Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

ear.

Gad. If only Poppy had heard that. She’d have been none too pleased.

Of course, he himself was. He enjoyed Lady Charlotte’s company and felt almost proud that he was gaining acceptance amid the other members of the household—with the exception of Kettle and Cook, and, um, his own fiancée.

True to form, after Lady Charlotte and Lord Derby said good night, Kettle made it very clear with a quelling glance that he’d stay within calling distance of Poppy should she need him.

Kettle was a very intelligent butler.

When Nicholas and Poppy entered the library, he poured himself a brandy, and for her, a small glass of ratafia.

“You did splendidly,” he said.

“Thank you.” She gave him a brilliant smile. “We succeeded in some ways. All right, perhaps not with the food—and the gown was a disaster—”

“And Sergei seemed to run into some very unfortunate problems,” he interrupted her.

She had the grace to blush.

“But we’ll get to see the Lievens’ home,” she said. “And even Papa said he managed to have a good time, in his own fashion. Although he’s still very touchy, isn’t he? About Mama.” She sank into a chair and stared at the small fire burning in the grate, the glass dangling from her hand. “Overall, however, I’m pleased.”

“You should be.” Nicholas knelt before her and took her hand. “Neither the food nor the conversation nor your gown mattered tonight as much as your intent. Your goal was to make your guests feel at home, and that can never be criticized. I’m sure your mother would have been very proud for how well you succeeded.”

She gave him a pensive smile. “Thank you.” She squeezed his hand. “But if you don’t mind, I really am tired. I’d like to go to bed.”

He backed up only enough to give her room to stand.

When she stood, they locked gazes.

“Did you think that kiss Lady Charlotte demanded of us was a disaster—or a success?” he asked her.

She looked down for a moment, then back up. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “It’s the only part of the evening that I can’t peg as either one.”

“Before you go up,” he said, “I’d like to show you something that might help you decide.”

“What is it?”

He pulled a lock of hair off her face. “The real meaning of thrilled.”

CHAPTER 23

Nicholas pulled Poppy close. The fire was at his back, heating his calves. But he had another fire inside, one that had been banked all night until he could get her alone, and it was now burning high.

He held still a moment and listened for Kettle on the other side of the half-closed library door. The butler was whistling through his teeth at his station near the front door.

Good.

As long as Nicholas knew Kettle’s whereabouts, he could do what he so wanted to do. He leaned down and kissed Poppy’s neck right below her ear.

She let out a sigh.

He kissed her once, a playful, openmouthed kiss that she responded to by melting into him. When he pulled back, he smiled inwardly. She obviously wasn’t as tired as she thought she was. Her eyes flickered and heated with want.

“I need you to trust me,” he said. “Will you?”

She looked at him with wide eyes and nodded.

Silently, he crouched on his haunches and pulled up her gown, exposing her jeweled slippers. He inched the gown’s slithery, beaded smoothness slowly up her legs. All the while, his hands held her close, and he dropped little kisses on her calves, then her knees, and finally her thighs.

Her breathing was jagged, which pleased him. He looked up, hoped his eyes told her he was enjoying himself immensely, and put an index finger to his mouth.

She swallowed, nodded, then bit her lip.

Gently, he pushed her legs farther apart, which—wonder of wonders—exposed her fully to him. Already hardened with desire, his need went up another notch, but he would ignore it.

Tonight was for her alone.

Lost in the sweet scent of her and the soft miracle of her skin, he kissed the insides of her thighs, going slowly higher, until he reached her most tender spot. He nuzzled it—she whimpered—and then he flicked it with his tongue.

She let out a gasp.

He stopped moving.

Kettle was still whistling.

Nicholas pulled back and motioned for Poppy to put her hand over her mouth. With a shaky hand, she did just that, and he went back to what was becoming his greatest delight—pleasuring her.

He blew on her first.

She moaned again. Softly.

And then he probed her with his tongue, going deeper.

And deeper.

Her legs began to buckle, so he stopped, listened for Kettle, who was now whistling a sea ditty, and took the opportunity to stand and move Poppy gently back to the chair. “You’ll need to be very, very quiet,” he whispered to her.

She nodded, and he pushed her legs wide apart.

Her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, she kept that hand clamped over her mouth.

He couldn’t help grinning at her obedience—she so rarely listened to him. But he had little time to gloat. She chuckled behind her hand.

“Sssh.” He stared sternly at her and she resumed her quiet posture, although her eyes were full of mischief.

The minx.

With only the whisper of the fire, the ticking of the clock on the mantel, and Kettle’s occasional whistling as a backdrop, Nicholas gave the sensual game all he was worth.

Within seconds, Poppy had her free hand in his hair. Thirty more seconds of well-timed teasing with his tongue, and he could only tell he’d brought her to pleasure by the way she arched her back and held herself suspended, which brought her sweetest flesh even closer to his mouth.

He gave one last plunge of his tongue into her womanly depths at the same time she was peaking, and only wished it were the length of him inside her.

But that would come another time. He felt determined it would be so.

She might not think she was marrying him, but blast it, if he had to marry to keep his job, there was only one woman who interested him whatsoever.

Poppy.

He might not love her, but she fascinated him. And he wouldn’t give up trying to win her until he had her lying naked on a rug somewhere in front of a fire and they were coming to completion together.

For now, he’d have to be satisfied with teaching her the art of love without his full participation.

She sank back down and let out one long, slow breath.

Gently, carefully, he pulled down her skirt and stood.

“That, my dear, is thrilled,” he said. “Every time you tell Sergei or his sister you’re thrilled to see them, please remember what thrilled really is, and remember you experienced it with me.”