Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

As he approached Lady Poppy, her eyes, a dazzling emerald color, grew larger and larger. Prince Sergei cast a careless glance at him, as if he were nothing more than a fly to be swatted away once he came close enough to be a genuine nuisance.

Nicholas felt an instant dislike for the man.

“Nicky!” A feminine arm reached out from the crowd of dancers and stopped him.

Blast. It was Natasha. He saw the bracelet he’d bought for her dangling from her wrist.

“Do you always ignore royalty?” she asked him peevishly.

He suppressed his impatience and kissed her fingers. “Hello, Your Highness. I’m sorry I missed you.”

“I’m thirsty,” she said, like a small child.

Right. He was meant to get her a drink, but she was surrounded by perfectly respectable gentlemen who’d be willing to get her some lemonade.

“I’m sure Lord Crowley or Sir Benjamin would be happy to oblige.” He moved on, ignoring the princess’s loud sigh.

But his efforts to disentangle himself came too late. Lady Poppy had disappeared.

CHAPTER 5

Poppy thanked God she had a strong constitution. Her momentary dizziness had been almost instantly replaced by a strong survival instinct—

To flee.

She gave Prince Sergei a flimsy excuse—her hem had come down—and left him before he’d had a chance to reply.

“Lady Poppy!” Lord Cranston called to her. He’d been the first suitor to have proposed to her at Vauxhall. “Your duke is here.”

“Yes, we shall finally meet him,” said the gentleman next to him, Sir Gordon, who’d proposed to her at the haberdasher’s.

And straight ahead she saw Lord Winsbury and Lord Beech, the Corinthians who’d proposed to her on horseback. And to their left was the pompous Marquess of Stansbury, who’d proposed to her over tea in her drawing room.

She pretended not to hear either Lord Cranston or Sir Gordon, and she must steer clear of Lords Winsbury and Beech and the Marquess of Stansbury. In fact, she must leave the ball immediately.

But the stairs to the front hall were blocked by a cluster of four more of her old suitors—Lord Greenwood, Sir Jared, Baron Hall, and Lord Nottingham—all of whom were staring avidly at the Duke of Drummond and searching the ballroom—

For her, no doubt.

Fear was a new thing for Poppy. She despised it. It took all enjoyment away. She was tempted to cry, but she threw off that idea and put on her most neutral expression instead.

Beatrice and Eleanor came up to her, their brows smooth but their eyes alight with surprise and concern.

Eleanor laid a hand on Poppy’s arm. “We don’t understand what’s going on with this duke who calls himself Drummond. We thought he wasn’t real.”

“I thought so, too,” Poppy said in an anguished whisper. “I’m done listening to Cook. She tells tales—tales that are supposed to be tales but they’re true.”

“Too true,” said Beatrice with a shudder, looking over her shoulder, presumably for the Duke of Drummond. “So they’re not tales, after all.”

“But Cook pretends they are.” Eleanor nodded.

“Which is telling tales, isn’t it?” Poppy hissed.

“No matter,” said Beatrice, all business. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“The only way out without attracting notice is through the gardens,” Eleanor whispered.

“So I’ve surmised,” Poppy said. “I was heading there now.”

She’d sneak round to the front of the house and call a hackney, or if she were unable to, walk home. It was only two streets over.

“I’ll clear a way.” Beatrice did her best to find the path of least resistance toward the terrace.

They were almost to the double doors to the garden, which were flung wide open, when a large figure planted itself in front of the trio and blocked their way.

Lord Washburn. He’d been the one to have no breeches on when he’d proposed to her. He’d lost them in a drunken fight that had taken place in the basin of a fountain.

“We must talk, you and I,” he said to Poppy.

“I can’t.” She didn’t like the look in his eyes. He appeared drunk. Angry. Worthy of the reputation he had of being rather volatile.

“No, she can’t, Washburn,” said Beatrice breezily. “She’s ill.”

Eleanor gave him a stern look. “Please get out of our way.”

“I must ask a burning question first,” Washburn insisted. “The Duke of Drummond is here tonight, Lady Poppy. Yet you’re nowhere near him.”

She hesitated but a moment, not sure what to say, but it was enough of a pause for Lord Washburn.

“Ah.” He nodded his head sagely. “I see how it is.”

“No, you can’t possibly,” Poppy said.

He gripped her wrist. “He’s dishonored you. Cast you off.” His face was beet red. “How dare he.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Washburn,” said Beatrice.

“And let go of her wrist.” Eleanor hit his arm with her reticule.

“Yes, Washburn,” Poppy said, “I’m not a child.”

“Fine, then.” Washburn glowered and dropped Poppy’s arm. “But you’re hiding something, my lady.”

Poppy inched closer to him. “My personal affairs are none of your concern,” she whispered, “but as you’re being quite vocal in your curiosity, I shall give you a short explanation. Drummond is simply busy this evening. As am I. We’ll meet on another day to discuss, um, our impending nuptials.” She made a move to the left, but Washburn cut her off again, his eyes blazing.

“You’re too good for him,” he said. “Duke or no duke, how could any man of breeding ignore you?”

She forced herself to smile, although she would have preferred to push past him and run. “That’s very kind of you to say, but my friends and I really must be going.”

He ignored her, turned, and called, “Drummond!”

Unfortunately into a lull. One of those rare lulls at a ball where the musicians are in the process of lifting their violins once more to their chins, when the women are taking another breath to gossip, and the men, to share information about their latest equine purchase at Tattersall’s.

The moment of stillness passed as quickly as it came, but there was no time to lose. Beatrice and Eleanor both elbowed Washburn in the side. Poppy managed to get in front of him, but he grabbed her arm. She twisted hard, kicked his ankle—“Ow!” he cried—and escaped.

Right into the path of the Duke of Drummond, who now stood before her, his face set in hard, unyielding lines, although she caught a glimmer of curiosity, and perhaps even amusement, in his eye.

“I’ll be glad to take you where you want to go, Lady Poppy,” he said in a dangerous voice that made her heart slam against her chest.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she responded, her chin in the air.

He knew, didn’t he? He knew she’d been pretending to be engaged to him for three years … that she’d been pretending to be madly in love with him, as a matter of fact.

Blast.

Whatever was about to happen next couldn’t possibly be good.