Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

While the twins glared at each other, there came another urgent knock on the front door.

“Open up!” a masculine voice cried.

Poppy sat up straighter. It sounded vaguely like Nicholas. But not like the Nicholas she’d come to know. This voice sounded rude. Obnoxious.

There was a small ruckus in the hall—Kettle’s voice could be heard murmuring a hasty greeting—and a few seconds later, Nicholas pushed past the butler before he could announce him and strode into the room.

He looked wilder than she’d ever seen him.

“Why, it’s Lady Poppy Smith-Barnes and her noble father,” he said, his thumbs in the top of his breeches. “As well as her very good Russian friends.”

He bowed and sent a defiant smirk around the company. Then he pulled a flask out of his pocket and took a long draught.

Poppy was mortified. And confused. Very confused.

Lord Derby put up his quizzing glass. “Is that you, Drummond? In your cups?”

Sergei stood. “Perhaps you should come back another time, Drummond,” he said testily.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Nicholas arched a rude brow at him. “I suggest you sit and be quiet. Or leave. Both you and your sister. We’ve had enough of your ridiculous spats, haven’t we?”

Poppy jumped up. “What is wrong with you, Drummond?”

She threw him a desperate look. Don’t you remember you’re supposed to keep our Russian friends happy?

They could leave the country with their uncle’s painting.

He must remember.

But Nicholas didn’t seem to comprehend her meaning. He merely stared at her beneath lowered brows, his gray eyes stormier than she’d ever seen them.

“Yes, Drummond.” Lord Derby stood in a huff. “You don’t speak that way in my house to my guests. Now behave yourself, or leave.”

Natasha put her nose in the air. “I completely agree with Lord Derby. That’s no way to speak to—”

Sergei put a hand on her arm in a signal that she be quiet. Natasha scowled, but she did, thankfully, shut her mouth.

“We will stay.” Sergei’s whole manner was stiff when he sat back down. “But you must not forget—I am a Russian prince.”

“And I am a princess,” said Natasha, her chin in the air.

For goodness’ sake, Poppy thought. How many times were they going to remind everyone?

“I am master of this household,” Lord Derby said, “and I expect decorum on all sides.” He tossed a quelling glance at all their visitors, none of whom seemed intimidated in the least, especially Drummond, who leaned arrogantly against the pianoforte without permission.

Sergei began again. “I was about to inform Lady Poppy and her esteemed father that—”

“I’ll tell them,” Nicholas interrupted, and scratched his jaw rudely in front of the company. “Brace yourselves. You and all of London, actually. The princess and I are to marry.”

CHAPTER 38

A strong sensation of shock and fury coursed through Poppy’s frame even though she’d insisted from the very first time she’d met the duke that she wouldn’t marry him. In fact, she’d planned to end the betrothal in less than a week. Nevertheless, in the eyes of the world, they were betrothed, and from the looks of it, she’d just been royally cast off.

“What could you possibly mean, Drummond?” she demanded. “We’re engaged.”

“Yes, what’s this about, Your Grace?” Lord Derby, his face reddening, was on his feet again.

“I regret to inform you my first obligation is to the princess,” the duke said coolly. “She’s with child, and her guardian, Lord Howell, has made the claim”—he took another swig from his flask—“that I am the father.”

“You are the father, and you will pay.” Sergei jumped up again, his eyes flashing fire.

Poppy’s heart fell to her feet.

Lord Derby’s face was like granite. “I’d call you out, Drummond, if I thought I could kill you.” Poppy had never heard him so menacing.

“Don’t, Papa.” She put a hand on his arm. “Please.”

He took her hand and squeezed it. “I won’t, daughter. But it’s only because I know what he can do with a pistol. I don’t want you an orphan so young.”

Poppy’s thoughts were jumbled, and she felt hot and cold at the same time. She wished she could faint, but apparently she was too stoic to faint.

She’d been a fool. A complete and utter fool. But she wouldn’t dare show the world she was—

Brokenhearted.

Oh, God.

Was she really? Was this what a broken heart felt like? She’d trusted Nicholas with her body and allowed him to see into her soul and—

Become friends with him. More than friends.

She released Papa’s hand, stood, walked to the pianoforte, and slapped the Duke of Drummond across the cheek.

“Ouch,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw.

“I despise you, Nicholas Staunton,” she said between gritted teeth. “And I never want to see you again.”

Natasha said nothing, but Poppy saw her eyes light with amusement.

Nicholas shrugged and looked around the company. “What’s done is done.” He returned his gaze to Poppy. “I’ll go now. It’s obvious you’re not terribly … thrilled to have me here.”

She felt a stillness inside. For a split second, the veil lifted from his gaze. It became clear. Steady. She imagined she could see the old Nicholas. The true Nicholas. The one she’d come to care for.

“Demmed right we’re not thrilled!” Lord Derby pointed to the door. “Out with you, Drummond. I believe everyone should go, as a matter of fact.” He looked pointedly at Natasha and Sergei.

Natasha threw a smug look at Poppy, then went to Nicholas and tried to cling to his arm. But he dodged the maneuver by pushing off the pianoforte and taking another swig from his flask.

“Come, sister,” Sergei said. “And you, Drummond, if you know what’s good for you.”

Poppy blinked back tears. But before anyone could leave ahead of her, she turned on her heel and marched out.

Departing the drawing room before her uninvited guests seemed a paltry statement to make.

Tomorrow morning, she would leave Town instead.

CHAPTER 39

Nicholas sent word round to his three best friends, Lord Harry Traemore, Captain Arrow, and Viscount Lumley, to meet him at their club.

“So there’s no hope for you and Lady Poppy?” asked Captain Arrow, who was in Town for a fortnight’s shore leave.

“How could there be?” Nicholas shrugged. “She certainly doesn’t want me anymore. I’m a scoundrel.”

No one disagreed, he noticed.

But Lumley patted his back. “I’d hope for the best, old boy. Perhaps this Russian princess will be just as