Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

CHAPTER 24

The day after her dinner party, Poppy woke up thinking about Nicholas, about his mouth—about what he’d done to her with his mouth. And then she thought of his eyes, their mysterious gray depths—their warm, sympathetic, and sometimes heated depths.

No wonder he was called an Impossible Bachelor.

He was too, too delicious a man to ever be thrown into a category as bland and all-encompassing as the list of eligible, unmarried gentlemen she presumed the patronesses at Almack’s kept at the door of that esteemed establishment to screen out lesser mortals.

He was far more interesting than the terms eligible and unmarried could convey.

Nicholas had encouraged her to believe in herself last night. Indeed, all evening he’d been a bulwark of support, lighting a fire beneath her unsurety so that she felt confident, a true hostess. Afterward in the library, he’d shown her a tender, considerate side that fascinated her … and made her want him even more.

Padding over to her window, she looked out at the London morning and sighed. Her legs wobbled again at the memory of what they’d done together. She pressed her mouth, her breasts, her belly against the windowpane. It was cold and hard—in sharp contrast to Nicholas’s mouth and hands.

She had an obsession with his mouth now. And his hands.

By God, and everything else about him, too.

She pulled back from the window and ran both her hands over her breasts, lingering over her nipples, and then ran her hands down her belly to that point between her legs where she’d found such pleasure with him.

And wished …

Wished.

She threw back her head and gave a soft moan of frustration. Nicholas had started a craving in her, a craving she needed him to fulfill.

She was to see him tonight. They were attending a rout at the Merriweathers’. All the furniture would be removed, the windows thrown open. London society would squeeze itself inside the house to make merry.

Surrounded by hundreds of people, she’d be squashed next to him, her breasts brushing his chest, her belly up against his belly. His mouth would be close to hers. He’d lean down, whisper, and perhaps at one point, they’d kiss, and while they did, he’d caress her hip, her back, and her breasts.

She’d—why, she’d be tempted to cup his hardness in her hand.

Would anyone even notice if she did?

It was a daring, thoroughly naughty thought that left her breathless and excited.

She watched with curiosity as a young messenger boy carrying a large, wrapped parcel crossed the street and headed to the front door of her home.

A moment later, a maid knocked on her bedchamber door.

“Something from Prince Sergei, miss,” she said and held out the parcel.

“Really,” she said, almost reluctant to take it.

But she did and shut the door behind her. She sat at her desk, tore open the note on top of it immediately, and read it.

Then reread it.

She let out a short laugh and clasped the note to her breast, amazed at how differently she saw the world now. This was the prince she remembered from St. Petersburg … but she was no longer the same girl.

The note was charming. Even romantic. He asked her forgiveness for insisting she involve herself with him in an illicit relationship—and for a chance to start over.

But it was also false. Oh, so false.

She wanted to be excited, and moved, and in love with him again, but she wasn’t. She could never be again. She was no longer in the bud of her youth, and she definitely wasn’t a fool.

The prince was all talk and no substance.

She didn’t trust him.

But she would accept his invitation.

He wanted her to attend a special gathering at his rented apartments. It was to be a masked dinner with a special surprise event to follow, culminating in the unveiling of the Revnik portrait at its conclusion, which he would reveal in her honor since she so wished to see it.

“Please come,” he wrote. “It is the only way I know to make up for my ungentlemanly actions.”

She made a face. Did he think her completely naïve?

Nevertheless, she would go. She had to see the portrait. It was reason enough for going.

But would she tell Nicholas?

She looked down at the tissue paper in the box. She still hadn’t opened it, but Sergei had asked her to wear the gown and mask he’d sent with his compliments. It was supposed to be a romantic gesture, but it did nothing but annoy her. It suggested he felt a sense of possession over her she’d already told him he had no right to have.

Now if Nicholas had sent her a gown, she would have loved it.

Why?

Was it because she enjoyed being possessed by him?

Yes, she had last night. But at the same time, with Nicholas, she sensed he respected her, had waited for the right time to assume that possession—he’d waited until he sensed she was ready, and wanted it.

