Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

CHAPTER 22

Nicholas sat opposite Poppy in the middle of the table. He was glad she hadn’t changed gowns, even if it meant he couldn’t carry through on his threat to kiss her in front of all the company.

She tapped a knife on her wine glass, and the table chatter died down. Sergei, who sat between her best friends, gazed at her with a mix of possessiveness and barely disguised lust. Nicholas had seen Natasha attempt to switch place cards and place her brother next to Poppy, but Beatrice and Eleanor had come behind her and, in charming tones, had insisted on keeping the prince between them.

Little did the princess know her strategy to encourage Poppy’s interest in her silly brother wouldn’t work—at least, not any longer. Poppy appeared completely oblivious to Sergei’s charms, what there were of them.

“Tonight’s meal,” she said, her cheeks a becoming pink, “is composed of Russian dishes, in honor of our Russian guests.” She hesitated a moment, then added, “And in memory of my mother, who spent her last days as a happy wife with my father in St. Petersburg.”

Lord Derby sat up as if jolted.

Poppy beamed at him, but his face was stern. Implacable.

Nicholas’s heart sank. Poor Poppy. She wasn’t having much luck tonight, was she? But at least everyone else made the appropriate murmur of interest at her announcement, except for Natasha. Not that he was surprised at that. If she were a cat, she’d be spitting at her hostess this very moment.

The servants brought in the first course, cabbage soup, or shchi.

He sampled it—it was tasty enough.

“A traditional first course in Russia,” Poppy said. “Is that not so, Princess?”

Nicholas felt a burst of admiration. Good for her for not shying away from Natasha.

“Yes, you could say that,” the princess answered. “Although”—she took one sip from her spoon and laid it down—“if it is not prepared in a Russian oven, it is not true shchi.”

Nicholas cast a subtle glance at Poppy. Her face was smooth, but her mouth was rather frozen in place. He wished he could take Natasha aside and teach her some manners—by ejecting her from the party. He wished he could do a lot of things …

But duty constrained him. Duty to the Service. To his country. To his family name.

He drained a glass of wine too quickly to forget his discontent, which was easy enough, as course after course followed, all authentic Russian dishes. He found them delicious and robust, cleverly prepared, and presented by Poppy with a touchingly sincere appreciation for Russian culture and cuisine.

“Count, Countess,” he said at one point, “I understand you have many Russian treasures at your home.”

“Yes, we do have amazing treasures,” Count Lieven said. “And when Prince Sergei chooses to share it with us, we shall soon be watching over the portrait by Revnik.”

“How delightful.” Poppy smiled. “All of London can’t wait to see it.”

“The night of the ball, the portrait shall be revealed in all its glory,” said the countess. “You and the rest of London may bask in it then.”

“And not a moment before,” said Natasha, sending a steely glance Poppy’s way.

Nicholas detected a faint bit of disappointment in Poppy’s eyes, so he raised a glass in her direction. “Splendid meal,” he said.

There was a chorus of assents and compliments made to the cook, although none came from Lord Derby—Nicholas hoped no one else noticed—or Natasha, who made her displeasure clear.

“Of course,” the princess said with a sniff, “we prefer to use a French chef at home. His chicken Kiev and veal Orloff have no compare.”

“Ch-chicken Kiev? Veal Orloff?” Poppy said, her hand fingering the beads at her neck.

“Franco-Russian cuisine,” Natasha explained. “The preferred cuisine of the Russian elite.”

“Although rustic Russian dishes do have their charm,” Sergei said, sucking on a bone and grinning.

Rustic.

Nicholas saw Poppy try not to wince at the word.

“I adore rustic,” Lady Charlotte piped up.

“So do I,” said Beatrice.

Eleanor, Lord Derby’s Cambridge friends, Lord Wyatt, and the Lievens agreed, as well.

But Nicholas could tell Poppy was bereft. The twins—and her father—had taken away her fun.

He felt enraged on her behalf. But there was nothing he could do.

He hated that feeling. He burned, yearned, to do something to make her feel better.

Perhaps to diffuse the tension, Lady Charlotte hit the side of her wine glass with a knife, and the table went quiet. “And now,” she said, “I’d like to conclude the meal by asking the newly betrothed couple, Nicholas and Poppy, to share a kiss for their adoring family and friends.”

Poppy looked at her aunt as if she’d been asked to jump off a cliff.

Lady Charlotte merely smiled. And then she locked eyes with Nicholas. What was the old girl up to? he wondered. Surely she was aware her niece didn’t want to marry him.

Poppy cleared her throat. “It’s probably not a good idea.” She flicked her eyes at the Countess Lieven.

“Oh, yes it is,” the countess said with a sweet smile, looking back and forth between him and Poppy. “Go right ahead.”

Nicholas was surprised at her amenable reaction, considering how stuffy she was at Almack’s. Perhaps it was Poppy’s affinity for Russia that had softened the countess’s usually strict rules about propriety.

“Very well,” he said with a grin, and stood. But inside, as he walked around the table, he felt anything but lighthearted. Lady Charlotte had set before him a task that he didn’t think he could accomplish. Poppy got no comfort from him. He rubbed her the wrong way. He’d forced her into an engagement, after all.

