Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

CHAPTER 7

Victory.

Nicholas tried not to savor it too much, as his prize despised him, but he couldn’t help feeling a little bit triumphant.

He’d never had his hand wrung so hard—never heard so many men say in awed tones, “You must be something extraordinary,” or “How did you manage it?” or from one fellow, a tear trickling down his cheek and a mumbled, “Take good care of her, will you?”

He felt as if he’d won Helen of Troy—and perhaps he had.

He looked over at Lady Poppy and she was glorious in her suppressed fury, so untouchable and fierce that if someone had brought him enough wood to build a gargantuan wooden horse for her at that moment, he might just have done it.

“Take her home, Drummond,” Lord Derby told him after the hubbub had died down slightly, which meant only that Nicholas was receiving a slap on the back or a cheroot stuffed in his pocket on an average of every twenty seconds versus every ten.

“But Papa!” Lady Poppy grabbed her father’s arm.

He gently but firmly pushed her hand off. “No ifs, ands, or buts, my dear. You’re an engaged woman now, and your fiancé shall escort you home with my permission, which I give freely.”

“No,” she interrupted.

“And if you don’t marry him,” Lord Derby went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “I’ll cut you off without a farthing.” He speared her with a look. “Don’t think I don’t mean it because I do. I swear upon your mother’s grave.”

“Ssssh, Papa!” Poppy looked around them. “How could you say such a thing? That’s not like you!”

He shook his head. “I don’t feel a bit guilty. When you turned down a perfectly acceptable match like Eversly, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. You’re fortunate Drummond is willing to take you on. As far as I’m concerned, your days as a spinster are over.”

Lord Derby calmly kissed Poppy’s brow. She was apparently so incensed and shocked, she let him.

Nicholas held out his arm, and slowly, reluctantly, she took it.

“Don’t say a word,” she muttered, as he escorted her through the crowds.

He was doing his best to be a gracious winner, so he had no trouble complying. She’d had a severe shock, coupled with a blistering scold from her father. He’d be happy to grant her a few moments of silence.

But a few minutes later, ensconced in his comfortable carriage, she was ready to spar. She sat opposite him, her eyes flashing. “What was that proposal about?” she demanded. “You don’t even know me.”

“You’re the one who’s been using my name for three years to fob off your other suitors,” he said, refusing to be ruffled. “Isn’t this marriage what you want?”

“Huh,” was all she said.

The vehicle turned a corner sharply, and she shifted her gaze away from his to the window. He studied the curve of her jaw and the white planes of her shoulders, exposed in the folds of her shawl. She was gorgeous. And oblivious to the danger she presented to him and every other man who encountered her.

Perhaps he’d enjoy begetting those children with her.

She turned to look at him, her mouth pursed in an attractive pout. “You’re up to something havey-cavey. No doubt you need money, and I’m a convenient source. But I sense you’ve other reasons for proposing. I’ve good instincts.”

“Not as good as mine.”

“You can’t know that.”

“My instincts tell me they are.”

“How can your instincts tell you your instincts are better?”

“Easily,” he said. “Anyone with good instincts would understand.” He gave her his best diabolical smile. “But as for your assessment, dukes always need wealthy wives to prop up the properties and to beget future dukes. Why not choose a wife who’s been pining after you?”

“I have not been pining. Besides, even if I had been—which I repeat I have not—your reasons go beyond that.”

“Your instincts are good.”

She sucked in a breath. “I knew it.”

“I do need a wife quickly, and for more than financial security,” he said, not apologetic in the least. “I’m not at liberty to explain why. But it certainly doesn’t reflect poorly on you that you are my choice.”

She crossed her arms. “I might be your choice, but you aren’t mine.”

“A dozen rejected suitors would say otherwise, but who is he, this man who has your heart?”

She pursed her lips. “There’s only one man who can tempt me to give up my Spinster status—”

“You’re not a spinster—quite yet.”

“But I’m close,” she said, “and I have no desire to marry anyone but—” She hesitated. “I can’t say.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s private.”

He sighed. “You have no desire to marry anyone but Prince Sergei.”

She felt her face pale. “How did you guess?”

“It’s easy to see you have a tendre for him. And he’s besotted with you—that is, you or your father’s money. I can’t tell which one yet.”

“How dare you.”

