Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right (6 page)

She trailed off and looked back at Nicholas.

“We’re madly in love,” he said, taking her hand in his own. Then he gazed into her eyes and put on his best besotted grin. “Why, she’s my sunrise. And my sunset. She’s my everything.” He let out a long sigh. “And what am I to you, dearest darling?”

“I can think of no words,” she gritted out. “None at all.”

“That’s quite all right,” he said, with an understanding smile. “Love has made you speechless.” He grabbed Lady Poppy’s hand and winked.

“Just nod at the appropriate moment,” he whispered to her, then cleared his throat and said the words he had hoped he wouldn’t have to say for years to come. “Lady Poppy Smith-Barnes, will you be my wife?”

*   *   *

Poppy took in the large crowd gathered around her, Princess Natasha and Aunt Charlotte among them. She could hear everything, too—a tiny gasp from Beatrice, the random screech of a violin bow accidentally rubbed against a violin string, the cough of a gentleman behind her—and especially the pounding of her own heart in her ears.

The Duke of Drummond was proposing to
her
—after mouthing all sorts of sweet nothings to her?

Sweet nothings that had made her want to gag, incidentally, and box his ears—because they’d been entirely false. Somehow—

He’d found out.

She wished she were dreaming. She wished she could go back to her waltz with Sergei, where everything had seemed perfect. Surreptitiously, she pinched her thigh through her gown to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

Her heart sank. Nothing changed. Drummond was still there on bended knee, staring at her with that smarmy look that made her want to slap him across that freshly shaven cheek of his.

Papa (how had he found out?), Sergei, her best friends, Aunt Charlotte, even Natasha … all of them were waiting.

This was really happening. But Poppy had no idea how. Or why. Cook had made those stories up. Hadn’t she? And even if the duke were real—why would he be proposing? She had no time to think on the matter. He needed an answer, obviously.

Right now
.

“I—” She knew she should say yes. All her suitors would not only
not
scoff at her—they would commend her for staying faithful to her supposedly one true love, who happened to be extremely eligible. She’d be a duchess and married to a man so handsome that just looking at him sideways took her breath away. She couldn’t even
describe
what happened to her when she looked at him head-on, when her eyes locked on to his unfathomable gray ones.

But she was a Spinster. She would marry only for love.

She straightened her spine, prepared to say no as graciously as possible—no matter the consequences. Eleanor, Beatrice, and Aunt Charlotte would support her.

“Yes!” shouted someone from the stairs.

Poppy looked up.

It was Prinny—he’d arrived late, and was carrying his usual open bottle of wine. “Is that Drummond on bended knee?” he cried.

“Yes, Your Highness,” the wily duke called up to him. “I’m proposing to a young lady.”

Prinny laughed. “She says yes, yes,
yes
! She’ll have you, Drummond, and it shall be the wedding of the Season! Shan’t it, everyone?”

“Yes!” replied the crowd. And broke into wild applause. “Yes, yes!”

Poppy blinked.

Drummond stood and tugged her close.

And then he kissed her. Thoroughly. A possessive, sensual kiss that sent shocking tingles to her toes. She had no time to think when she finally managed to pull her head back. She could only feel. And what she felt was rage.

Hot, burning rage.

Her hand itched to slap him. But she couldn’t. She was supposed to be in love with him.

Damn the man.

“You never said yes,” he said into her ear. “But don’t get any ideas. I’ll be one step ahead of you.”

That was exactly the kind of rude statement the wicked, unscrupulous Duke of Drummond would make to an unsuspecting girl.

And then he had the temerity to raise her fingers to his lips for another kiss. The crowd went wild; everyone, that is, except Sergei, Natasha, and of course, Eleanor, Beatrice, and Aunt Charlotte. She swung around to see them, to gain strength from their indignation.

Sure enough, her dear friends and aunt stood frozen like statues and staring at her and Drummond together—

With silly grins on their faces.

What were they thinking?

The Spinsters were in crisis. One of them had been entrapped!

Poppy had never felt so alone in her life. She pretended to smile graciously at the duke. “I don’t know what you’re about,” she murmured for his ears only. “But hell will freeze over before I marry
you
.”

“I shall explain the situation further tomorrow”—his voice was unperturbed—“when I arrive at your house for dinner at seven o’clock.”

“But I’ll be out tomorrow night. I’ve a musicale to attend—”

“You won’t be attending any musicale,” he said. “You’ll be waiting in your drawing room for me,
if
you know what’s best for you,” he added silkily, and held her hand up high, to the crowd’s delight.

She almost gasped. How dare he tell her what to do? And hold her hand aloft as if she were a trophy?

He left her side to accept congratulations from Prinny and all her former suitors, and she simpered for the company, accepting her own felicitations—but inside, she was livid. Absolutely livid.

This man was
not
going to get the best of her.

She was saving
that
for Sergei.

CHAPTER 7

Victory.

Nicholas tried not to savor it too much, as his prize despised him, but he couldn’t help feeling a little bit triumphant.

He’d never had his hand wrung so hard—never heard so many men say in awed tones, “You must be something extraordinary,” or “How did you manage it?” or from one fellow, a tear trickling down his cheek and a mumbled, “Take good care of her, will you?”

He felt as if he’d won Helen of Troy—and perhaps he had.

He looked over at Lady Poppy and she was glorious in her suppressed fury, so untouchable and fierce that if someone had brought him enough wood to build a gargantuan wooden horse for her at that moment, he might just have done it.