He couldn’t make her happy.

She almost cowered when he approached but then must have thought better of it. He took her hand and pulled her up from her chair.

The tension in the air was palpable.

She looked into his eyes—hers were full of confusion and definite reluctance—but what could he do?

He would kiss her.

And when he did, he would try, to the best of his ability, to make her feel happy and relaxed, even though the circumstances of the kiss were awkward and she felt anything but.

He pulled her close and touched his lips to hers.

It’s just me, he tried to convey.

Nicholas.

Forget everything else. Forget your father’s stern face, and Natasha’s rude comments. Forget Sergei’s leers and remember …

Remember that you’re beautiful. And kind. And fun. And …

The most interesting girl I’ve ever known.

Miraculously, she softened and relaxed, and then …

She was kissing him back. Kissing him as if she needed him somehow.

He needed her, too.

God, did he need her!

The kiss was fairly chaste, however, to those who watched. He was sure of it. But the jolt of connection he’d felt with her had been real.

An intimate message between the two of them.

Too bad it was in a code he couldn’t fully understand.

As if by mutual agreement, they parted.

Her face was flushed. His hands were sweating.

She sank back into her chair, and there was the sound of one pair of hands clapping. He glanced around and saw that it was Lady Charlotte, who was grinning ear to ear. And then the others clapped, too.

Nicholas looked around the table. Sergei’s enthusiasm was obviously feigned, as was Natasha’s, but everyone else’s was genuine.

He felt drained somehow—confused—and was glad to find his seat.

He and Poppy avoided looking at each other for the rest of the meal, but he was very aware of her presence. The meal ended with fruit, nuts, and cheese, as well as a delicious Russian dessert and a spirited discussion about the latest play at Drury Lane from almost everyone but Natasha.

“Didn’t you and Drummond see that play?” Lord Derby asked Poppy.

God, that was the night they’d gone to the top of St. Paul’s.

Poppy smiled. “Yes, indeed.”

Nicholas kept his fingers crossed.

“What did you think of it, Lady Poppy?” Lord Wyatt seemed anxious to hear her opinion.

Poppy touched the edge of her bodice and cleared her throat. “It was delightful.”

Count Lieven drew in his chin. “Even with that sad ending? And the murder scene?”

Poppy gave a little laugh. “Oh, those.” She waved a hand. “The rest was a lark, and the ending was apropos, so I consider it delightful to have a sad ending if it works. Don’t you agree?”

Nicholas restrained a grin. He looked at Eleanor and Beatrice and saw they appeared very confused by Poppy’s answer, too. But then in the next instant, Beatrice flung her elbow out when she raised her wine glass and knocked Sergei’s arm, which shoved the apple he’d raised to his lips against his teeth.

“Ow,” he exclaimed, staring at her. Then he rubbed his gums.

“Oh, dear,” Beatrice murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

Sergei puckered his brow. “All right.”

He picked up the apple again, and then from the other side, Eleanor knocked an entire glass of wine into his lap.

“What the devil?” He stood, his brows lowered and his face reddening. “You two are dangerous.”

A footman rushed over with a serving cloth. Sergei vigorously wiped himself down, threw the cloth back at the footman, and in a great sulk, sat back down.

“I’m so sorry,” Eleanor said to him, her hand to her gaping mouth.

Funny, her eyes didn’t look sorry. Nicholas cast a glance at Beatrice and then Poppy. Neither of them looked sorry, either. In fact, Poppy had her wine glass to her lips, but he could detect the barest twinkle in her eye.

She was in on this somehow.

The minx.

In the midst of the tension, Kettle came in with a message for Lord Derby and Lord Wyatt. They’d been called away to another important late-night meeting.

“We shall all depart,” Sergei declared. “Everyone, rise. Sitting in wet breeches is not comfortable, and if I must depart—”

“So shall everyone else,” finished Natasha with a toss of her head.

Sergei directed a dark look at Eleanor and Beatrice, both of whom murmured their apologies once more.

At the door, Lord Wyatt thanked Poppy for a delightful evening, made a gracious bow, and said he’d go ahead to the meeting and see Lord Derby there shortly. The Cambridge contingent were also perfectly proper in their thanks.

Behind them, Count Lieven said, “I hope we do this again.”

“We shall also have you for tea very soon,” the countess assured Poppy. “Can you come?”

“Your duke, too,” added the count with a chuckle.

“I’d be thrilled,” said Poppy, smiling a real smile for the first time in an hour. She looked up at Nicholas with a genuine gleam of satisfaction in her eye.

She’d done well, very well, to have received such an invitation.

But he merely nodded graciously at the Lievens. “I look forward to it. Thank you very much.”

Natasha had become even more sullen than usual since he’d kissed Poppy. Now she kept her thanks to a minimum and swept by Nicholas without a word.

Good.

He needn’t put up with her flirtations anymore. He’d been invited to the Lievens’ home, and the twins dared not take that portrait when they knew the Lievens were so looking forward to showing it off.