Sergei, on the other hand, hadn’t taken her feelings into account at all.

She folded back the tissue paper and looked upon the dress with nothing beyond an objective admiration for the seamstress who’d sewn it. The gown was well made, a bit low in the bodice, but she wasn’t surprised. It was Sergei, after all, who’d ordered it.

He wasn’t that bright. His choice of gown revealed his intentions clearly.

He still wanted her.

She was glad for one thing—when she held the mask up to her face, she did feel mysterious and adventurous. And she’d be anonymous, which was a good thing.

But wait—

She read the note again. The ball was this evening, and she couldn’t very well—

She bit her lip. She’d have to go to both events. She could do it. She’d go to both, and Nicholas, when she eventually told him, would be amazed at her devotion to duty.

But should she tell him now, before the fact? He’d be so intrigued to know she’d be getting a glance at the Pink Lady.

She decided against it. He didn’t like Sergei. Who knew what would happen? She couldn’t risk his interfering and her not getting to see the portrait, after all.

It was going to be an even more exciting evening than she’d thought, but first she had some planning to do.

She flew down the stairs in search of one of the new stableboys. The Merriweathers lived only two blocks from Sergei’s apartments, but she’d need an escort. Going back and forth in a carriage wouldn’t be practical. There’d be an abundance of them outside the rout all night long.

No, the best thing to do would be walk between the two places with a stableboy armed with a pistol to protect her and hope for the best.

It could be done. She was sure of it. But before she did anything, it was imperative that she talk to her aunt.

Fifteen minutes later, Poppy was rolling out one of her father’s favorite pastries, one she regretted she hadn’t made in a good long while—a traditional English apple tart. And she’d invited her aunt to help her.

Aunt Charlotte sprinkled flour on the dough as Poppy rolled.

“I think things went well last night,” Aunt Charlotte said.

Poppy laid the dough in a pan. “Overall, they did, but”—she turned to look at her aunt—“why did you insist on that kiss between the duke and me?”

Aunt Charlotte blinked several times.

Her guilty look.

Poppy’s heart beat harder. “What is it?”

Aunt Charlotte bit her lip. “I’m afraid I might be giving you bad advice, my dear. I don’t know that I should be mentor to the Spinsters Club.”

Poppy’s hands grew clammy cutting up the apples, so she wiped her fingers on her apron. “Are you jesting?”

Aunt Charlotte shook her head. “I’m coming to the conclusion that I don’t want you to become me, you see.”

There was a long, dark silence. A sleek tabby kitchen cat meandered in and out of Poppy’s ankles. Her chin wobbled. “But I thought you were happy. It’s the whole point of the Spinsters Club, that it’s better to be alone than to be with someone you don’t love.”

“I am happy,” Aunt Charlotte said. “Yet years ago, when I was a young woman, there were romantic opportunities I neglected to pursue. I was too boxed in. I had a certain vision of what love was, and Poppy”—she shook her head—“I think I was wrong. Shortsighted. Too proud and too committed to a plan I had—instead of letting go and letting life lead me. I wasn’t open to the possibilities.”

Open to the possibilities!

Poppy felt her face pale. Those were the words that had come to her at the Golden Gallery and when she’d heard Keats’s poem. Nicholas, too, had used that phrase when they’d watched the gander at Lady Caldwell’s.

She didn’t know what to say.

“There was one man named Gerald Goodpenny,” Aunt Charlotte continued gently. “His ears stuck out and he didn’t like horse racing—which I loved—so I wouldn’t consider him as a beau. Yet he was funny and sweet and had quite a brilliant mind. He married my friend Dora, and now they have fifteen grandchildren. He’s gotten so much handsomer with age.” She chuckled. “It could be I think he’s handsome because—because he’s a good man with a sassy mouth. I saw him at a wedding recently, and he spanked me on the bottom, right in front of Dora, for being so silly as to never kiss him when he’d asked me.”

