Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

gave him a smoldering look then, and he knew she was thinking of their sensual play of the evening before. Or attempting to get him to think of it.

She bit her lip.

He sat down on the bed next to her and shackled her slender wrists with his fingers. “Tell me truthfully what happened,” he said. His voice was firm. But fairly gentle, for a man with a sore head, a growing suspicion, and an unfulfilled, hot carnal need.

She lowered her eyes.

“Natasha?”

“All right.” She looked up, her tone defiant. “I took liberties last night. I added something to the brandy because I wanted you to stay. Is that too much to ask?”

Bloody well it was too much to ask. “Do you often drug men who take you home?”

She refused to answer.

He turned her chin toward him. “Tell me.”

She shrugged. “It’s a habit of mine. I find it rather titillating.”

Looking into her lovely face, marred by a petulant expression, Nicholas saw how stupid he’d been to give in to temptation. He rarely made such careless mistakes. In fact, he wondered if he was losing his touch.

He’d known after one conversation with her at Gunter’s, where he’d followed her one day last week, that she’d no political on-dits of any import to offer, not even a morsel or two about her famous uncle Revnik or her twin brother, Prince Sergei.

Yet when Nicholas had run into her at a musicale later that evening, he’d come back with her afterward to Lord and Lady Howell’s residence, sneaking into her bedchamber through her balcony—out of sheer boredom.

He’d been back twice, which said a great deal about his mindset these days. He was in a rut, well before he should have sunk into one, by his appraisal. Ruts were for men over thirty.

He released Natasha’s wrists and stood. “Today we say good-bye.”

She sniffed. “You’ve no heart, Nicholas.”

“Consider yourself lucky for having found out so quickly.” He arched a warning brow. “You could’ve killed me, you know—me or one of your precious corgis. A few licks out of a tipped-over glass might be enough to do a doggie in.”

He could tell by the way the young widow’s eyes widened that she hadn’t thought that far. She was impulsive and, for all her sophistication, not very bright.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “Boris and company appear none the worse for wear this morning. But here’s a bit of advice: don’t drug the men you bring back to your bed. It’s bad form. And in your case, bad politics.”

He’d learned through experience that no woman likes a man to leave her bed whistling, so he closed the door with his usual somber expression on his face. This time it wasn’t faked. He did feel somber. It had been a near miss.

But when his champagne-buffed boots hit the pavement outside Lord and Lady Howell’s Mayfair town home, Nicholas couldn’t help but be restored to good humor. It was a gorgeous day, and he already knew just the expensive bauble he’d buy to soothe Natasha’s wounded pride, a bracelet she’d admired at an exclusive shop yesterday.

It was a small price to pay for his folly.

* * *

A few hours later, his pockets considerably lightened, Nicholas went to a meeting with Groop.

But he wasn’t his attorney. Far from it. The man was actually a spy chief in the clandestine branch of the government fondly known by its employees as the Service.

“Your IF is long overdue,” Groop told Nicholas in his thin, reedy voice. His cravats were always perfectly folded and his coats cut by Weston. His natural sartorial elegance called attention away from his long face and beady eyes. “You shall marry for King and country.”

“The King is quite mad, thank you,” said Nicholas. “And I still don’t see why marriage has to be my Inevitable Fate any time soon.”

The Service was fond of abbreviating terms. It lent an air of elitism to the whole profession, but certain codes—especially the more melodramatic ones—drove Nicholas a bit mad himself.

Groop arched a brow. “The higher-ups believe your new title will thrust you into a whole new realm of desirability among the ton’s matchmaking population.”

“I haven’t told anyone my new title, save for three very close friends. They and a few government hacks at Whitehall are aware of it, but men don’t tend to talk, especially about little-known dukedoms that carry no influence.”

“Nevertheless, everyone in the social world will soon know, and no one will care that your father made no ripples in Town. A duke’s a duke.”

“But—”

Groop put up a hand. “Prinny’s come out with a new directive. He’s cut short your year of mourning and has included you in his new crop of Impossible Bachelors. The list comes out any day, and you and your new title are on it.”

“Good God. Nothing’s as desirable as the unattainable. Every girl and her mother will be trying to win me over—damn Prinny’s hide.”

“It’s entirely too much attention you don’t need,” Groop agreed smoothly. “Therefore, you must slide into a dull, proper, entirely respectable engagement immediately. You’ll make your first contact this evening at the Grangerford ball.”

“This evening?” Nicholas sputtered. “With whom, may I ask? You know I avoid anyplace young, insipid debutantes tend to gather. Finding a bride will take some time in a gambling den. Or at Madame Boingo’s Palladium Show. I’ll have to take you, Groop. She dresses in nothing but feathers.”

“Not to worry, Your Grace. We’ve already chosen you a suitable candidate in a satisfactory quid pro quo arrangement. The girl’s father unknowingly hired one of our own Service employees who does private detective work. It seems this particular earl was looking for you.”

“Me?”

“Every one of his daughter’s rejected suitors has said she claims she’s on the verge of a betrothal to you. Of course, until she mentioned your title, not a one of them had ever heard of it, nor are they aware you’re in current possession of it. As far as they’re concerned, Lady Poppy has been carrying a torch for a wicked, mysterious, faraway lover for three years.”

Nicholas gave a short bark of laughter. “Absurd.”

“Your esteemed colleague discovered that you and the subject of his search were one and the same person. I’ve put the information to great use, as you will soon see. Here’s the girl’s name.”

He shoved a scrap of paper across the desk.

Nicholas almost swallowed his cheroot, but he leaned forward anyway, feeling a faint curiosity about this so- called candidate. “Lord Derby’s daughter?” he said after a quick glance. “He’s a high stickler, and no doubt she’s a milk-and-water miss. I prefer a red-cheeked hussy or no one.”

“We could find no red-cheeked hussies among London’s Upper Ten Thousand, Your Grace.”

“God knows you tried.” One of his small joys in life was teasing Groop.

“Your goal is to become an afterthought in the minds of the ton,” Groop reminded him, as usual ignoring all of Nicholas’s attempts to bait him. “Lady Poppy Smith-Barnes is almost on the shelf. We took a gamble, brought Lord Derby in, and told him of your connections to the Service.”

“I hate when you do that. I want to work a long time, not be a flash in the pan. I’m aiming for the wall of unsung heroes, you see. I plan to be front and center.”

“Right,” Groop said dryly.

Groop had one serious shortcoming. He still couldn’t tell when Nicholas was being serious—and Nicholas was very serious about that wall.

Of course, Nicholas liked keeping Groop guessing. He didn’t need anyone to get close.

Close was reserved for his favorite horse, Fritz (who was now twenty-five and stabled at Seaward Hall), and his good friends, Lord and Lady Harry Traemore, Viscount Charles Lumley, and Captain Stephen Arrow of the British Royal Navy.