Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

“My English contacts tell me you have a passion for my country, and now I see for myself that you do.”

“I do my best,” Poppy said, “to learn about all the world’s cultures, although, yes, I have a special place in my heart for Russia.”

And Sergei.

Natasha leaned forward. “Tell me, when did this courtship between you and Drummond take place?”

What a shame she’d changed the subject. Her courtship with Drummond was hardly Natasha’s business, but Poppy dared not tell her so. “I recently purchased a Russian icon that I’ve yet to hang on the wall,” she said instead. “Would you like to see it?”

Natasha gave an impatient sigh. “I see icons in Russia all the time.”

“Of course.” Poppy swallowed hard.

Natasha appeared quite content to sit where she was. Forever, if need be, judging from the way she eased herself farther back into the settee. “You were about to tell me how you and Drummond came together.”

Goodness gracious, Poppy thought, what was she to do? She’d have to make up a grand story, the way Cook did. She only wished she had a simmering pot to stir.

“We met at the circulating library. I’ll never forget it.” She laid a hand on her breast. “My heart—”

“I didn’t ask for maudlin details.” Natasha rolled her eyes. “Love has nothing to do with courtship, or at least it shouldn’t.” She stood, rather violently. “I came today to say that it’s unfortunate you’re involved with Drummond. I was beginning to think you should serve as one of my attendants at the Lievens’ ball, where my wretched brother and I are to unveil my uncle Revnik’s last masterpiece.”

Poppy’s face flamed. Wretched was a strong word. And Sergei was her beloved. But she couldn’t very well defend him. Family matters were family matters. And she wasn’t in the family—yet.

Nevertheless, perhaps she could serve as a mediator of sorts, remind Natasha of her brother’s good qualities. “Do you … do you and Sergei ride together?” she asked the princess. “Or play card games?”

“Shut up about him.” Natasha curled her lip. “He makes me ill.”

“W-why?”

The princess scowled. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Poppy gave a nervous shake to her head. “No. Not really.”

Natasha gave a short laugh. “He is a brother. Brothers rot.”

“Oh.” Poppy raised a shaky hand to her breast. “I’m an only child. I’d no idea.”

Drummond apparently despised his brother, too.

The mere recollection of the duke’s existence brought to her mind his captivating sneer and condescending manner. Both made her palms itch to wring his neck.

Natasha jutted her chin at her. “What’s your answer?”

Poppy flinched. “I’m afraid I forgot the question.”

She’d been thinking of Drummond, after all, and before that, all she’d heard had been the word wretched being used to describe Sergei. It had been like a knife through her heart.

“I asked if you will accept the great honor of serving as one of my attendants. You will be privileged to hold my gown and adjust my tiara, a gift of the czar himself. The ball shall be the event of the Season. But now you’re too busy preparing for your wedding. What a shame.”

Natasha raised her shoulders the tiniest fraction and let them fall.

“Oh, yes, I’ll be much too busy preparing for my wedding,” Poppy assured her. If she didn’t play the happy bride-to-be, the princess would report it all over Town, and then every suitor she’d ever had would call her a fraud. “And I wouldn’t be a very good attendant, I’m afraid.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t want to blend in, as much as you believe I need to.” Now she let her shoulders rise and fall a fraction of an inch. “I plan to attend the event at the side of my future husband. I shall waltz with him and perhaps even kiss him in front of all the company.”

Oh, God. She didn’t want Drummond. And she wasn’t a hoyden. Why had she said all that?

Natasha gave her a glittering smile. “Good luck with your duke, Lady Poppy. Rumor has it he has no heart, but that’s neither here nor there.”

Poppy tried to be grateful for the remark. She’d been reared to think the best of people, so there was the slightest chance it had been made with friendly concern.

But she doubted it. If the princess felt anything like she did now, she was hoping Poppy would trip over her hem and fall down. Poppy was wishing the very same for Natasha.

But the princess strode smoothly out the front door, down the steps—her corgis’ ears like little flags—and was swept up by a footman into her carriage, which went rollicking away with much yapping from its interior and at an unnecessarily high speed.

When Poppy turned back to the drawing room and sank into her seat, she couldn’t help releasing a wistful sigh. A royal from Russia had come to visit this morning. And not just any royal. Sergei’s sister.

How exciting such an event would have been even a day ago. But now that she’d met Natasha, Poppy was the opposite of excited, which was unfortunate. She’d had such hopes they’d be good friends.

Even more lowering was the fact that she was trapped in an engagement to the wrong man and he was to come to dinner tonight. Her temples grew damp at the thought. She had no idea what she’d say to him. She was beside herself that he’d interfered in her life without her permission.

She stood and looked at herself in the mirror. “If he’s not going to play fair, then I shan’t, either,” she told herself out loud.

If he could be like a vampire or a snake, she’d be like a spider in a web, and she’d wrap him up in a little threaded ball at the soonest opportunity. Or perhaps she’d be more like a governess and torture him with boring lectures so that he’d fall asleep, whereupon she’d write nasty things on his forehead, words like GO AWAY, RUDE MAN.

She strode out of the drawing room to Papa’s library and then to her bedchamber, where she lay on her quilt and searched through a text on agricultural tools, vowing to find the perfect tedious lecture.

But as she was reading about chaff cutters, dibbers, and flails, she fell asleep.

CHAPTER 11

When Nicholas knocked on the door at 17 Clifford Street at precisely seven o’clock, he was rather irritated and deflated, having waited all day to see if Groop would contact him to tell him Operation Pink Lady would be his.

He hadn’t. And it wasn’t.

Which was why he was scowling when the door was opened by the butler.

“Good evening, Your Grace. I am Kettle, at your service. Do come in.”

With his protruding ears and round face, he certainly matched his name. No doubt Lady Poppy set him to boil often.

“Thank you, Kettle.” Nicholas handed over his cape, gloves, and hat, a wad of cash tastefully hidden under the brim. “I presume you mean Lord Derby is expecting me. He received my note about security measures?”

“You presume correctly, Your Grace.” Kettle discreetly pocketed the bills. “He made sure Lady Poppy’s bedchamber window is locked, and we’ve a servant guarding every exit from the house. Regrettably, the earl was called away with Lord Wyatt on emergency Parliamentary business and is still not back. He begs you to be patient as he’ll be a trifle late for dinner.”

“I’m happy to wait.” Nicholas had dreamed about Lady Poppy’s snapping emerald eyes and coppery mane. And now he’d see her again. He felt exhilarated at the thought, especially because he already knew she wouldn’t be easy.

Not easy at all.

He wondered if a good night’s sleep and almost a full day to reflect upon the advantages of a connection to him had softened her outrage into something more … tamable.

And almost hoped it hadn’t.