Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

CHAPTER 3

“You—the young lady with the chamomiles in her hair!” The heavy Russian accent coming from behind Poppy at the Grangerford ball almost made her jump.

She inhaled a shallow breath and turned around to see a sturdy gentleman with broad shoulders and a large mustache who wore the uniform of a Russian army officer.

“Take those off,” he said, lifting his chin at her head.

My, he was rude!

But Poppy kept her head high and her demeanor cool. “Why?” she asked calmly. Inside, she was flummoxed—

And hurt on her mother’s behalf.

Every time Poppy went out, she tried to wear one thing she used to see her mother wear when she went out to parties. Some nights, she’d put Mama’s special mother-of-pearl bracelet on her wrist or wear Mama’s rings on her fingers. Other nights, she’d don her mother’s favorite kid slippers, the ones with the embroidered peacocks on the toes that she’d had resoled twice now. Still other nights, she’d wear one of her mother’s favorite fringed shawls or put fresh flowers in her hair, as she had tonight.

A beautiful young woman with glossy ebony hair knotted in a fanciful twist appeared from behind the man. She wore an exquisite gown in bold scarlet silk adorned with intricate black beading, a heavy diamond necklace, and many rings on her fingers.

It was Natasha, Sergei’s sister.

Poppy forgot her pique and was thrilled to see the princess in person for the first time. She had the same dark beauty as her twin brother.

Was Sergei right behind her? Poppy had been on pins and needles all week hoping to see him, but they’d yet to cross paths.

Now the princess stared at Poppy’s face, her hair, and her gown—and gave her a slightly bemused smile.

“Introduce us, please,” she said to one of her escorts. Several had appeared around her in the last few seconds, two of whom Poppy recognized as her father’s cronies from Parliament.

The uniformed man, probably serving as the princess’s bodyguard, moved back. One of the Englishmen, Lord Wyatt, stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Princess Natasha, this is Lady Poppy Smith-Barnes, daughter of the widowed Earl of Derby.”

Poppy inclined her head. “Honored to meet you, Princess.”

Lady Natasha inclined her head, as well. “I see Russian flowers in your hair,” she said in flawless, honey-thick English. “Chamomiles. I saw them from the top of the stairs, in fact.”

“Yes.” Poppy smiled, pleased the princess had noticed. She’d decided that if she were to wear flowers tonight, she would choose the national flower of Russia in honor of Sergei.

“Remove them,” Natasha said curtly.

Poppy felt an immediate stab of alarm in her middle, and her face flamed. “Wh-why?” she asked again.

But Natasha moved on without explaining. Lord Wyatt turned around, his brow lowered, and whispered impatiently, “Do as she says, Lady Poppy. We don’t want any friction between our countries.”

Friction? Between England and Russia?

Because of her flowers?

Poppy didn’t see how wearing flowers in her hair constituted a diplomatic gaffe. But as the daughter of a member of the House of Lords, she dared not take any chances. With shaky hands and without leaving the ballroom floor, she pulled the flowers out of her curls and stuffed them in her reticule.

Everyone around her stared.

“Look at someone else, please,” she blurted out, and made a beeline for Eleanor and Beatrice.

Before she could open her mouth to tell them what had transpired between her and the princess, Beatrice said, “We saw.”

“She’s wicked,” Eleanor added.

“But Sergei’s not,” Poppy insisted. “Every family has its bad apples, don’t they?”

But Beatrice and Eleanor had stopped listening. They were looking over her shoulder.

“There he is.” Eleanor gasped.

“Good heavens,” said Beatrice. “I see what you mean. He’s—”

“Perfect,” breathed Eleanor. “No wonder you’ve been fobbing off all your suitors.”

Poppy turned and looked at the man standing at the top of the stairs. Her heart swelled with happiness.

Sergei!

He was older, of course. But he’d only grown handsomer. The memories of her romantic week with him in St. Petersburg came flooding back.

