Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

As he spoke, she stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. She was gorgeous, her lips deep red and her cheeks rosy. He’d satisfied her. He’d removed that awful, bleak look from her eyes, as well as that stiff, worried posture.

He felt good about that.

“I’ll go now,” he said, and kissed the top of her head. “Good night.”

“Good night, Nicholas,” she said softly.

Nicholas, he thought, happy to hear it. Not Drummond.

“Nicholas?” she called after him.

There was a heated silence between them.

“Don’t forget your cane,” she whispered.

“I won’t,” he said, his voice gruff. He was loath to leave her.

If Kettle were the nosy man she’d claimed he was, he would have already found the five-pound note and message Nicholas had left him inside the cane, with strict instructions that if he ever planned on serving as butler when Nicholas was a permanent member of the household, he’d best not question his integrity ever again. Although he could keep checking the cane whenever he felt like it, as it was an amusing temptation that might yield occasional rewards.

At the front door, Kettle handed him his hat, which Nicholas donned.

For a brief second, they both had their hands on the cane. Their eyes met in mutual understanding, and Kettle’s, he noted, even held a smidgeon of respect.

“Thank you, Kettle.” Nicholas slung the cane under his arm.

“Have a good night, Your Grace.”

“I’ll do my best.” It wouldn’t be easy, however. He’d be dreaming about Poppy’s trusting, vulnerable gaze all night.

CHAPTER 24

The day after her dinner party, Poppy woke up thinking about Nicholas, about his mouth—about what he’d done to her with his mouth. And then she thought of his eyes, their mysterious gray depths—their warm, sympathetic, and sometimes heated depths.

No wonder he was called an Impossible Bachelor.

He was too, too delicious a man to ever be thrown into a category as bland and all-encompassing as the list of eligible, unmarried gentlemen she presumed the patronesses at Almack’s kept at the door of that esteemed establishment to screen out lesser mortals.

He was far more interesting than the terms eligible and unmarried could convey.

Nicholas had encouraged her to believe in herself last night. Indeed, all evening he’d been a bulwark of support, lighting a fire beneath her unsurety so that she felt confident, a true hostess. Afterward in the library, he’d shown her a tender, considerate side that fascinated her … and made her want him even more.

Padding over to her window, she looked out at the London morning and sighed. Her legs wobbled again at the memory of what they’d done together. She pressed her mouth, her breasts, her belly against the windowpane. It was cold and hard—in sharp contrast to Nicholas’s mouth and hands.

She had an obsession with his mouth now. And his hands.

By God, and everything else about him, too.

She pulled back from the window and ran both her hands over her breasts, lingering over her nipples, and then ran her hands down her belly to that point between her legs where she’d found such pleasure with him.

And wished …

Wished.

She threw back her head and gave a soft moan of frustration. Nicholas had started a craving in her, a craving she needed him to fulfill.

She was to see him tonight. They were attending a rout at the Merriweathers’. All the furniture would be removed, the windows thrown open. London society would squeeze itself inside the house to make merry.

Surrounded by hundreds of people, she’d be squashed next to him, her breasts brushing his chest, her belly up against his belly. His mouth would be close to hers. He’d lean down, whisper, and perhaps at one point, they’d kiss, and while they did, he’d caress her hip, her back, and her breasts.

She’d—why, she’d be tempted to cup his hardness in her hand.

Would anyone even notice if she did?

It was a daring, thoroughly naughty thought that left her breathless and excited.

She watched with curiosity as a young messenger boy carrying a large, wrapped parcel crossed the street and headed to the front door of her home.

A moment later, a maid knocked on her bedchamber door.

“Something from Prince Sergei, miss,” she said and held out the parcel.

“Really,” she said, almost reluctant to take it.

But she did and shut the door behind her. She sat at her desk, tore open the note on top of it immediately, and read it.

Then reread it.

She let out a short laugh and clasped the note to her breast, amazed at how differently she saw the world now. This was the prince she remembered from St. Petersburg … but she was no longer the same girl.

The note was charming. Even romantic. He asked her forgiveness for insisting she involve herself with him in an illicit relationship—and for a chance to start over.

But it was also false. Oh, so false.

She wanted to be excited, and moved, and in love with him again, but she wasn’t. She could never be again. She was no longer in the bud of her youth, and she definitely wasn’t a fool.

The prince was all talk and no substance.

She didn’t trust him.

But she would accept his invitation.

He wanted her to attend a special gathering at his rented apartments. It was to be a masked dinner with a special surprise event to follow, culminating in the unveiling of the Revnik portrait at its conclusion, which he would reveal in her honor since she so wished to see it.

“Please come,” he wrote. “It is the only way I know to make up for my ungentlemanly actions.”

She made a face. Did he think her completely naïve?

Nevertheless, she would go. She had to see the portrait. It was reason enough for going.

But would she tell Nicholas?

She looked down at the tissue paper in the box. She still hadn’t opened it, but Sergei had asked her to wear the gown and mask he’d sent with his compliments. It was supposed to be a romantic gesture, but it did nothing but annoy her. It suggested he felt a sense of possession over her she’d already told him he had no right to have.

Now if Nicholas had sent her a gown, she would have loved it.

Why?

Was it because she enjoyed being possessed by him?

Yes, she had last night. But at the same time, with Nicholas, she sensed he respected her, had waited for the right time to assume that possession—he’d waited until he sensed she was ready, and wanted it.

Sergei, on the other hand, hadn’t taken her feelings into account at all.

She folded back the tissue paper and looked upon the dress with nothing beyond an objective admiration for the seamstress who’d sewn it. The gown was well made, a bit low in the bodice, but she wasn’t surprised. It was Sergei, after all, who’d ordered it.

He wasn’t that bright. His choice of gown revealed his intentions clearly.