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

Aunt Charlotte nodded. “But he’s such a substantial presence. He’s making charm seem a rather flimsy virtue these days.”

He.

They were talking of the Duke of Drummond, of course.

But they were also talking about the man she was falling in love with, weren’t they? She wasn’t quite there yet. But it was a distinct possibility.

Poppy surveyed their apple-and-crust creation and then popped it into Cook’s already warm oven. Nicholas was far from the typical polished London gentleman, but who cared?

He was substantial.

That was a very good word, she decided.

“I hope Papa likes it,” she said about the pie.

“I’m sure he will,” Aunt Charlotte replied.

They gripped hands, and for the first time in a long time, Poppy felt … happy.

The morning after the dinner party at Poppy’s, Nicholas left Groop’s office rather stunned.

Groop had heard rumors—someone was trying to interfere with Nicholas’s engagement, but the spymaster hadn’t been able to give him any more details than that.

“Rumor has it that someone is annoyed,” he murmured over his spectacles. “Someone would love to see you two apart. And I have no idea how far they’re willing to go.”

That someone could be anyone from Frank, who would likely cast aspersions on Nicholas’s character and curse him in pubs around London, to someone plotting to kill him—or Poppy.

That was the rub. Poppy was involved now.

Working in the Service, one tended to develop enemies. Nicholas was used to living with a certain element of danger on a regular basis. He’d always been able to take it in stride.

But now Poppy’s safety could be in jeopardy.

He wished he’d considered that possibility more when he’d become engaged to her. But he’d been too bent on getting the job done. And he’d focused on the future—moving her out of London to Seaward Hall most of the year. He’d acted as if she were a pawn in a giant chess game, and she still was, in a way, but now he knew that pawn personally, had worshiped her body with his mouth, had laughed with her and argued with her, and—

He wanted to keep her safe.

In the carriage on the way to the Merriweathers’, there was a strange silence between them. Considering what they’d done together in her father’s library the night before, it was interesting.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

She flung a shawl over her daringly low bodice. “Yes,” she said. “Are you?”

“Fine.” He felt a bit awkward. He wasn’t sure why, except that she looked extremely beautiful.

She gave him a tight smile. “We should have fun tonight. I enjoy the Merriweathers’ routs. Every year someone falls out a window into their bushes.”

“Different person each time?” he asked, jiggling his leg.

Why, he was like a nervous schoolboy. That kiss last night, followed by what they’d done in the library … he must admit it was getting more difficult to keep her at arm’s length.

She giggled. “Yes. Haven’t you been to one of their routs before?”

He shook his head. “I’m not big on parties. I find most of them a crashing bore.”

“Oh.” She nodded sagely. “That’s why most everyone in Town has no idea who you are.”

“Exactly. I have a small estate in Sussex, I frequently go north to check on Seaward Hall, and when I’m in London, I tend to hole up at my bachelor pad at the Albany or visit close friends, like the Traemores.”

He leaned forward suddenly and put a hand on her knee. “I must confess something,” he said. “I enjoyed last night. Very much.”

Her eyes widened. “I did, too.” Her grin was wide and bright. “I’m glad you mentioned it.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “I think we’re feeling better now, aren’t we?”

“I think so.” She looked down and back up at him.

But it wasn’t true. His confession had made things worse. Neither one of them said a word. There was too much tension between them, and now they were at the Merriweathers’. He got out and lifted her down, and when her feet touched the pavement, their lips were so close he could have kissed her.

But he didn’t.

He was afraid if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and he had a job to do—to keep her safe in a place with hundreds of people and convince the world that he was about to marry her.

He grabbed her hand—she was silent again—and brought her into the crush that was the party. He loved feeling her fingers grasped in his and her body brushing up against him. She was his fiancée, and he wasn’t going to let her go. Not tonight, to any thugs intent on hurting her, nor later, when she tried to break off the engagement.

He was going to fight for her, convince her they should be married. The idea of the marital bed was no longer something he dreaded but looked forward to with great pleasure.

They also laughed together often.

What more could a man want in a wife or a wife in a husband than an ideal sexual partner and an abundance of laughter?

