Nicholas stood next to a table laden with bowls of caviar at the Lievens’ ball, Natasha hanging on his elbow. Finally, it was time to retrieve the painting. He’d endured several days of misery being cast into the role of Natasha’s beloved. He’d also spent several frustrating days of speculation, wondering about Groop and his odd behavior. He dared not ask the spymaster what he’d been up to, following his brother like that. He needed time to gather more information, and he must be subtle about it.
One way he’d tried was by casually mentioning Frank’s name to Groop. Just once. Interesting how the old man never acknowledged they’d met.
But why? What had Groop to hide?
“I’m so hungry,” Natasha whispered up to him with an alluring smile that did nothing but aggravate him. “Would you fix me a plate as I’m eating for two?”
Nicholas really hadn’t wanted to hear that at the moment. But what could he do other than endure? So he gritted his teeth and handed her a plate of caviar and toast points.
“Here you are”—he inhaled a deep breath—“my dearest darling.”
Natasha jerked her gaze back to his, her eyes alight with something fervent. “So,” she said breathlessly, “you
He put on his best besotted look. “I worship the ground you walk on. And I look forward to all the children you’ll bear me. I want to have ten.”
“Ten?” Natasha made a face.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Let me show you where we’ll live with our happy brood.”
And he pulled out the map of Lumley’s new estate. “The Orkney Islands, above Scotland. We shall be on the northernmost isle. I’ve already dubbed the house ‘Castle Natasha.’ It’s not a castle, really, more a humble abode, but we don’t need anything but love to survive, do we, my dear?”
Natasha sucked in a breath. “Over my dead body shall I move there.”
Nicholas chuckled. “Of course you shall.” He folded the map and put it back in his pocket. “It’s heaven on earth, even if it is a bit cold.”
He sniffed and looked about the room.
Natasha was staring at him as if she’d seen a ghost. “What about Seaward Hall?”
“I sold it,” he said. “I want to carry you even farther away, where I can have you all to myself. Oh, and did I tell you about the sheep? The corgis will herd them every day.”
“My corgis do not herd anything,” she said. “They’re too delicate, and they know nothing of herding.”
“It’s in their blood,” Nicholas said. “They’ll be outside, mucking about. No time for walks in prams.”
“I tell you—” Her voice had a dangerous edge to it.
Nicholas placed a finger over her mouth. “You’re simply gorgeous when you speak of your dogs,” he whispered. “In fact, I wrote you a poem. Shall I recite it?”
“Shut up,” Natasha said through gritted teeth. “I abhor your obsequious manner. You are the Duke of Drummond. You’re cold and haughty, like me.”
He shook his head. “That was a façade, my dear. All a façade. It came crumbling down”—he looked deep into her flat, dark eyes and felt his first bit of acting nerves—“when I, um, met you.”
The princess’s lip curled up in a sneer. “This is a massive joke,” she said. “You’re trying to rid yourself of me. Well, it shall never happen. You are mine.
And she flounced off.
Blast.
What was he to do now? He had a vision of the future—in it, he was buried up to the neck in corgis.
A bleak weariness settled over him.
“Hello, Duke.”
He turned around.
It was like sunshine had come out and blown away all the gray clouds. She was stunning tonight in a Grecian-style gown that made her look like Artemis, goddess of the hunt. She was also more beautiful—and intimidating—than he’d ever seen her.
He bowed. “Good evening, Lady Poppy.” He realized his tone was cold, but how else was he to act around the only woman in the world who’d made him think twice about staying a dangerous, aloof bachelor?
“Congratulations on your betrothal,” she said. “I wish you many years of happiness with the princess … and her dogs.”
Nicholas merely scowled. He could think of no reply suitable for her ears.
Poppy lifted her chin and moved past him, and he caught a whiff of her familiar, intoxicating scent.
He couldn’t think of her right now. He had to focus on his plan.
On his duty.
The dancing began, and Natasha returned to his side and insisted they participate. He’d never been more glum. Duty couldn’t be this. It couldn’t be dancing with a Russian princess who was glowering at you and stepping on your feet. Could it?
If it was, why was it sitting so heavily on his shoulders? Why could he not embrace it the way he always had before?
At one point, he was paired in a quadrille with Lady Beatrice.
She smiled at him. “Remember what I said, Drummond? If you’re worthy of Poppy, we’ll help you. The best way we can do that is to assure her you’re made of stern stuff and not Natasha’s toy. Prove us right.”
And then she was whisked away.
Ha.
He’d prove to the world he wasn’t Natasha’s toy, all right.
The next moment, he was joined in the dance by Lady Eleanor.
“Poppy’s a woman who knows her mind,” she said. “She’s loyal and steadfast and brave. I trust you’ll show her you’re the same.”
And then she was twirled into another man’s arms.
Nicholas wasn’t happy. He didn’t like his integrity questioned. But he must admit that Ladies Eleanor and Beatrice had a point. Tonight was the night he must take charge of his fate and not let it rest in the hands of Natasha or Groop.
He danced with his traitorous fiancée next.
Nicholas cleared his throat. “You’ve used my brother grievously to entrap me.”
Her eyes widened. “How can you believe anything Frank says?”
“And you’re a threat to Lady Poppy. What were you going to do once you put her in that barrel? Kill her?”
“That’s outrageous,” she sputtered.
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll play your game tonight, but no more. We’re not engaged nor shall we ever be.”
She opened her mouth to say something more, but then he spun her away … out of his arms.
And if he had anything to do with it, out of his life.
He watched Poppy now talking to someone on the other side of the ballroom. She knew he was to retrieve the painting tonight for the Service. Yet she didn’t appear to be bothered. She’d always wanted to assist him—she’d begged him, as a matter of fact.
He must find out the reason for her nonchalance.
Interrupting her conversation with an elderly widow, he said, “Lady Poppy, might I have a word?”
The elderly widow’s jaw dropped. “But aren’t you
“You’re correct,” said Poppy, “but unlike some people I know who simply
“What was that about?” he asked, dragging her away. “I take risks. All the time.”
“Is that so,” she said coolly, and wouldn’t look at him.
