Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

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 arrived 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.