“Gracious, he’s staring right at you,” said petite Eleanor, her masses of strawberry-blonde hair highlighted by the glow of hundreds of candles in the double chandeliers overhead.

Beatrice, gorgeous as always with her luminous brown eyes and her rich, dark hair pulled back in a sleek knot, squeezed Poppy’s hand. “He’d be lucky to have you,” she said firmly. “Remember that.”

“If you’re meant to be, we’ll find out together,” added Eleanor.

“Thanks.” Poppy felt a lump in her throat. “I’m so glad I have you two.”

Without another word, the three of them overlapped their hands. “Hell will freeze over,” they recited in whispers, “before we—”

“Give up our passions,” said Beatrice.

“And give in to our parents,” murmured Poppy.

“To marry men we don’t love,” added Eleanor.

Whereupon they released their hands and said together, “The Spinsters Club? Never heard of it,” as Eleanor gave a delicate yawn, Beatrice sipped from a glass of ratafia, and Poppy fiddled with a curl on her shoulder.

She usually felt exhilarated after saying the pledge. Stronger and braver, too. Because no matter what Papa said about women knowing their places and marriage being a business arrangement, she wasn’t going to marry a man who didn’t have her heart in his full possession. She’d far rather be a Spinster—a Spinster with very good friends in the same predicament—than succumb to such a fate.

The prince made eye contact with her and grinned, and Poppy felt her whole insides light up. She couldn’t help it—she grinned back.

He remembered her.

He headed her way with a small entourage. Poppy schooled herself to be calm, and she prayed she’d say the right thing.

Once in front of her, the prince raised her hand and kissed it, just as he had the first time he’d met her six years ago.

“Poppy. It is you.” He stared deep into her eyes, and her knees trembled. “What a fantastic surprise to see my little English friend all grown up.”

“H-hello, Sergei.” She drew in a breath. “I mean, Your Highness.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t dare call me that. I am always Sergei to you, and I would like you to introduce me to your friends as Sergei.”

What a gracious royal he is, Poppy thought, as he paid his respects to Beatrice and Eleanor. They were charming, witty, and sincere in their enthusiasm about the prince’s visit to London. She couldn’t have been more proud to call them her best friends.

The prince was impressed by them, as well. “I see, Lady Poppy, you’ve been in delightful company since I saw you last. My own friends would be honored to dance with them.” Indeed, two very distinguished Russian aristocrats had already bent low over the other Spinsters’ hands.

Which meant Poppy could abandon herself to the enjoyment of the evening. She did just that when Sergei took her hand and wrapped it under his arm.

“There are few things in the world more intimidating than a roomful of curious people,” he said. “Best to face them down first and let the other gentlemen in the room know what’s what. And then we shall dance.”

What’s what?

Poppy couldn’t help thinking the prince was using strong language. Was he implying she was his? That all the other men ought to steer clear?

Oh, if so, he was simply adorable, even after all these years. So effortlessly charming. And so … kissable.

Poppy’s schoolgirl crush came roaring back, stronger than ever.

Of course, if any one of her old suitors noticed her affinity for the prince and cared to ask about her Duke of Drummond tonight, she already had an easy reply. The duke had asked her to marry him, and she’d declined.

Who could blame her?

Prince Sergei was obviously a worthy distraction.

While they paraded about the room, Sergei deigned to stop and converse with only two important members of Parliament—although at least five more Very Important People attempted to capture his attention—and then he took Poppy out to the dance floor and swept her into a waltz.

She released a happy sigh. Hadn’t she waited six years for this moment?

Sergei squeezed her hand. “You are pleased, I think, that I’ve arrived. In fact, I see from your expression you feel it has been too long since we’ve last met.”

“It has been too long,” she dared to say.

“Tell me about your life.” He was gorgeous when he arched his brow.

