Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

EPILOGUE

“I can’t believe we’re married,” Poppy said, looking down at Nicholas. She was bursting with love for him. And desire for him. All the time. Which made it terribly hard to remember to put her clothes on.

He laughed up at her. “You’d better be glad we are married. Minx.” He caressed her arms, sending a warm surge of happiness through her. “You’re enjoying the marriage bed, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” She loved the new sensation of having him inside her. And she especially loved making him groan with pleasure. He was a marvel, her man—and she was absolutely addicted to him.

She stretched her hands above her head and felt like a cat with a bowl of cream. “We’ve done this well into the dozens of times.”

“Yes, this,” he said with an adorably crooked smile. “I love this. And we’ve only been married—”

“Seven days and—”

“Eight hours,” Nicholas finished for her. “It’s even more remarkable when you consider two of those days we spent careening north in a mail coach.”

“And I loved every minute of it,” she assured him.

“Did you?” His eyes lit up like a boy’s.

“Of course.” She smiled and ran a finger along his jaw, remembering how avid he’d been to hold the blunderbuss and how disappointed he’d been when he hadn’t had to fend off any highwaymen.

Now that he wasn’t in the Service, he had to find adventure somewhere, and he’d always wanted to ride on the mail coach.

“But darling”—the word was new and splendiferous to her—“is it possible to stay in bed too long? I mean, could we become ill?”

“The only effect I can think of occurring from loving your wife over and over is—and it’s not an illness—is the lady becoming with child.”

Poppy’s eyes widened. “Thank God that’s all.”

She really had been worried. Except for a daily walk to the beach, they’d hardly been out of bed since they’d arrived at Seaward Hall, three days after marrying at St. Paul’s in London. Papa, Aunt Charlotte—and all of Poppy and Nicholas’s friends—had waved them off.

They’d had the castle to themselves. The servants had welcomed Poppy as if she were their duchess, even though she wouldn’t be for years. But she would be mistress of the house in the meantime—Lady Maxwell, wife to Lord Maxwell, who was heir to the Duke of Drummond.

Groop was still Groop. Even though he was also Uncle Tradd, the proper duke. The Service was his life, and he would remain in London, behind the scenes as always.

Poppy looked out the window at the cliffs, the long stretch of shoreline with that massive rock jutting from it, the one where Nicholas used to play, and the expansive, ever-restless sea. “It’s certainly a lovely view,” she murmured.

“Yes?”

“And the castle is majestic.” She brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes and smiled. “If in a bit of disrepair.”

He grinned. “Ah, well. The massive dowry you’ve brought me will help with restoring it. Although”—he sat up on an elbow—“I told your father to hold off. I have plans for this place. And I’m clever enough to restore it in limited fashion on my own. Groop—”

“You mean Uncle Tradd—”

Nicholas sighed. “I will never call him Uncle Tradd.”

“Yes, you will.”

“I won’t.”

“Oh, but you will. He’s coming to stay for two weeks next month.”

“What?”

“You’re no longer in the Service, so he is now Uncle Tradd.”

She ignored the dark look he threw her.

“Let’s get back to the subject,” he said dryly. “I was saying that Groop, or Uncle Tradd, as I shall call him simply to make you happy, gave me the M.R. for all my years of service. I’m going to invest in some new farm equipment and sheep. Lumley has loads of them to get us started.”

“Excellent idea,” she said. “I’m sure you won’t need Papa’s money. Especially as we have the Viking treasure to call our own.”

Nicholas made a face. “Very funny.”

She clapped her hands. “I’ve been dying to tell you! I was waiting for the right moment. A moment when we wouldn’t be naked, and we’d be serious-minded. But so far that hasn’t happened, so I might as well choose now.”

He sat up, his elbows locked behind him, his pupils large and dark. “What is this? One of your jokes?”

He was so handsome sometimes, she couldn’t look at him without wanting to kiss him. So she did.

“Absolutely not,” she said a moment later.

“Tell me. Now.” A moment before, in the middle of their kiss, he’d been so … sweet. But now he looked the sternest she’d ever seen him.

“Very well.” She couldn’t help a smug smile. “Dear Uncle Tradd—the man you used to refer to as Groop—appeared in my carriage one day and said that it didn’t seem right that you’d have to act as duke when he was the real Duke of Drummond. And he thought it would be a fair trade to give you the Viking treasure he’d found in return for your being his heir and taking care of the properties while he had all the fun in the Service.”

“Devil take it, what Viking treasure?”

Poppy bit her lip and hoped she would tell the story exactly as Uncle Tradd had.

“Well, when he was thirteen, he found a cache on the beach, buried beneath a rock. He confided in a footman he trusted, someone he’d apparently looked up to as a friend, and the footman kidnapped him to try to force the location out of him. When Tradd wouldn’t reveal it, the thug dumped him in the worst part of London, figuring he’d never make it back.”

“So that’s what happened.” Nicholas’s brow smoothed out as if the weight of the world had fallen off his shoulders. “Family mystery. Solved.” He paused. “I suppose we ought to be grateful the footman couldn’t bring himself to outright kill him.”

“Indeed,” Poppy said. “Tradd grew up as a thief to survive, which is how he got into the Service. He never went back to reclaim the treasure or his title. He said he was too busy trying to stay alive, and when he was old enough to make it out of London, too ashamed. He’d done all sorts of nasty things to avoid dying, and he was afraid to come home. But he told me where the treasure is. I dug it up—with Cook’s help—”

“Not Cook! She’s probably told everyone by now!”

Poppy waved a hand. “She swore she’d never tell.”

Nicholas rolled his eyes.

“At any rate,” Poppy went on, “the treasure is somewhere in this house. And let me tell you—it’s enough treasure to build ten more amazing, grand Seaward Halls. We’ll be so rich, we’ll be able to travel the world together, too.”

“Really?” His eyes sparkled.

“Yes,” she said with a grin, “and we’ll bring Frank up here to Seaward Hall to set up his own cooper shop!”

Nicholas blew out a breath. “Poppy, my love, where—is—the treasure?”

She laughed and ran a hand down his chest. “I won’t tell you. Not until you tell me what an IF is.”

“You must be joking.”

“No. I’m not.” She blinked once, slowly.

At first, his mouth drew into a thin line, and his eyes—oh, but they were the stormiest gray she’d ever seen them.

“I refuse to be intimidated,” she said. “I’m not afraid of you. I don’t care how many octopi you’ve wrestled.”

His mouth curled up. “I see what you’re up to,” he said warmly.

“You do?” He was making her breathless again.

“Yes, I do. You want me to want you more than I want that Viking treasure!”

She grinned. “I never thought of that, but perhaps you’re right.”

He nuzzled her neck and pulled her underneath him. “Well, I do, Lady Maxwell. In fact, don’t tell me where the treasure is.”

She lifted her head. “Oh, dear.”

He laughed aloud. “You can’t keep a secret, can you? It’s killing you!”

She felt a moment’s pique. “Yes, it is killing me, so I demand you tell me—what is an IF? So I can reveal the location of the treasure. Please.”

He kissed her mouth, a lovely, slow kiss, then pulled back. “An IF,” he said softly, “is your inevitable fate. I knew you were mine as soon as I saw you at the Grangerford ball, gazing up at me as if I were an ax murderer.”

She giggled. “And I knew you were my IF when you said in that highbrow manner, ‘I’ll be glad to take you where you want to go, Lady Poppy.’ ”

“Oh, really?” He kissed the tip of her nose.

“Do that now,” she whispered. “Take me where I want to go, Nicholas. Before I show you the treasure.”

“You are my treasure,” he said, wrapping her in his arms. “The rest can wait.”