Sergei, on the other hand, apparently had forgotten his momentary pique and fervently raised Poppy’s hand to his mouth to kiss it. “Next time I insist on being here before everyone else arrives,” he said, “to sample the most delicious morsels first.”

Nicholas clenched his jaw.

Delicious morsels.

He knew what delicious morsels Sergei was talking about. He was staring at them—Poppy’s breasts, which were exposed to perfection in her gown, just enough creamy white skin to get a man wanting to see the rest.

Deuce take it, the prince deserved a beating, and if Nicholas weren’t surrounded by lovely people with delicate sensibilities, he’d have pounded him right then and there.

When every last guest was gone, except for him—and he wasn’t really a guest, he was practically a member of the family, wasn’t he?—Poppy shut the front door and turned to her father and Lady Charlotte.

“I hope you enjoyed yourselves,” she said, her brow furrowed with concern.

Her aunt hugged her. “Of course I did. You were a splendid hostess. Although Princess Natasha is a churlish sort.” She turned to Nicholas. “She appeared quite fond of you, Drummond.”

Was he supposed to answer that somehow?

His cravat felt suddenly tight. “Did she?” was all he replied. “I hadn’t noticed.”

His answer apparently satisfied because no one pursued the subject.

“Papa.” Poppy tugged on Lord Derby’s arm like a little girl. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“The meal was serviceable,” he granted, vaguely patting her arm, “although you know I prefer English dishes.” He hesitated. “I need no reminders of our time in Russia, daughter. They pain me.”

Poppy visibly deflated. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know they caused you hurt, Papa.”

He cleared his throat. “Don’t waste time worrying about me.”

“Of course I worry about you! Did—did you not enjoy seeing your friends?” she stumbled on. “And meeting that lovely widow?”

His lips thinned. “I don’t need to meet any widows, but as for my friends, yes, it was good to see them. Thank you for arranging it. Perhaps we can do that again. Someday.”

“Really?” Nicholas saw a tiny glimmer of hope in Poppy’s eyes.

“Yes, really,” her father said, his voice softening just a tad. “I know you mean well, so no regrets about tonight.”

He chucked her chin, and Poppy nodded, a small, genuine smile on her lips.

Lord Derby then turned to Nicholas. “I’m off to that meeting with Wyatt now. Kettle will see you out, or you may stay a few moments if you’d like. There’s brandy in the library. Poppy can show you my new atlas.”

Nicholas inclined his head. “Thank you, sir.”

The privileges of the betrothed. He must be in good standing with Lord Derby. Must have been that political talk they’d had the other night. It could be, too, that Lord Derby realized his daughter wasn’t the sort of young lady that made a man’s life … easier.

“I think I shall head upstairs with Aunt Charlotte.” Poppy yawned behind her hand. “I’m rather tired. Sorry, Drummond.”

“Not quite yet, daughter,” Lord Derby chided her. “You’ve given three hours tonight to your Russian guests—let your English betrothed have five minutes.”

Nicholas was tempted to smirk, but he knew it would only rile Poppy.

Lady Charlotte kissed his cheek. “Who needs Russian princes with you around?” she whispered in his ear.

Gad. If only Poppy had heard that. She’d have been none too pleased.

Of course, he himself was. He enjoyed Lady Charlotte’s company and felt almost proud that he was gaining acceptance amid the other members of the household—with the exception of Kettle and Cook, and, um, his own fiancée.

True to form, after Lady Charlotte and Lord Derby said good night, Kettle made it very clear with a quelling glance that he’d stay within calling distance of Poppy should she need him.

Kettle was a very intelligent butler.

When Nicholas and Poppy entered the library, he poured himself a brandy, and for her, a small glass of ratafia.

“You did splendidly,” he said.

“Thank you.” She gave him a brilliant smile. “We succeeded in some ways. All right, perhaps not with the food—and the gown was a disaster—”

“And Sergei seemed to run into some very unfortunate problems,” he interrupted her.

She had the grace to blush.

“But we’ll get to see the Lievens’ home,” she said. “And even Papa said he managed to have a good time, in his own fashion. Although he’s still very touchy, isn’t he? About Mama.” She sank into a chair and stared at the small fire burning in the grate, the glass dangling from her hand. “Overall, however, I’m pleased.”

“You should be.” Nicholas knelt before her and took her hand. “Neither the food nor the conversation nor your gown mattered tonight as much as your intent. Your goal was to make your guests feel at home, and that can never be criticized. I’m sure your mother would have been very proud for how well you succeeded.”

She gave him a pensive smile. “Thank you.” She squeezed his hand. “But if you don’t mind, I really am tired. I’d like to go to bed.”

He backed up only enough to give her room to stand.

When she stood, they locked gazes.

“Did you think that kiss Lady Charlotte demanded of us was a disaster—or a success?” he asked her.

She looked down for a moment, then back up. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “It’s the only part of the evening that I can’t peg as either one.”

“Before you go up,” he said, “I’d like to show you something that might help you decide.”

“What is it?”

He pulled a lock of hair off her face. “The real meaning of thrilled.”