He gave a small chuckle. “Are you sure you want him? You know nothing of him.”

“I know this,” she said, leaning forward and poking him in the chest with a finger. “I know that I have my own plans for my future, and they don’t include marrying a smug, insufferable man. It will suit my purposes to remain betrothed to you for one month, which will ensure that I may stay in Town. But then I plan to break it off, no matter how angry it makes Papa.” She nodded firmly. “You can take my offer or leave it—and find yourself another fiancée. I refuse to budge.”

“Even though your father will cut you off without a farthing?”

She crossed her arms and made a face. “He didn’t mean it.”

“I assure you, he does. He told me so. And remember, he vowed upon your mother’s—”

“Don’t bring my mother into this.” She inhaled a deep breath. “All right,” she conceded, “perhaps he really meant it.”

He didn’t say a word.

“But I refuse to marry you. Even if I’m cut off without a penny. No one tells me whom to marry.”

“But you said you wanted the Duke of Drummond.” Over and over again, apparently.

She made an exasperated face. “That was a mistake. Of course I don’t want you. I was referring to a fictitious duke, one that Cook tells stories about. As for Papa, I’m not some piece of meat to be bartered, and if he condemns you for backing out of your agreement, I’ll be sure to tell him I forced your hand.” She arched a brow. “Which I’ve just now managed. Haven’t I?”

“No. You haven’t.” He heard the resolve in his voice and hoped it was having an effect. “I intend to adhere to the agreement I made with your father. We shall marry, whether you like it or not. Even if it means I have to drag you kicking and screaming up to Gretna.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Her bravado was rather intoxicating.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I would. And your father would do nothing to save you. You see, he believes we’ll make a fine match. I happen to agree. You’re a pleasure to look at, an adequate kisser—”

“Adequate?”

“So far.”

“I’m far more than adequate for any man! You’d be lucky to get another kiss from me, but you won’t. Oh, no.” She gave a breathy chuckle. “I’ll get out of this. Just you wait and see.”

“Believe me, it will be a long wait.” He wondered if his fascination with her was evident and hoped it wasn’t. Cool. Calm. Detached. That’s what he needed to be in his Service work, and that’s what he’d be with her. Even though something in him was responding to her like a dog to the scent of a fox.

“I’m committed to my IF,” he said, “and I’ve no desire to turn back now, especially as you’ll bring me a hefty dowry. Our betrothal leaves me open to receiving a massive MR to boot. That is, of course”—he let out a satisfied sigh—“if OPL comes through. Which it should.”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“Good.” He moved to her seat and wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed just hard enough that she couldn’t get away without a struggle. “As much as you seem to despise me, I’m not a beast. I’ll give you one month to get used to this betrothal, and if you manage to play at being a docile fiancée during that time, I’ll kindly delay the wedding three months to accommodate your—ahem—timidity.”

She rolled her eyes.

“But in the next thirty days,” he went on, “you’ll make our attachment clear to polite society, or I’ll explain to your father in vivid terms why we need to marry immediately.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a stocking, and held it up for her examination.

“Why, that’s one of my stockings! It even has my initials on it. Where did you get that?”

“I have my connections.”

“What?”

“Don’t bother firing your scullery maid. She’s probably in Portsmouth by now. I gave her a ticket on a packet to America.”

She tried to slap him, but he grabbed her wrist. “And don’t you try to run away, either. When I find you—and I will—we’ll marry that day. Or perhaps we’ll simply live in sin at Seaward Hall, my family’s estate, until the special license comes through.”

Her lips thinned and she yanked her wrist back. “You’re a beast.”

He put the stocking back in his pocket and patted it. “Seaward Hall is lovely this time of year. The freezing winds off the North Sea in the spring aren’t nearly as bad as the polar ones in the winter. And there’s a dungeon.”

She shuddered. “All right. I’ll act truly engaged to you for a month—whatever that involves.”

“Don’t look so despondent. Men want women who are unavailable. I assure you, Sergei will find you more desirable than ever now that you’re engaged. Not that you have a future with him.”

“So you think. It’s either with him or no one. I’d rather live alone than marry a man I don’t love.”

“I admire your stubbornness. To an extent.” He yawned. “I’m the same way. But there does come a point when it’s best to see the forest for the trees. And that time is now.”