Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

card games for money, he thought. And she most certainly would never make it in the Service. She wore too many emotions right there on her flimsy, puffed-up sleeve.

A shabby steed bearing a portly young man in an ill-fitting, stained coat pulled alongside the curricle just before they were to leave the park. Nicholas was disappointed to see that it was Frank.

He prayed for patience. “Yes, little brother?”

Frank ignored him and leaned close to Poppy. “I wouldn’t marry my brother if I were you. He’s only marrying you because the estate needs money. You’re filthy rich, so you’ll suit.” He chuckled. “Not to mention I’ll cost you a fortune. I’m an inveterate gambler, you know.”

She stared at him for a cool few seconds, long enough that his horse grew restless and a pucker of uncertainty marred Frank’s brow.

“You’re not fooling me for a minute,” she told him. “You’re terribly excited I’m marrying your brother because you hope I’ll be the big sister you never had. Well, you’re right. I’ll not tolerate your gambling for a minute. I’ll box your ears if you misuse my fortune.”

“Is that all?” Frank laughed.

“You’ve obviously never had a sister.” She arched her brow at him. “We’re capable of more. So much more.”

Frank wheeled about on his horse and scowled at Nicholas. “You think you’ve got the best of me, aligning yourself with this Lady Poppy person, don’t you?” He tried to laugh, but it was a poor imitation. “Well, think again.”

He tore off on his horse.

They watched him wreak havoc among a party of picnickers, galloping over their blanket.

“My goodness,” said Poppy. “What a brother.”

“You’re almost as provoking as he is.” Nicholas shook his head and picked up the reins. He was amused by her just a tad, even though the amusement wasn’t nearly as strong as the desire he had to peek down her bodice again.

She cast him an arch glance. “You’re not my father, nor my employer. I do what I want when I want—”

“With whom you want. I know. You spinsters are quite a handful.”

When they rode out of the park into the busy streets of London, he wondered how in hell he was ever going to explain her to Groop.

CHAPTER 13

“Five hundred thirty steps.” Poppy stopped, took a deep breath, and wondered how many other young- ladies-turned-spy the gray-eyed duke had brought up here. “We’re only on three hundred ten.”

“It’s worth it,” Drummond said, and held tight to her hand.

They were climbing up to the Golden Gallery at the very top of St. Paul’s Cathedral—at night. “No one can hear us up there,” he said. “And no one can approach without our knowing. We can speak freely.”

She withheld the comment that they could speak freely in her drawing room, too—if Cook or Kettle or one of the maids didn’t eavesdrop, which would be a rarity. So perhaps she should grant that he knew best where to conduct a clandestine meeting.

She’d lied and told Papa they were off to see a play on Drury Lane, and she’d begged to be allowed to go unchaperoned, claiming her advanced age and betrothal to a duke were sufficient protection against any gossip.

Besides, she’d said, the play in question was one Aunt Charlotte had already seen.

Aunt Charlotte had merely winked at her. She hadn’t seen that play, but she knew, of course, that Poppy was doing all in her power to maintain her membership in the Spinsters Club, and sometimes that dedication required some creative thinking that went beyond the usual evasive techniques a Spinster employed with her suitors.

“As the betrothal is official, you must take Drummond head-on, I’m afraid,” Aunt Charlotte had told her earlier in the day, sympathetically patting her hand. “Even if that means you have to be near his handsome personage quite frequently and devise as many moments as possible alone with him.”

Although Poppy hoped their attachment would be temporary, her duty as a Spinster, according to her aunt, was to continue asserting her own interests and desires to the duke.

“Preferably at close range,” Aunt Charlotte had clarified.

Poppy knew from her former governess’s assessment of her that she was more sensible and astute than most young ladies. But the desire of her heart had nothing to do with books or rationality. Her primary desire, having been brought up on Cook’s stories—and having lived her young life as the daughter of two people very much in love—was for adventure and romance herself.

She hadn’t realized she could have either here in England, but Sergei was here now, so he’d take care of the romantic part, and she was climbing onward and upward with Nicholas to a secret place where they could discuss secret things, and at night, no less, which certainly counted as an adventure.

Although the adventure was dragging on rather a long time. Step after step she climbed. Finally, after many odd turns—with one brief rest so she could fix her slipper—and many more steps, they were there, at the top of St. Paul’s.

When she walked outside and to the railing, her mouth almost dropped open.

“This is London?” She’d never seen it this way.

It was beautiful—even the drifting smoke that floated over portions of the city.

She looked out over a sweeping panorama of thousands of glowing lights, dignified architectural silhouettes, narrow streets, and the winding Thames, all encircled by a starry night sky and a waxing moon.

“It’s magical,” she choked out, nearly overwhelmed.

Drummond stood behind her, his hand lightly touching her waist. “Isn’t it, though?” he said near her ear.

She was tempted to lean back in the circle of his arms and simply gaze at the glorious view … but she couldn’t very well assert herself if he unleashed her recently discovered appetite for kissing. When they were kissing, all thoughts of defying him went out the window.

Besides, she was trying to save her kisses for Sergei.

“I can’t see the stars like this from the street,” she admitted. “And the city is … breathtaking.” She’d never known it could be. Nothing in her experience had ever compared to St. Petersburg, but here she was—in the midst of a majestic scene—right at home.

She looked back at him. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

His eyes were dark pools. “You’re welcome.”

Poppy couldn’t breathe, he was so handsome. But he’s not Sergei, she reminded herself. He was an arrogant Englishman with her silk stocking in his pocket, ever ready to force her hand. Who cared that when he kissed her, she longed to disrobe and have him run his hands all over her body?

“The paper, please,” he said.

“Oh, yes.” She pulled it out of her bodice—realizing a bit too late that hiding it there might not have been the best idea. She hoped he couldn’t see her blushing. “Kettle and I enjoyed playing with that clever cane.”

Drummond took the scrap from her, lit a match, and burned it without reading it.

She gasped.

“I already know what it says,” he explained.

“We could have burned that at home.”

“Yes, we could have, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.” He leaned on the railing next to her, his eyes on the city landscape. “Up here, you’re much more likely to listen to what I have to say. There’s something about this view that gives one clarity. Are you ready?”

“I suppose.” She leaned next to him, elbow to elbow, and marveled at the incredible vista.

“You must stay out of my business while we’re engaged,” he said, staring straight ahead. “For your own good. I get involved in things that a proper young lady should know nothing about.”