“And his wife didn’t object?”

Aunt Charlotte smiled. “Of course she did, but it was all in fun. Dora and I are good friends. She punched Gerald’s shoulder, and he kissed her and told her he loved her more than all the tea in China.”

“How lovely for them,” Poppy whispered.

Aunt Charlotte gave a little chuckle. “Yes, it is. He’s a good man, and Dora knows it.” She paused for a moment and began to cut up another apple. “There’s nothing more attractive than a good man,” she said, slicing through the fruit’s flesh and laying out a line of apple wedges for Poppy to place into the pastry shell. “Behind closed doors, good men are often more mischievous and exasperating than the truly bad ones. The difference is they’re naughty because they’re happy—boys at heart, no matter how many responsibilities they bear or how old they become.” Her eyes were dreamy. “I didn’t see that when I was young and rather wild.”

Poppy shook her head. “But Aunt, you know I intend to break my engagement as soon as possible. You embarrassed me in front of all the dinner party when you asked me to kiss Drummond.”

“I know.” Aunt Charlotte blew out a breath. “The thing is, Poppy, I can’t bear to see you leading a false life.”

“It’s only for the nonce.”

“Is it?” Aunt Charlotte laid down her knife and let out a weary sigh. “Are you sure you’re not letting your devotion to the Spinster bylaws blind you to what’s right in front of your eyes? Last night I had the sudden urge to see you wake up. I had this feeling the duke would be able to do that—quite the way the prince in the fairy tale woke up Sleeping Beauty.”

“I can’t believe in fairy tales anymore,” Poppy insisted. “Look what happened when I daydreamed away six years, all for Sergei.”

For too long she’d let her unfounded hopes about Sergei rule her reason, hadn’t she?

Never again. She wouldn’t allow fantasy back into her life. She would quit listening to Cook’s stories. She would be full of common sense and say, “Pooh,” if anyone even attempted to ignite her imagination in any way.

She was done with dreams.

Finished with fancy.

“Are you sure you don’t believe in fairy tales anymore?” Aunt Charlotte smiled knowingly. “Because I could swear, last night, Drummond did wake you up.”

Poppy felt herself blush—did he ever wake me up! she longed to exclaim—but she continued sprinkling sugar and cinnamon on the apples. “I don’t know what to say. I—I’m surprised, nay, shocked, at your change of heart. At everything you’re saying.”

“Are you angry?”

“Yes,” said Poppy, her vision suddenly blurring. “Because I’m afraid. I’m afraid to be fanciful. To go back to daydreaming.”

She looked down at the pastry.

Aunt Charlotte lifted her chin and pulled a curl off her face. “There’s no need to be afraid. The Spinster rules are an excellent guide. But a guide only … to keep your courage up, to give you support as you travel the road to womanhood. Your heart is the true guide. Let that lead you, above all.”

Poppy couldn’t help the tiny smile that tugged at her mouth. “That’s actually quite good advice. I suggest we keep you as the mentor of the Spinsters Club.”

Aunt Charlotte smiled back. “I withdraw my resignation.”

They worked for another five minutes, spooning the apples into the crust, pinching the sides into a pleasing scalloped pattern.

“He’s demanding,” Poppy said quietly, out of the blue, “occasionally irascible, and he doesn’t have half the charm of Eversly or his set.”

Aunt Charlotte nodded. “But he’s such a substantial presence. He’s making charm seem a rather flimsy virtue these days.”

He.

They were talking of the Duke of Drummond, of course.

But they were also talking about the man she was falling in love with, weren’t they? She wasn’t quite there yet. But it was a distinct possibility.

Poppy surveyed their apple-and-crust creation and then popped it into Cook’s already warm oven. Nicholas was far from the typical polished London gentleman, but who cared?

He was substantial.

That was a very good word, she decided.

“I hope Papa likes it,” she said about the pie.

“I’m sure he will,” Aunt Charlotte replied.

They gripped hands, and for the first time in a long time, Poppy felt … happy.