Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

He groaned and captured her hand. “You’re killing me, Poppy.” He pulled her closer. “And you’re beautiful, you know. I want to take all your clothes off, too. But you’d regret this later.”

She thought of Sergei. And she thought about all her other suitors. She had no desire to see any of them naked. She would have closed her eyes (she actually did when Lord Washburn lost his breeches in that fountain during his proposal to her), but with Nicholas—

There was something about him that made a girl want to keep her eyes open.

“Please, Nicholas,” she begged him.

He was silent, brooding, staring into her eyes.

She could see the indecision there. “You told me nothing with you would be boring anymore. Remember?”

He gave a short laugh, and his expression relaxed. “All right, then. But we must be careful. Very careful.”

She couldn’t help it. She was so delighted, she kissed his chest, right over his heart. He smelled of man, a potent scent that made her heady with something—

Desire, she knew now. It happened when you could barely breathe and be sensible because you could think only about kissing and touching someone else.

“All we’re doing is disrobing.” She said it firmly and vowed to forget what Aunt Charlotte had said about the matter. “Hardly anything to worry about, particularly as it’s you and me. Think of all we’ve been through together already.”

She couldn’t help a little giggle as she removed her shoes and stockings. He did the same, and she marveled at the breadth of his shoulders when he removed his tailcoat.

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting we’re friends?”

“Yes.” She looked away a moment. He was so very handsome, she felt suddenly shy. “It’s quite something to think I’m friends with the wicked Duke of Drummond, isn’t it? But we’re friends only for the nonce. As soon as we get our clothes back on, we’ll go back to our usual arrangement.”

“Which is your vowing to get out of our betrothal, and my refusing to let you. And your insistence on helping with Operation Pink Lady, or else you’ll take matters into your own hands, which would no doubt spell disaster for me and the Service.’ ”

“Exactly,” she said. “We’re bound together by mutual blackmail.”

And a hearty appreciation for each other’s bodies.

She wouldn’t think about how much she appreciated his substantial qualities, the ones she and Aunt Charlotte had referenced in that talk they’d had over Papa’s apple tart.

Disrobing was actually quite a simple thing, Poppy convinced herself, and carefully undid a button on his waistcoat.

CHAPTER 29

“I’m not so sure your trust in my self-control is merited,” Nicholas said. He untied Poppy’s laces while she began work on his neckcloth.

They’d hardly anything to worry about, she’d said moments earlier.

Right?

Wrong.

Seeing her gown fall like a whisper at her feet brought home to him how deeply he was out of his element. For him, at least, this was suddenly about far more than sexual attraction. Her stays were next, and when she was released from them, completely nude, he was in awe of her beauty, of her vulnerability, of who she was—in a way he’d never been before with any other woman.

He ran a finger between her breasts and up to her chin, which she lifted proudly to him. Her eyes were filled with excitement and serenity—both at the same time. She grabbed his finger and kissed it softly.

Slowly.

That kiss reverberated deep within him. Somehow, feeling her lips on his skin was like connecting with himself again. He was home. For the first time in decades.

With her, he’d found a place to be.

Just be.

The wonder of it all left him speechless.

Naked as Eve, Poppy diligently worked to remove his shirt. Without a word, he helped her pull it over his head, enjoying the sight of her, flushed and pretty and so determined.

He crossed his arms over his chest and let her work on his trousers. She gave a little huff as she pulled down on both sides.

He chuckled.

She looked up, a bright gleam in her eyes, and laughed back. “They’re so tight.”

“Indeed. Tighter now than they were mere minutes ago.”

She paused in her efforts and blushed. “I noticed.”

He was glad she had. It satisfied a deep craving in him to have her admire him—in any way.

“I’m looking forward to this part,” she whispered.

“Good. So am I.”

In about fifteen seconds flat, they were both naked and kissing and most definitely in trouble. But Nicholas was too wrapped up in squeezing Poppy’s delicious bottom to care.

And she was sighing and pressed up close to him. He ran a hand down her flank, and she pulled back and looked at him with a resolute gaze. “From now on, I’m going to want to see you naked—and touch you naked— every time we’re together.”

She touched him shyly with her fingertips.

“Oh, God.” He groaned, and leaned his forehead on hers. “That’s impossible, but you’re quite adorable to say so.”

She reached up for another kiss, wrapping both her hands around his neck. Thank God those soft, feminine hands were away from the danger zone, he mused, and gave her a deep, sensuous kiss.

“Would you like to go on deck?” he asked her when they came up for air. “The ceiling’s a bit close in here. And we’ve got a moon out.”

“But what if someone sees?” she asked, brushing a curl off his forehead.

“No one will,” he said, somehow touched by the gesture. “We’ll look like a shadow from the shore.”

“I think it sounds like a marvelous idea.” She clambered up before him as if she climbed ladders naked every day, which only whetted his appetite for her further.

He’d seen plenty of naked women. Why did this one in particular drive him mad with lust and occupy his thoughts when he wasn’t with her?

He had no idea, and he wasn’t one for thinking deeply about the opposite sex.

Women, he knew, were trouble.

Best to keep things simple.

On deck he spied the jib sail hastily folded and squashed between the mast and the hatch cover. He spread it out on the cabin top, and they lay down together, folding the edges of the jib over their exposed flesh.

It was a cozy yet tantalizing shelter. He put his arm behind her head, and she pressed her hip tightly against him. Together, they looked up, beyond the gently swaying boom with its loosely furled sail, to the stars.

“Tonight is different from any other night I’ve ever had,” Poppy murmured. “When I saw my mother in that painting, it was like I woke up from a dream. Everything’s crisper now. Bolder.”

She looked at him and smiled.

It was hard for him to remember to breathe. She was gorgeous. Her hair, a dark, coppery forest, fell about her creamy shoulders and breasts. Her hip was an alabaster hill that sloped away to long, slender legs.

He leaned over her and kissed her, and while he did, he explored the soft depths of her most feminine flesh