Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

an alcove, and the painting. If she could just get through this crowd of people, geese, and dogs, she’d be home- free.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Nicholas ignoring the servants with trays and heading toward the stairs himself.

She must beat him.

She kept walking—faster.

It’s now or never, she told herself when she reached the lowest stair, and sprinted up them. Silently, she sped down the corridor. The footmen had left their posts and were attempting to restore order in the ballroom.

Just as Count Lieven had said over tea, the painting was positioned in an alcove under a window. It rested on an easel and was draped in a red silk cloth.

She’d have to take it down the servants’ stairs and out the back way.

When she picked up the frame, Poppy had never been more nervous or excited. Goodness, it was heavy! Heavier than she’d thought it would be. And the blasted drape was sliding off and catching under her feet.

“Stop right there,” a low, menacing voice said behind her.

But it didn’t scare her. How could it? It was only Nicholas.

She stole a quick glance at him. “No,” she insisted. “I’ve no time, and you had best go away and look for that document. Don’t you care that Groop’s your uncle?”

But he didn’t, the bounder. At least not at the moment.

Instead, he grabbed the painting from her arms. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She tried to rip it out of his hands, but he was too strong for her. And then he held the large rectangle over his head.

“I’m stealing it,” she whispered loudly, and leaped to get it.

He held it higher. “You can’t steal this.”

“Most certainly I can. It’s mine.”

“I’m stealing it,” he said, and moved toward the stairs. “For you, you minx, not the Service, so please get out of my way.”

“Oh, no, you’re not.” She gave one more mighty leap and still fell short of the painting’s edge. “Wait. What did you say?”

“I quit the Service. I’m stealing this for you.”

“You did? You are?”

“Yes. And I don’t give a rat’s arse at the moment that Groop’s my uncle, although you were quite clever to try to throw me off like that. You’re all that matters to me, you saucy Spinster, you.”

“Really?” It felt as if her whole world lit up.

They both heard a movement on the stairs and locked gazes.

“Hurry,” he said. “To the curtains.”

Quickly, he put the painting back on the easel. Poppy adjusted the red silk drape over the portrait, and they ran to the curtains.

She pressed against Nicholas’s body and closed her eyes, not because she was afraid—but because she was so glad to be near him again, to be inhaling his man scent, to be leaning on his strong chest.

“What do you think we should do?” whined one footman, clomping up the stairs.

“I dunno,” said another. “It’s pandemonium. If we bring it out now, we might drop it.”

“Or a damned goose will nip it.”

Poppy looked up into Nicholas’s eyes. They were full of mirth. She stifled a giggle with her hand.

But just as suddenly, his mysterious gray eyes—which she’d come to adore—softened.

“I love you,” he mouthed.

The two footmen went back and forth, discussing the merits of taking the portrait to the ballroom now versus taking it later, when things had calmed down.

Poppy tried to convey hope in her gaze to Nicholas. She hoped the footmen would leave. She hoped she and Nicholas could grab the painting and leave themselves.

She hoped …

They could have a happy ending.

Was it too much to ask?

He leaned down and kissed her. A quick kiss, but it said much. He knew her. He knew her better than anyone, and when she kissed him back, she was saying she knew him better than anyone, too.

And they were meant to be together.

Forever.

“I love you, too,” she mouthed silently.

Nicholas held her close and pressed a lingering kiss on top of her head. She took comfort in the beating of his heart.

* * *

The footmen decided to leave the painting for the time being and return to the chaos in the ballroom.

Thank God, Nicholas thought.

As the thunk of footsteps disappeared, he squeezed Poppy’s elbow. “Let’s be quick about it,” he whispered.

“Right,” said Poppy.

They’d steal the painting together. Neither one said so out loud, but that moment behind the curtains clearly sealed the bond he’d been denying.

Love wasn’t exactly a convenient thing to have happen at the moment, Nicholas realized. But it was there, big, warm, and new—but a fact of his being, as natural a part of him as breathing.

Not that he could think about love right now. Or the shocking news about Groop. Or his own unexpected reduction in title back to Lord Maxwell (which didn’t bother him in the slightest).

There was a painting to be stolen.

Recovered, he amended.

Poppy ran to the servants’ stairs. “Over here,” she called softly.

They began the descent and went only five steps before they heard two voices from below—maids who were in hysterics, being yelled at by someone to get brooms—and they were coming upstairs.

The rightness of their purpose gave Nicholas an extra boost of resolution. “We’ll simply take it out the front door.”

Poppy’s eyes grew wide. “We have no choice, do we?”

“Who’d even notice?”

He turned the draped portrait sideways and grabbed the upper front corner. Poppy took the lower rear corner.

And they walked down the front stairs with it.

No one seemed to care. Or notice. The geese and dogs were causing too much disruption. Sergei and Natasha were red-faced and upset. Eleanor and Beatrice were nowhere to be seen, but a large crowd was still looking for the ring, their heads bent to scan the ballroom floor.

The orchestra played another waltz to which only one couple danced, Eversly and the sweet girl Poppy had seen him with earlier.

No one stood at the front door of the ballroom to see Nicholas and Poppy out. It was flung open, and an elderly couple were taking their leave, talking loudly of the geese’s honking. Nicholas allowed them to go first, and he and Poppy were right behind them when Nicholas felt a jerk on the painting.

“Heavens,” said Poppy from behind him. “Do let go of my gown, Boris!”

And then Boris saw Nicholas. He yapped and bounded up to him, hugged him on the leg, and refused to let go.

“This dog is evil,” Nicholas said, three feet from the front door.

“He’s in love with you.” Poppy couldn’t help giggling. “The way the gander is with Sergei.”

“Very funny,” Nicholas said dryly.

Into complete silence.