Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right (17 page)

She jumped. “Drummond! You scared me!”

He laughed out loud, a hearty laugh that she’d never heard before. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. You were so absorbed in looking for someone. Who?”

“I don’t know. The housekeeper told me I’d recognize a familiar face on the left-hand side.”

“She must mean me,” he said, and pointed to a portrait of a small boy with a twinkle in his eye and a charming half-smile. One of his childish hands lay on top of the head of an adoring dog. The other held a lush, pink rose.

“That
is
you.” Poppy instantly recognized the restrained mischief in the boy’s stance and expression.

He was adorable. And sweet.

Now she cast a discreet glance at the man he’d become. The boy had grown up to become sinfully handsome, and that childish air of mischief about him had been replaced by a sense that he could be dangerous if provoked.

“Yes,” he said. “That is I. My godmother insisted on having me sit for a portrait when I was here one summer.”

“The summer you picked all the roses off her prize bush.”

“That’s right. You heard that story already?”

Poppy chuckled. “She told all of us when we first arrived and you were out seeing to Boris’s business.”

“Which came up short, not that I’m surprised this early in the watch.” He held out his arm. “May I continue the tour with you? We’re supposed to appear a happily betrothed couple, after all. And not simply happy—in love. A couple united after three, angst-filled years of being apart.”

He sighed, a most over-the-top sigh.

Damn the man. There went her Spinster freedom. And he was rude to keep bringing up the lavish tale of love she used to tell her suitors.

“Very well,” she bit out, more than a little dismayed that her plans for wandering about unencumbered had changed. “I’ve been directed to the east wing, primarily to the second floor to a room where Queen Elizabeth once stayed.”

He wrapped her hand in the crook of his arm. “Yes, we’ll stop and see that first.”

The Queen Room was vast and opulent, not a thing out of place and everything well dusted.

“The room hasn’t been used since,” said Drummond. “It’s rather a shrine. See over there?” He pointed to a beautiful dressing table. “There’s a comb on top. The queen either forgot it or left it as a memento of her visit.”

Poppy went over and stared at the comb. “That can’t be her hair.”

“It is,” said Drummond. “Can you believe it’s still there? Although for all we know, it could be the maid’s hair and they keep replacing it.”

Poppy laughed and looked about the room. “I must admit, it’s the perfect place for a queen to sleep.”

“And the perfect place for a man to steal a kiss,” Drummond said. “Especially on the queen’s bed.”

“No,” she said firmly, although her heart picked up its pace. “We can’t.”

But he pulled her down to the bed anyway, the rogue. She was pinned beneath him, and as indignant as she felt, she couldn’t help laughing with him.

Just as suddenly, they stopped.

She felt a sudden rush when she looked into his compelling gray eyes.

He bent low and teased her lips with his own. She let out a sigh and wrapped her arms around his neck. And then he kissed her, slow and sweet, his tongue playing with hers, his mouth hot on her own.

His jaw was pleasingly rough, and she could feel the restraint emanating from his body as he ignited something hot and fierce within her. She arched her back, pressing upward—

And then she remembered. He wasn’t kissing her just for the sweet pleasure of it, was he? This was a game to him. This was his way of trying to persuade her to be a docile fiancée, a female madly in love with the Duke of Drummond, and ultimately, a strategy designed to make her give up her Spinsterhood for a man she didn’t love. The man had her stocking in his pocket, the better to coerce her into his plans. And his plans were entirely self-serving.

Well, this was one woman who wasn’t so easily manipulated.

She pushed him away.

His eyes, which had been smoldering with an appealing heat, became inscrutable gray pools.

“Well,” he said dryly, standing up. “That certainly ended
that
.”

She stood up herself and smoothed her skirts. “It did, indeed.” Her heart was pounding, but she strove for the calm dignity of Queen Elizabeth. “Now, if you would be so good as to show me the rest of the east wing.”

Which he did. She saw gorgeous rooms, priceless paintings, statues that could have been in museums, and lovely views of the countryside from massive windows framed in rich velvets and damasks.

But she hardly noticed. She couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss on the queen’s bed.

Blast Drummond for getting under her skin.

When they walked back, he stopped and showed her a portrait of his parents as a newly married couple.

“Did your parents love each other?” Poppy dared to ask him, even though it was none of her business, she knew.

He nodded. “Very much. After my mother died—I was thirteen—my father was completely lost. But he remarried less than a year later.” He paused, his mouth thinning. “To a neighbor who took advantage of his vulnerability. She was a profligate spender and unfaithful, to boot. She also hated me and my brother. Probably because we made it very clear we hated her.”

His profile was beautiful, she thought. But there was an air of sadness about him that made her heart ache for him.

“How awful,” was all she knew to say.

He turned to face her. “What about your parents?”

She sighed, just thinking of the old days. “We were a happy family. Mama and Papa were very much in love. And then she died on my sixteenth birthday—of smallpox. We think she got it in our last days in Russia.”

He lifted up her chin. “Are you all right? It hasn’t been nearly as long for you as it has been for me.”

She nodded, even though she felt shaky. “I’m all right. But not Papa. It’s as if he died, too. That’s why I’m”—she hesitated—“not happy.”

Oh, God. She still wasn’t, was she?

Being away from her house and her daily life, it was so much easier to see things clearly. How could she be happy when her father was so grief-stricken that he no longer had dinners with her and hardly ever laughed?

Drummond’s gaze was concerned. “I’m sorry. And to have that happen on your birthday, of all days.”

Poppy swallowed hard. Her heart’s steady rhythm increased, became irregular. “Me, too,” she whispered.

