Kieran Kramer - Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

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.

They both knew the answer to that question.

Lord Caldwell’s face lit up. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

With his wife’s blessing, Lord Caldwell abandoned her on the dance floor and went to a cabinet, where he took out a fiddle and, without even shutting the cabinet door behind him, started playing a lively Scottish reel. Lady Caldwell urged two footmen to join the party to make eight.

Nicholas’s brain registered no one but Poppy, not even Natasha, with her plump lips pursed in a sulk, or Sergei, who elbowed him more than once, nor Mrs. Travers, so giddy she could barely breathe.

Twice Nicholas and Poppy spun together, hands locked, and when they did, there was nothing but her face, bright and happy, set against a colorful, spinning scene.

At one point the eight of them clasped hands and turned in a circle. Poppy was across from him, much too far away, but their gazes locked—and she grinned at him shyly … gratefully.

As if she should be thanking him for anything.

Thank God for you, is what went through his head at that moment. Thank God you were born.

And then he told himself it was much too maudlin a thought to have on such a merry evening. She was happy. On her birthday.

That was enough.

In her room two hours later, Poppy sat on her bed and stared at the words on the pages of the endless novel she was reading, Clarissa, but she didn’t really see them. She was thinking about the night, about the dancing.

About Drummond.

Not Sergei.

Drummond had been so blasted presumptuous, telling her that from now on, he’d insist that she dance on her birthday—as if they were going to marry—but it was difficult to be angry at him. He was so much more charming than Sergei could ever be, yet …

Yet he was the wrong man for her.

Love, she reminded herself. Love, and not mere physical attraction, was what she wanted in her marriage.

And it must run both ways.

Involving herself with an Impossible Bachelor wasn’t very sensible.

She sighed and shut her book. Sleep wouldn’t come any time soon, she could tell. She swung her legs over the side of the bed.

“Time to explore again,” she muttered.

Why not the library?

She knew exactly where it was. She needed time away from Clarissa’s travails. Perhaps she’d look for an atlas. She loved looking at maps of other countries.

Quietly, she opened her door and ventured into the corridor with a candlestick, and on silent feet padded down the expansive staircase to the first floor. The library would be on her right.

When she got there, a low fire still flickered on the hearth.

She closed the door firmly behind her, advanced to a bookshelf, and began to peruse the volumes.

“So,” she heard a man’s low voice from behind her, “you couldn’t sleep, either.”

She whirled around. Sitting in a chair by the floor-to-ceiling window was Drummond. One booted leg was sprawled over the other, and his chin rested on his fist.

She put her candle on a side table and gave a little laugh. “Why, Drummond. Whatever’s the matter? You look as though—”

“As though I’m doing miserably at my job?” He pushed himself out of the chair and came to her. His eyes flared with challenge.

Or perhaps frustration.

Whatever it was, the firelight cast shadows and light on the planes of his face, making him more handsome and mysterious than she’d ever seen him.

She backed up a step, her heart picking up its pace. “I should think you’re doing splendidly,” she assured him. “We’re spending lots of time with—with the subjects we’re supposed to spend time with, and—”

“And my diplomatic skills are being stretched to the limit.” He raked a hand through his hair and stared at the fire. “How many Service members follow dogs about? Endure petulant Russian princesses? Kowtow to know-it-all Russian princes?”

She blinked. “I—I don’t know. But of course you endure what you must endure. It’s part of the profession, I suppose.”

He gave her a flat look. “You’re right, of course. It’s just that…”

He hesitated.

“What?” she asked him.

He let out a gusty sigh. “It’s difficult to focus on my work—on my objectives—with you around. Damn it all, I could put up with Sergei if it were just he and I, but I loathe the way he looks at you. And as for the princess, she’s obviously jealous of you and takes pains to put you in your place whenever she can.”

He looked at her then, and neither of them said a word. The fire danced and popped, the candle flickered, and everything else was blanketed in darkness and silence.

She knew what he wanted. What he needed.

She stepped forward and pulled the lapels of his coat toward her. “Come here,” she whispered.

And she stood up on tiptoe and kissed him. They fit together perfectly. She allowed him to completely encircle her with his body, to devour her lips with his own. Through her thin night rail, she relished feeling every contour of his body, including his masculine hardness thrust up against her lower belly.

And then she pulled back.

“God, Poppy,” he said low.

She raised her chin. “It’s kind of you to be concerned about me, Your Grace, but I can take care of myself. My presence should in no way deter you from your objectives.”

His pupils darkened. “So I should proceed as I always have, with no concern for your well-being.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I don’t need you, Drummond. And you most certainly have made the point that I get in your way.”

“Devil take it,” he whispered, looking down at her. “Go to your room before I chase you up those stairs and ravish you in your bed.”

She picked up her candle, straightened her back, and strode past him.

She would secure her door tonight just as Aunt Charlotte had warned her to do. She only wished she could lock up the new, bewildering feelings welling inside her, all of them centered on the Duke of Drummond.

Thank God for horses. And open fields. And other men who understood that when a man was frustrated with a woman, the best thing to do was to shut up, go with him on a blistering early-morning ride, and hand him a fine cheroot afterward.

“Dear heavens, Max and Nicholas,” lamented Lady Caldwell. “It’s too early in the morning for those.”

“We’re outdoors, my love.” Lord Caldwell complacently puffed away at his cheroot and patted her hand.

Poppy made a moue of disapproval at Nicholas. “Surely you should eat first.”

Underneath a large oak tree, Lady Caldwell had set a beautiful breakfast picnic composed of eggs, meat, hot rolls, Bath buns, pound cake, toast, tea, and cocoa. Liveried servants stood at attention nearby.

“Sorry,” Nicholas said, leaning back in his chair and blowing out a plume of smoke. “I promise I’ll partake as soon as I’m done savoring this.”

“Well, then,” said Lady Caldwell. “If you two insist on being large boys bent on defying the common sense of women who know better, I shall take this opportunity to regale Poppy with a perfectly frivolous tale of romance and heartache.”