Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

“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.”

CHAPTER 8

Poppy felt her heart thumping fast against her chest when the Duke of Drummond slung an arm about her waist. “Exactly what are you doing?” she demanded to know.

“Kissing my fiancée,” he murmured, and lowered his mouth to hers.

She refused to think the kiss might be on a par with the sweet, yearning kiss Sergei had given her in St. Petersburg six years ago, even though it was definitely doing something to her insides, something shocking.

“You can’t do that,” she insisted, yet she couldn’t help but continue kissing him. “I never said yes to our betrothal. I pinched your arm. That was meant to be a distinct no.”

“But we’re betrothed anyway.” His mouth, warm and teasing, nuzzled her neck.

She was furious. His lips were doing outrageous things to her. And he smelled like a man, all woodsy and lineny and something indefinable that made her want to put her hands to his shirt and rip both left and right at the same time.

Drummond laughed, and twirled one of her curls about his finger. “So … you won’t call my driver to your rescue?”

“No, you ridiculous man,” she said. “I can handle you myself.”

His eyes gleamed. “I believe you can,” he said, and kissed the column of her neck, lingering on her pulse point. Then he pulled her onto his lap in one deft swoop of his arms.

Oddly enough, she felt cozy. Comfortable. Aroused.

Confound him.

“Perhaps I’ll scream,” she said.

“Don’t bother.” He kissed her ear.

She lifted her head. “What happened to your brother? Or was it your uncle?”

He stunned her by taking one of her fingers in his mouth and sucking on it. Good God, it felt impossibly rapturous, and she felt a sharp, sudden urge to—

She didn’t know. But he had better stop sucking.

Now.

She pulled her finger out, quite rudely, she thought, but he didn’t seem to care. He went right to rubbing her bottom with the flat of his hand.

It was shocking of him.

And she didn’t want him to stop.

“My brother—blast his hide—is still here in London,” the duke murmured, still rubbing away at her bottom, “but my uncle disappeared. He was only thirteen when he ran away. We think he became a sailor and was lost at sea.”

She let him kiss her again. Perhaps he wasn’t the wicked duke of Cook’s tales, after all. Perhaps he was even an amiable, kind, patient man. As harmless as a—

She blinked. He was none of those things. He was like a cobra in a basket, waiting to strike. A vampire who wanted to suck blood out of her neck. A Venus fly-trap—and she was the fly.

“Wait a moment.” She sat up a fraction. “I still don’t trust you. I’m only kissing you to prove I’m more than an adequate kisser. Far more.”

“How many times have you practiced?”

“None of your business.”

“I thought so.” He looked back down at her and caressed her temple with a scratchy thumb. “You are a spinster, through and through. Don’t you believe in having fun?”