Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

whole way.

CHAPTER 22

Nicholas sat opposite Poppy in the middle of the table. He was glad she hadn’t changed gowns, even if it meant he couldn’t carry through on his threat to kiss her in front of all the company.

She tapped a knife on her wine glass, and the table chatter died down. Sergei, who sat between her best friends, gazed at her with a mix of possessiveness and barely disguised lust. Nicholas had seen Natasha attempt to switch place cards and place her brother next to Poppy, but Beatrice and Eleanor had come behind her and, in charming tones, had insisted on keeping the prince between them.

Little did the princess know her strategy to encourage Poppy’s interest in her silly brother wouldn’t work—at least, not any longer. Poppy appeared completely oblivious to Sergei’s charms, what there were of them.

“Tonight’s meal,” she said, her cheeks a becoming pink, “is composed of Russian dishes, in honor of our Russian guests.” She hesitated a moment, then added, “And in memory of my mother, who spent her last days as a happy wife with my father in St. Petersburg.”

Lord Derby sat up as if jolted.

Poppy beamed at him, but his face was stern. Implacable.

Nicholas’s heart sank. Poor Poppy. She wasn’t having much luck tonight, was she? But at least everyone else made the appropriate murmur of interest at her announcement, except for Natasha. Not that he was surprised at that. If she were a cat, she’d be spitting at her hostess this very moment.

The servants brought in the first course, cabbage soup, or shchi.

He sampled it—it was tasty enough.

“A traditional first course in Russia,” Poppy said. “Is that not so, Princess?”

Nicholas felt a burst of admiration. Good for her for not shying away from Natasha.

“Yes, you could say that,” the princess answered. “Although”—she took one sip from her spoon and laid it down—“if it is not prepared in a Russian oven, it is not true shchi.”

Nicholas cast a subtle glance at Poppy. Her face was smooth, but her mouth was rather frozen in place. He wished he could take Natasha aside and teach her some manners—by ejecting her from the party. He wished he could do a lot of things …

But duty constrained him. Duty to the Service. To his country. To his family name.

He drained a glass of wine too quickly to forget his discontent, which was easy enough, as course after course followed, all authentic Russian dishes. He found them delicious and robust, cleverly prepared, and presented by Poppy with a touchingly sincere appreciation for Russian culture and cuisine.

“Count, Countess,” he said at one point, “I understand you have many Russian treasures at your home.”

“Yes, we do have amazing treasures,” Count Lieven said. “And when Prince Sergei chooses to share it with us, we shall soon be watching over the portrait by Revnik.”

“How delightful.” Poppy smiled. “All of London can’t wait to see it.”

“The night of the ball, the portrait shall be revealed in all its glory,” said the countess. “You and the rest of London may bask in it then.”

“And not a moment before,” said Natasha, sending a steely glance Poppy’s way.

Nicholas detected a faint bit of disappointment in Poppy’s eyes, so he raised a glass in her direction. “Splendid meal,” he said.

There was a chorus of assents and compliments made to the cook, although none came from Lord Derby— Nicholas hoped no one else noticed—or Natasha, who made her displeasure clear.

“Of course,” the princess said with a sniff, “we prefer to use a French chef at home. His chicken Kiev and veal Orloff have no compare.”

“Ch-chicken Kiev? Veal Orloff?” Poppy said, her hand fingering the beads at her neck.

“Franco-Russian cuisine,” Natasha explained. “The preferred cuisine of the Russian elite.”

“Although rustic Russian dishes do have their charm,” Sergei said, sucking on a bone and grinning.

Rustic.

Nicholas saw Poppy try not to wince at the word.

“I adore rustic,” Lady Charlotte piped up.

“So do I,” said Beatrice.

Eleanor, Lord Derby’s Cambridge friends, Lord Wyatt, and the Lievens agreed, as well.

But Nicholas could tell Poppy was bereft. The twins—and her father—had taken away her fun.

He felt enraged on her behalf. But there was nothing he could do.

He hated that feeling. He burned, yearned, to do something to make her feel better.

Perhaps to diffuse the tension, Lady Charlotte hit the side of her wine glass with a knife, and the table went quiet. “And now,” she said, “I’d like to conclude the meal by asking the newly betrothed couple, Nicholas and Poppy, to share a kiss for their adoring family and friends.”

Poppy looked at her aunt as if she’d been asked to jump off a cliff.

Lady Charlotte merely smiled. And then she locked eyes with Nicholas. What was the old girl up to? he wondered. Surely she was aware her niece didn’t want to marry him.

Poppy cleared her throat. “It’s probably not a good idea.” She flicked her eyes at the Countess Lieven.

“Oh, yes it is,” the countess said with a sweet smile, looking back and forth between him and Poppy. “Go right ahead.”

Nicholas was surprised at her amenable reaction, considering how stuffy she was at Almack’s. Perhaps it was Poppy’s affinity for Russia that had softened the countess’s usually strict rules about propriety.

“Very well,” he said with a grin, and stood. But inside, as he walked around the table, he felt anything but lighthearted. Lady Charlotte had set before him a task that he didn’t think he could accomplish. Poppy got no comfort from him. He rubbed her the wrong way. He’d forced her into an engagement, after all.

He couldn’t make her happy.

She almost cowered when he approached but then must have thought better of it. He took her hand and pulled her up from her chair.

The tension in the air was palpable.

She looked into his eyes—hers were full of confusion and definite reluctance—but what could he do?

He would kiss her.

And when he did, he would try, to the best of his ability, to make her feel happy and relaxed, even though the circumstances of the kiss were awkward and she felt anything but.

He pulled her close and touched his lips to hers.

It’s just me, he tried to convey.

Nicholas.

Forget everything else. Forget your father’s stern face, and Natasha’s rude comments. Forget Sergei’s leers and remember …

Remember that you’re beautiful. And kind. And fun. And …

The most interesting girl I’ve ever known.

Miraculously, she softened and relaxed, and then …

She was kissing him back. Kissing him as if she needed him somehow.

He needed her, too.

God, did he need her!

The kiss was fairly chaste, however, to those who watched. He was sure of it. But the jolt of connection he’d felt with her had been real.

An intimate message between the two of them.

Too bad it was in a code he couldn’t fully understand.

As if by mutual agreement, they parted.