“Take her home, Drummond,” Lord Derby told him after the hubbub had died down slightly, which meant only that Nicholas was receiving a slap on the back or a cheroot stuffed in his pocket on an average of every twenty seconds versus every ten.

“But Papa!” Lady Poppy grabbed her father’s arm.

He gently but firmly pushed her hand off. “No ifs, ands, or buts, my dear. You’re an engaged woman now, and your fiancé shall escort you home with my permission, which I give freely.”

“No,” she interrupted.

“And if you don’t marry him,” Lord Derby went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “I’ll cut you off without a farthing.” He speared her with a look. “Don’t think I don’t mean it because I do. I swear upon your mother’s grave.”

“Ssssh, Papa!” Poppy looked around them. “How could you say such a thing? That’s not like you!”

He shook his head. “I don’t feel a bit guilty. When you turned down a perfectly acceptable match like Eversly, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. You’re fortunate Drummond is willing to take you on. As far as I’m concerned, your days as a spinster are
over
.”

Lord Derby calmly kissed Poppy’s brow. She was apparently so incensed and shocked, she let him.

Nicholas held out his arm, and slowly, reluctantly, she took it.

“Don’t say a word,” she muttered, as he escorted her through the crowds.

He was doing his best to be a gracious winner, so he had no trouble complying. She’d had a severe shock, coupled with a blistering scold from her father. He’d be happy to grant her a few moments of silence.

But a few minutes later, ensconced in his comfortable carriage, she was ready to spar. She sat opposite him, her eyes flashing. “What was that proposal about?” she demanded. “You don’t even
know
me.”

“You’re the one who’s been using my name for three years to fob off your other suitors,” he said, refusing to be ruffled. “Isn’t this marriage what you want?”

“Huh,” was all she said.

The vehicle turned a corner sharply, and she shifted her gaze away from his to the window. He studied the curve of her jaw and the white planes of her shoulders, exposed in the folds of her shawl. She was gorgeous. And oblivious to the danger she presented to him and every other man who encountered her.

Perhaps he’d enjoy begetting those children with her.

She turned to look at him, her mouth pursed in an attractive pout. “You’re up to something havey-cavey. No doubt you need money, and I’m a convenient source. But I sense you’ve other reasons for proposing. I’ve good instincts.”

“Not as good as mine.”

“You can’t know that.”

“My instincts tell me they are.”

“How can your instincts tell you your instincts are better?”

“Easily,” he said. “Anyone with good instincts would understand.” He gave her his best diabolical smile. “But as for your assessment, dukes always need wealthy wives to prop up the properties and to beget future dukes. Why not choose a wife who’s been pining after you?”

“I have not been pining. Besides, even if I had been—which I repeat I have
not
—your reasons go beyond that.”

“Your instincts are good.”

She sucked in a breath. “I knew it.”

“I do need a wife quickly, and for more than financial security,” he said, not apologetic in the least. “I’m not at liberty to explain why. But it certainly doesn’t reflect poorly on you that you are my choice.”

She crossed her arms. “I might be your choice, but
you
aren’t mine.”

“A dozen rejected suitors would say otherwise, but who is he, this man who has your heart?”

She pursed her lips. “There’s only one man who can tempt me to give up my Spinster status—”

“You’re not a spinster—quite yet.”

“But I’m close,” she said, “and I have no desire to marry anyone but—” She hesitated. “I can’t say.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s private.”

He sighed. “You have no desire to marry anyone but Prince Sergei.”

She felt her face pale. “How did you guess?”

“It’s easy to see you have a
tendre
for him. And he’s besotted with you—that is, you or your father’s money. I can’t tell which one yet.”

“How dare you.”

He gave a small chuckle. “Are you sure you want him? You know nothing of him.”

“I know this,” she said, leaning forward and poking him in the chest with a finger. “I know that I have my
own
plans for my future, and they don’t include marrying a smug, insufferable man. It will suit my purposes to remain betrothed to you for one month, which will ensure that I may stay in Town. But then I plan to break it off, no matter how angry it makes Papa.” She nodded firmly. “You can take my offer or leave it—and find yourself another fiancée. I refuse to budge.”

“Even though your father will cut you off without a farthing?”

She crossed her arms and made a face. “He didn’t mean it.”

“I assure you, he does. He told me so. And remember, he vowed upon your mother’s—”

“
Don’t
bring my mother into this.” She inhaled a deep breath. “All right,” she conceded, “perhaps he really meant it.”

He didn’t say a word.

“But I refuse to marry you. Even if I’m cut off without a penny. No one tells me whom to marry.”

“But you said you wanted the Duke of Drummond.” Over and over again, apparently.

She made an exasperated face. “That was a mistake. Of course I don’t want
you
. I was referring to a fictitious duke, one that Cook tells stories about. As for Papa, I’m not some piece of meat to be bartered, and if he condemns you for backing out of your agreement, I’ll be sure to tell him I forced your hand.” She arched a brow. “Which I’ve just now managed. Haven’t I?”

“No. You haven’t.” He heard the resolve in his voice and hoped it was having an effect. “I intend to adhere to the agreement I made with your father. We shall marry, whether you like it or not. Even if it means I have to drag you kicking and screaming up to Gretna.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Her bravado was rather intoxicating.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I would. And your father would do nothing to save you. You see, he believes we’ll make a fine match. I happen to agree. You’re a pleasure to look at, an adequate kisser—”

“Adequate?”

“So far.”