When she got there, a low fire still flickered on the hearth.
She closed the door firmly behind her, advanced to a bookshelf, and began to peruse the volumes.
“So,” she heard a man’s low voice from behind her, “you couldn’t sleep, either.”
She whirled around. Sitting in a chair by the floor-to-ceiling window was Drummond. One booted leg was sprawled over the other, and his chin rested on his fist.
She put her candle on a side table and gave a little laugh. “Why, Drummond. Whatever’s the matter? You look as though—”
“As though I’m doing miserably at my job?” He pushed himself out of the chair and came to her. His eyes flared with challenge.
Or perhaps frustration.
Whatever it was, the firelight cast shadows and light on the planes of his face, making him more handsome and mysterious than she’d ever seen him.
She backed up a step, her heart picking up its pace. “I should think you’re doing splendidly,” she assured him. “We’re spending lots of time with—with the subjects we’re supposed to spend time with, and—”
“And my diplomatic skills are being stretched to the limit.” He raked a hand through his hair and stared at the fire. “How many Service members follow dogs about? Endure petulant Russian princesses? Kowtow to know-it-all Russian princes?”
She blinked. “I—I don’t know. But of course you endure what you must endure. It’s part of the profession, I suppose.”
He gave her a flat look. “You’re right, of course. It’s just that…”
He hesitated.
“What?” she asked him.
He let out a gusty sigh. “It’s difficult to focus on my work—on my objectives—with you around. Damn it all, I could put up with Sergei if it were just he and I, but I loathe the way he looks at you. And as for the princess, she’s obviously jealous of you and takes pains to put you in your place whenever she can.”
He looked at her then, and neither of them said a word. The fire danced and popped, the candle flickered, and everything else was blanketed in darkness and silence.
She knew what he wanted. What he needed.
She stepped forward and pulled the lapels of his coat toward her. “Come here,” she whispered.
And she stood up on tiptoe and kissed him. They fit together perfectly. She allowed him to completely encircle her with his body, to devour her lips with his own. Through her thin night rail, she relished feeling every contour of his body, including his masculine hardness thrust up against her lower belly.
And then she pulled back.
“God, Poppy,” he said low.
She raised her chin. “It’s kind of you to be concerned about me, Your Grace, but I can take care of myself. My presence should in no way deter you from your objectives.”
His pupils darkened. “So I should proceed as I always have, with no concern for your well-being.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I don’t need you, Drummond. And you most certainly have made the point that I get in
“Devil take it,” he whispered, looking down at her. “Go to your room before I chase you up those stairs and ravish you in your bed.”
She picked up her candle, straightened her back, and strode past him.
She would secure her door tonight just as Aunt Charlotte had warned her to do. She only wished she could lock up the new, bewildering feelings welling inside her, all of them centered on the Duke of Drummond.
CHAPTER 20
Thank God for horses. And open fields. And other men who understood that when a man was frustrated with a woman, the best thing to do was to shut up, go with him on a blistering early-morning ride, and hand him a fine cheroot afterward.
“Dear heavens, Max and Nicholas,” lamented Lady Caldwell. “It’s too early in the morning for those.”
“We’re outdoors, my love.” Lord Caldwell complacently puffed away at his cheroot and patted her hand.
Poppy made a moue of disapproval at Nicholas. “Surely you should eat first.”
Underneath a large oak tree, Lady Caldwell had set a beautiful breakfast picnic composed of eggs, meat, hot rolls, Bath buns, pound cake, toast, tea, and cocoa. Liveried servants stood at attention nearby.
“Sorry,” Nicholas said, leaning back in his chair and blowing out a plume of smoke. “I promise I’ll partake as soon as I’m done savoring this.”
“Well, then,” said Lady Caldwell. “If you two insist on being large boys bent on defying the common sense of women who know better, I shall take this opportunity to regale Poppy with a perfectly frivolous tale of romance and heartache.”
“Do tell,” said Poppy with a captivating grin. She pinched off a piece of pound cake and ate it with relish.
The girl did everything with relish, Nicholas had the unwanted thought, and tamped down the image of her pulling him toward her last night and planting a sensuous kiss on his mouth.
Fortunately, Lady Caldwell distracted him with the sad tale of an unhappy, noble gander who’d lost his gorgeous mate some time ago and was still mourning.
“I visit him every day,” she said. “He absolutely refuses to rejoin the flock that lives on the pond. And he won’t cheer up. His grief is too great.”
“Women know these things,” Lord Caldwell whispered to Nicholas, loud enough for his wife to hear.
Lady Caldwell ignored him, of course, much to Nicholas’s amusement.
“The poor old thing walks the same path every day,” she told Poppy. “It was the last place he saw her.”
“How terrible,” said Poppy feelingly, her slice of pound cake all but forgotten as she listened to the tale.
“Yes.” Lady Caldwell sighed. “I wish there were a happy ending. If only he could find someone else to love.”
Nicholas caught Poppy’s eye. She stopped chewing and sent him an adorably tragic look. The minx. Just who was this girl who could fall for a story about a silly, lovesick gander and yet have the audacity to tease him the way she had last night?
Without thinking, he leaned over and kissed her mouth. She tasted of cake and sugar.
Her eyes widened at the contact, but he wasn’t sorry. They were supposed to be happily betrothed, and he was going to show the world that they were.
Lord Caldwell looked at him assessingly—he’d been kind enough not to ask why Nicholas had been in an ill humor on their ride—then chuckled.
“Young love,” he said. “It continues to inspire us old folk.” Then he leaned over and kissed Lady Caldwell, as well. “I’m as sick with love for you as that old gander is for his mate. Don’t you ever think of running off with the chimney sweep or the footman who danced with you last night.”
“Oh, dear,” said Lady Caldwell, her cheeks as pink as Poppy’s.
The two women exchanged a look, and then the two of them burst into laughter.
“Who knew we were so irresistible?” Lady Caldwell took Poppy’s hand and squeezed it.
It was another sign that Poppy was approved of, Nicholas noted with the same mix of pleasure and guilt he’d felt the evening before. But today the guilt was slightly worse. He’d never tell Poppy this, but her little speech last night had definitely reminded him that he wasn’t as in control of their situation as he’d assumed. He wasn’t as sure that a year from now he wouldn’t have to tell Lord and Lady Caldwell that their betrothal had been doomed from the start.
It was a lowering thought.
Lord Caldwell squinted, looking toward the house. “I see the prince is finally awake and about.”
It was indeed Sergei, looking every inch the prince, and he was coming their way.
Poppy sat up a bit higher. “I wonder if his sister is still abed. And Mrs. Travers.”
“I rather hope so,” Lord Caldwell said dryly.