He wasn’t sure yet how or where the test between them would take place, but it would, and he vowed to be ready.

A half hour later, they’d walked through several rooms inch by inch. The noise was deafening. Many people stopped and grabbed them and begged for a few minutes’ conversation.

Nicholas noticed Poppy began to appear distracted.

“Let me get you a refreshment,” he suggested.

It would be her third. The first lemonade had been knocked out of her hand by a random stranger. The second she’d already downed.

“Actually,” she said, “I—I think I need a few minutes.”

“Oh? What’s wrong? A fallen hem? A curl out of place? I think you look lovely.” And she did, all peachy skin and dampened brow.

She blushed. “I haven’t talked to Eleanor or Beatrice today, and I’d like to. Would you mind?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

He wouldn’t tell her he’d be keeping a very close eye out, thanks to Groop’s alert.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

He put a hand on her waist and squeezed lightly. “Be good,” he said, even though he longed to be bad with her, to wrap his arms around her, kiss her madly, and caress her plump breasts and curvaceous bottom.

“I will,” she said.

And she began to squeeze through the crowd to get to another room, presumably one where her friends were.

Nicholas watched her go, feeling lonely of a sudden. It was all right, though. He enjoyed being able to see her from afar. He could observe the slender nape of her neck, her abundant, shining hair reflecting the candlelight. And when she looked to the side, he admired her delicate profile.

He followed her from a distance, feeling pulled as if by a magnet.

And then Natasha stepped in front of him.

At the rout Poppy found Eleanor in a corner in a small crowd watching a mime pretend to crawl up a ladder. Where he came from, no one knew, but odd things like that tended to happen at routs.

Poppy had gone to see her best friends earlier in the day to explain to them what she was doing this evening. She couldn’t tell them about the painting called Pink Lady—that was a Service secret—but she did tell them she needed further closure with Sergei and required their help to get it.

“He doesn’t seem to comprehend I’m not interested in him,” Poppy had told them.

“That’s obvious,” both of them had said.

As usual, the Spinsters stuck together. Beatrice and Eleanor endorsed her plan wholeheartedly. They were well over lamenting the fact that the only man for Poppy no longer suited—that he was, in fact, a roué. They couldn’t wait to hear what the special event was that he had planned and only asked her to be careful.

Now Poppy tugged on Eleanor’s sleeve. “You promise you and Beatrice will stay in separate rooms and on separate floors until I get back?”

“Yes,” Eleanor replied, patting her hand. “If Nicholas finds me, I’ll chat with him for as long as I can, and when he gets antsy and asks after you, I’ll say I just saw you but that now you must be talking to Beatrice. And then when he goes looking for her, she’ll say you just left her and came back to me. It should work for at least a half hour. And it should take another half hour before he becomes desperate enough to seek us out. Which gives you an entire hour to go see Sergei. Good luck.”

Eleanor kissed her cheek.

“Thank you!” And Poppy scurried off, or tried to. The crush was getting bigger, and she had to avoid Nicholas, which would involve a lot of luck. Her hair was like a beacon, and she had no idea what rooms he’d travel through.

But the crowd served as a good cover, and although leaving was difficult, three minutes later, she was finally out the front door and down the steps.

Her young stableboy waited a little ways down the street, beyond the long row of carriages pulling up to the Merriweathers’ or departing.

She grinned when she saw him, relieved not to be alone. London had its dangers, especially at night, and only a foolish girl would allow herself to be alone in the darkness.

“We must hurry,” she whispered when she saw him.

“Right, mum,” he whispered back with a grin.

“Do you have your pistol? And the slippers and mask?”

“I do.” He handed her the slippers—sturdy and comfortable—and she quickly donned them.

“Very good,” she said. “Off we go.”

Together they covered the two blocks to Sergei’s apartments in record time, racing beneath gas lamps, in and out of shadows the whole way. Once at Sergei’s door, she handed the stableboy back the sturdy slippers and her shawl and put on the delicate slippers he gave her. The last thing she did was don the mask he’d been holding for her.