight smile. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

She pulled in her chin. “Whyever not?”

It was too late for regrets, but for the umpteenth time, he wished he’d never gotten intimately involved with the princess.

“I can’t push dogs”—he felt as if he had a pair of stockings stuffed down his throat—“in a pram.” There was a slight snicker from Poppy. “I never have,” he went on, his voice rising, “and I never will!”

Damned dogs in prams.

What was the world coming to?

He refused to be chagrined at his lack of manners—a man could take only so much nonsense—and strode ahead of the two ladies, ignoring Poppy’s polite insistence to the princess that she push the pram while Natasha gathered her breath.

If Poppy was trying to make him feel guilty, it wouldn’t work.

Nevertheless, he looked straight through several celebrated oil paintings without really seeing them and realized with a start of shock that he wasn’t his usual assured self. Poppy was getting to him—far more than Natasha was with her silly attempts to capture his notice.

Yes, Lord Derby’s daughter talked too much and she thought she knew everything there was to know, but somehow she was different from all the other ladies of his acquaintance. He thought it might have to do with her total lack of regard for what he thought of her.

That was it. She didn’t give a tuppence for his opinion.

It was a refreshing change.

Yet lowering, too.

Not many people had ever been able to work their way under Nicholas’s skin, and especially no woman. Yet Poppy’s indifference to his masculine charms, the ones he wielded so well over the rest of the female population, was causing him to take notice of her more than he cared to.

Natasha glowered and Poppy beamed when they caught up with him in front of a large canvas by the English painter William Hogarth. It was obvious the princess couldn’t bear the fact that a lesser mortal was pushing her corgis about, and Poppy—naughty girl—was apparently enjoying the royal’s discomfiture.

“What do you call your primary seat, Drummond?” Natasha demanded to know. “And where is it located?”

He inhaled a silent breath and prayed for patience. He could swear she’d asked twice already. “Seaward Hall’s on the North Sea,” he replied with an equanimity he didn’t feel.

Poppy was so close. He could smell her hair—it had the scent of sunshine and fresh air, mingled with a trace of violets.

“Weren’t there Vikings there at one time?” his fiancée contributed to the conversation (what there was of it), her eyes still on the painting, her slender hands gripping the pram.

He couldn’t help feeling a rush of pleasure at her interest, as if he were some lovesick boy craving attention from an unattainable female. But he had her, didn’t he? Whether she liked it or not, she would soon become his wife.

“Legend has it,” he told her in as plain a tone as he’d spoken to Natasha, “there were stashes of Viking treasure buried along the shore. As a boy, I was constantly looking for it.”

“You were an adorable, mischievous child,” Natasha pronounced as if she’d been witness to his childhood herself. “Let us move on.” And she sauntered over to the next painting, her chin in the air.

Poppy glanced at him and giggled. “Yes, you adorable, mischievous duke,” she whispered to him, “let us move on.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. Not many people could get away with making fun of him.

The remnants of a smile still curved her lips when she pushed the pram forward again and asked, “Did you ever find any Viking treasure?”

“No, I didn’t.” He couldn’t help smiling himself at the memory. “I poked the sand with hundreds of sticks, turned over thousands of rocks. And to this day, I wonder what precious loot I might have missed.”

Natasha moved farther down the hall, no doubt drawn by a threesome of fashionable young ladies talking animatedly beneath a painting of a handsome shepherd.

In front of a beautiful scene of a field in Tuscany, Poppy looked from beneath her lashes at Nicholas in the most seductive yet intelligent way. He could barely comprehend how that could be, yet somehow she managed it.

“Natasha’s obviously charmed by you.” His betrothed had a womanly way of turning her head just so when she was conversing.

“It’s all part of being a duke,” he said, ignoring the fact that he was drawing up a mental list of things he liked about Poppy. “Rather a bore. What about Natasha’s transparent machinations to throw you and Sergei together?”

Poppy shrugged. “I have no doubt it’s to get herself alone with you.”

“I agree,” he replied, “but she must think you’ll be receptive to her lead.”

Poppy had the grace to blush. “It’s in your best interest I go along, Your Grace. A happy prince and princess is our goal, so don’t fault me for falling into line.”

He chuckled. “I don’t—it’s the willingness with which you do so that amuses me. Sergei’s not nearly your equal, you know.”

She opened her mouth to say something—indignant, no doubt, judging from the straight line her delicate brows made over her eyes—but Natasha strode back to them and gave a cursory glance at the painting of the Tuscan fields. “Your English painters are all well and good.” She sighed. “But where are the Russians? Levitsky Argunov?”

“Farther down the hall,” Nicholas replied. “Shall we head in that direction and stop along the way as it suits us?”

Several gasps in their direction came from the threesome of fashionable young ladies ahead, and no wonder. Sergei had arrived, shining and regal, a smug smile on his lips. He fixed his regal gaze on Poppy alone.

Her cheeks flushed pink, and she bit her lip when the prince bowed low over her hand. Then she cast a quick, nervous glance at Nicholas, as if she regretted teasing him about Natasha.

He arched a brow. Perhaps it would be his turn to laugh now.