He pulled her forward. “Time to go,” he said, and led her back to the middle wing of the house.

She wouldn’t tell him, of course, that today
was
her birthday.

She was twenty-one.

CHAPTER 19

Duty over love. It was as simple as that. Nicholas drank his wine and ate his dinner at Lord and Lady Caldwell’s with that simple fact uppermost in his thoughts. It helped assuage the guilt he felt at marrying Poppy for convenience’s sake.

Lord and Lady Caldwell had married for love. So had
his
parents.

But they hadn’t been in the Service. He was. He’d chosen a different life, and with it came different choices.

Still … he couldn’t deny the sick feeling he had every time he saw Lady Caldwell observe Poppy at the table with that look—the assessing look families typically give newcomers. Lady Caldwell was imagining Poppy as his future bride, as his beloved mate, and she appeared pleased at the idea.

Nicholas knew he shouldn’t feel guilty. But it was difficult to believe he’d made the right choice when he was in the presence of so much love and warmth, which was made most evident when Lord and Lady Caldwell told everyone proudly about their three children and their numerous grandchildren.

Even though he knew he was related to them, he was envious—their original little family was whole and happy and getting bigger every year.

He thought of Frank, his only close relative. And then told himself not to think of him. It was too depressing.

So was the situation with the Russian princess. At the beginning of the meal, Natasha had given Nicholas a meaningful look. “I switched your place card so you’d be seated next to me,” she’d whispered in his ear.

“Did you?” He’d tried to keep his tone neutral and his face impassive. Now that he was working on Operation Pink Lady, he couldn’t afford to antagonize her or ignore her.

And he’d discreetly moved his knee away from her roving hand, although she’d taken every opportunity during the meal to lean close to him, to place a hand on his arm, to press her hip next to his.

He had no one to blame but himself. He only hoped no one else noticed Natasha’s overtures. It seemed rather impossible not to.

But equally as embarrassing was Sergei’s extreme attentiveness to Poppy. Nicholas watched as the prince whispered something in Poppy’s ear. She gave a light laugh that sounded rather like choking.

“Prince Sergei.” Nicholas didn’t bother to be overly pleasant. “Do share with us the observation that has caused Lady Poppy some amusement.”

The prince lowered his wineglass to the table. “I asked if she were enjoying her birthday.”

A wave of shock went through Nicholas. He’d just been talking with Poppy about her birthday—Lady Derby had died on that day. He’d no idea at the time, of course, that today was—

Oh, God. Poor girl.

And she’d simply walked on with him and acted as if nothing were slightly wrong. And sad.

“Birthday?” Mrs. Travers asked. “How old are you, dear?”

“Twenty-one.” Poppy smiled, but Nicholas could see she was working very hard to be cheerful.

“You’re practically a spinster,” said Natasha with a smug smile. “How fortunate Drummond has saved you from such a fate.”

“How did you know about her birthday, Prince?” asked Mrs. Travers.

Sergei stared daggers at her.

Poppy cleared her throat. “Before dinner, I was reading a lovely note my aunt had slipped into my reticule. The prince, um, saw it, as well.”

Mrs. Travers put a hand on her breast and looked at Sergei. “You looked over her shoulder?”

He arched a brow. “Your point eludes me, madam. I am a Russian prince, you know.”

Nicholas wanted to roll his eyes.

Lady Caldwell, ever the hostess, clasped her hands together and smiled. “We have a tradition in our home on birthdays,” she said. “Everyone must dance.”

Thank God. Nicholas wasn’t terribly fond of dancing, but anything to get away from the tension at the table.

Rather than use the ballroom, Lady Caldwell decided they’d do better adjourning to the sitting room, where a few footmen pushed back the furniture and rugs to create a dance floor.

Lady Caldwell sat down to play the pianoforte, but Mrs. Travers insisted on taking her place.

“A waltz, then, Mrs. Travers, to be opened by our newly betrothed couple,” Lady Caldwell said with a great deal of affectionate anticipation. Lord Caldwell put his arm around her waist and pulled her close.

When Nicholas spun Poppy about the floor, he held her hand lightly. But he was enchanted by how soft and delicate it was and by how her long, graceful fingers looped confidently over his. And touching her waist was enough to send his thoughts to places they shouldn’t go—not with his godmother looking on.

It was refreshing to dance with a girl who had no come-hither expression, who didn’t smile seductively and bat her lashes. Poppy’s gaze was direct and clear as they met the tempo together with no hesitation.

She was pure grace.

He’d never enjoyed a waltz more.

“Felicitations on your birthday,” he said into her ear.

She smiled. “Thank you.”

He squeezed her hand. “This day, as happy as it should be, must be difficult for you.”

She lifted her shoulders. “It gets a little easier each year.”

“I wish you’d told me,” he said.

“Why?” Her forehead puckered.

He sighed. “Because you shouldn’t go through it alone.”

She bit her lip. “Even Aunt Charlotte, as kind as her note was, won’t bring up the connection between my mother’s death and my birthday. It’s a small thing, but yes.” She smiled again. “It’s much nicer not to bear it alone. Thank you.”

“Your mother would like you to dance on your birthday,” he said. “Every year, from now on, you should. I’ll make sure of it.”

She laughed. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. I do love to dance. Although—”

“Although what?” He loved having her in his arms and found himself getting lost in her eyes again.

She arched one brow. “Although we shan’t be together on my next birthday,” she reminded him with a puckish smile. “Or any of them thereafter.”

He looked around at the others and then back at her. “That’s what
you
think. But let’s not worry about that now.” He paused in the dance but kept her hand in his. “Is there a fiddler in the house?” he asked the room, and winked at Lady Caldwell.