She shook her head. “I’ve been quite busy since I saw you last. In between my studies and my social and charitable obligations, I run the household, planning the menus, conferring with the staff. I only wish I could serve as my father’s hostess, but he won’t entertain, not even his stuffy government colleagues.”

Prince Sergei’s expression was sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear the news about Lady Derby. She made quite an impression on St. Petersburg society.”

Poppy’s heart warmed to hear the kind words about her cherished mother. “Thank you for saying so.”

“Oh, but it’s true.” He gave her an endearing grin. “I’m equally sure your father can’t have had a better helpmate than you these last six years. He’s a lucky man, although you’re meant for more than serving as the mistress of your father’s household. So much more.” His voice was warm. The look in his eye promised something. And although she wasn’t sure what, it left her breathless.

“Thank you,” she whispered shyly.

Her dream was happening too fast. Then again, she’d waited for a moment like this for a long time. She’d endured how many insipid conversations? Patiently danced with how many men who didn’t make her heart speed up? Bought how many ball gowns for parties where she spent half the night yawning behind her fan?

No doubt tomorrow all of London would be talking about how the prince had arrived at the Grangerford ball and had come directly to her. They would wonder what he meant by his attentions.

So would she.

When the waltz ended, a Russian envoy came running over with a glass of lemonade and handed it to Poppy.

“Why, thank you.” She smiled and took a sip. It was quite nice to be spoiled so.

“And find me a beautiful flower,” Sergei said to the man.

“Yes, Your Highness. But your sister will be unhappy. She likes no one to wear flowers except her.”

“My sister is intolerable,” the prince said in a tight voice.

Poppy couldn’t agree more, but she was shocked to hear the prince say so out loud.

But his face softened when he looked at Poppy. “This pretty lady should always wear flowers in her hair.”

She felt a blush rise up her cheeks. The realization that the prince was here and lavishing her with attention was such a shock that she couldn’t think of a response. She sent him a quick smile, but she felt as if she were watching something extraordinary happening to someone else.

Marrying Sergei had been her dream ever since she’d met him. She dared not think that it could possibly come true. But it might. It just might. She was no green girl—she’d had a dozen proposals already, and she recognized the signs.

Sergei was interested in her.

Perhaps their flirtation which had ended so abruptly in St. Petersburg would resume at an entirely new, more sophisticated level.

But she had no precious seconds to cherish the hopeful feelings welling up inside her. The butler announced some late arrivals from the top of the stairs.

“Lord and Lady Harry Traemore!” he cried.

Poppy watched the Traemores descend the stairs slowly, whispering to each other, oblivious to the stares of envy and admiration from the crowd below. They’d been married less than a year and seemed divinely happy. Lord Harry clung to his wife’s hand, and she looked up at him with adoring eyes.

They were perfect for each other.

“They are a fine-looking husband and wife,” said Sergei.

“Aren’t they?” Poppy replied, knowing every girl in the room was wishing the same for herself—

A love match.

And then she noticed someone else at the top of the stairs. Under the blazing candles, he was wild-looking. Not in his dress. That was perfectly presentable. But even from this distance, she could see his eyes were a stormy gray and his mouth forbidding. His dark blond hair was longer than was fashionable and brushed straight back from his rather commanding forehead.

The way he stood was different from the other men of her acquaintance, too. He stood as if he owned the room. As if he owned the Grangerfords’ house and all the company in it.

And didn’t care for it or them.

Sergei studied him. “He looks a heathen, doesn’t he? Even though his coat is of superb cut.”

Poppy said nothing in return, unable to look away from the brazen-eyed gentleman.

And then he made eye contact with her.

She felt a jolt down to her toes. Her breath grew shallow, and a buzzing began in her ears. Who was he? And why did he gaze at her as if he knew her?

She abruptly looked away—disconcerted by his boldness—and instead watched the butler thrust out his chest, clench his fists at his sides, and boom, “The Duke … of Drummond!”

Poppy stopped breathing. And then somehow, very slowly, the room began to spin.