Yes, Poppy was anxious to see Sergei again, eager to erase the unfavorable impression he’d left her with at Lady Gastly’s literary salon, but she could hardly be thrilled her latest test of him would take place in front of the Duke of Drummond.

She wanted the old prince back—the one she’d known in Russia and had caught a charming glimpse of at the Grangerford ball.

God forbid the prince disappoint her. It would be mortifying if Drummond scorned her taste in men. She didn’t like looking the fool in front of him—he already rankled her so.

“We’ve not missed you, brother,” Natasha said airily. “As a matter of fact, you may walk with Lady Poppy. The duke and I are attending to the corgis.”

“And it’s been a joy,” Drummond said seriously, looking between the prince and princess.

Poppy almost giggled. Did the man have no shame?

He gave her a dampening look, entirely false, of course—the bounder was as amused by his comment as she was—and took off with the princess and her pram full of panting dogs.

With a bit of relief, Poppy turned to Sergei. “Your Highness, have you seen the bust of Shakespeare? I’m dying to view it myself. It’s a few rooms down.”

“It will be my pleasure to escort you,” Sergei said, wrapping her arm in his. “Of course, you like Twelfth Night best of all the Bard’s plays. It is my favorite, and so it shall be yours.”

“No it won’t,” she said, bristling just a tad. It was early days yet in her assessment of him. “I do like Twelfth Night, but I prefer Macbeth.”

“Oh, but it’s important to like the same things, no?” he said with a charming grin. “To be compatible.”

She blushed. So he was thinking about her in those terms. And then she remembered how different she and Drummond were. She bit her lip. “Well, friends can like different things. That’s what makes life interesting.”

She never felt bored around Drummond.

Sergei gave a short bark of laughter. “Friends?” He leaned closer. “We are more than friends,” he whispered. “I have decreed it so.”

She cast a nervous glance at the duke. “Remember, I’m engaged,” she whispered back, “to the Duke of Drummond.”

Finally, she was speaking the truth when she made that claim.

Sergei waved a careless hand. “He is a mere duke. I am a Russian prince. Princes take precedence over dukes.”

“But Sergei, the Duke of Drummond is—”

Flirting with a Russian princess, a little imp in her head reminded her, straight ahead.

“Who cares about the Duke of Drummond?” Sergei stopped and gave her that smoldering, half-lidded look again. “When may I come to your room?”

Her room?

She couldn’t help it. She chuckled. Of course, he’d meant her drawing room. English wasn’t his first language, so he was bound to make embarrassing mistakes now and then.

“Any time.” She patted his arm, feeling vaguely protective of him. “Preferably in the early afternoon. Just say the word.”

He gave her a slow grin. “You prefer day to night?”

“Yes. I must say I’m quite fond of the, um, daytime.”

Good Lord, she hadn’t remembered having such odd conversations with him in St. Petersburg. Perhaps he hadn’t spoken English in quite a while.

“You bold girl. What shall you wear?” His voice had a suddenly rough edge to it.

“A—a walking gown, I suppose.”

“Splendid.” He gave her another heated smile. “I like to take my time.”

“That’s refreshing.” She forced herself to smile back even though his comments were becoming increasingly confusing. “Most men are in such a rush.”

Her father every night at dinner, for one. And every man who’d ever come to tea in her drawing room, excepting the Marquess of Stanbury and Lord Tweed, the garrulous suitors who’d droned on so long that she’d had to replace the teapot twice.

The prince looked toward Drummond and his sister, as if he were afraid they’d hear him. “Wear your bonnet, too,” he urged her. “Something with feathers. And your parasol. I love a woman who can use a parasol to her advantage.”

She had a sudden fear—an illogical, sordid fear that she couldn’t name, but it certainly did her no credit.

“Sergei”—she paused—“you did mean my drawing room, did you not?”

His eyes cooled a bit. “Why, did you think I meant elsewhere?”

She blinked. He couldn’t, wouldn’t dare to—

No, she was thinking in an entirely inappropriate direction.

“Of course not,” she said primly.

“Prince, Lady Poppy!” It was Drummond, striding toward them. “Did you not see? Boris has escaped.”

“Your blasted duke annoys me,” Sergei muttered, “and I despise that dog. I hope he goes looking for it and gets lost himself.”

“Where did he go?” Poppy asked Drummond, ignoring Sergei’s extremely rude remarks.

“I’m not sure.” Irritation made Drummond’s gray eyes narrow. “He ran down the corridor. Natasha’s having a fit of the vapors and is sitting on a chair in the salon straight ahead and to the left. Prince Sergei, please take her home, and Lady Poppy, you come with me.” He grabbed her hand.

She felt a great rush of relief. And she also felt a lurch of warmth near her heart at the feel of his firm, masculine grip.

“We’ll return Boris to the princess as soon as we find him,” the duke called back to the prince.

Poppy was glad her stilted conversation with Sergei was over. And she felt pleasure, unexpected pleasure, that she and Drummond would be alone for a while—without the whining princess’s company, either.

Even if the price they must pay for the respite was finding a petulant dog.