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

Nicholas raked a hand through his hair. “Can we not tell Lord Derby and Lady Poppy the new betrothal is a sham? That it won’t stand much longer because I won’t allow it?”

“They have no need to know. We can’t afford to let any word get back to the princess.”

“But … but Lady Poppy will think I’m a scoundrel!”

“Well, aren’t you?” It was the closest Groop had ever come to looking amused.

Nicholas flinched. He had been a dissolute fool. “It’s too late, isn’t it? To shed my wastrel reputation.”

Groop almost scoffed. “You know what that would require.”

“Yes, either dying or keeping my breeches on. A year ago I wouldn’t have been able to tell you which one was worse. But now—”

“Now you’ve matured. It happens to the best of us, Your Grace. And since you’re in quite a quandary, I’d say yes. It is too late.”

So it was settled. Nicholas’s engagement with Natasha was on. No more trying to get out of it, at least until after the painting was safely in his hands.

And by then, Poppy—at least her tender feelings for him—would be long gone.

“Don’t go yet, Your Grace.”

Nicholas paused at the door, sensing bad news by the way Groop hesitated before he spoke.

“It seems rather a shame,” the spymaster said, “but the higher-ups have recently decided to destroy the painting after they get their look at it. They claim we can’t very well have a portrait stay in circulation with a picture of a mole on it. Our modus operandi must be protected.”

Nicholas’s heart sank. “No,” he whispered.

She’d never forgive him.

Ever.

It was the final nail in the coffin of his plan to make her his wife. Even he wasn’t willing to marry someone who hated him. Up until now, he’d had hope. He’d made progress with her—true progress, from total unacceptance of him to the point that they’d become friends—but now … now all those efforts might as well never have occurred.

“It can’t be helped.” Groop was implacable. “You have to seize the portrait on behalf of the Service and resign yourself to never seeing it again. Duty above all, Your Grace. And Lady Poppy has no need to know. You’re the one charged with destroying the painting after our analysis is complete. The MR is contingent upon this action. Dispose of it completely in a timely, untraceable manner which calls—”

“No suspicion upon me or the Service.” Nicholas hardened his heart. “I know the drill.”

Duty first.

Duty first.

He swallowed back the myriad emotions clamoring within him. Sometimes it paid in unexpected ways to work for the Service.

And sometimes it was a living hell.

Poppy felt the oddest butterflies in her stomach. Neither the prince nor princess gave Papa a cordial social greeting in response to his own gracious welcome. Sergei’s apology for bothering them at the late hour was terse at best, and he made no effort to kiss her hand.

Instead, he inclined his head. “I’ve a matter of grave import to discuss with you, Lord Derby and Lady Poppy.”

“Please come in.” Lord Derby gestured toward the drawing room.

Once their guests were seated, she offered brandy for Sergei and ratafia for Natasha.

“Nothing for me,” Natasha said shortly, her rudeness coming as no surprise.

“Thank you, no,” Sergei responded, his eyes giving nothing away. But he was more formal than she’d ever seen him.

Poppy tried to remain calm. But something was terribly wrong, and it had to be about the portrait. Did they know the painting was of her mother? Was that a complication that somehow interfered with their plans for it?

She looked at her father, whose expression was rather concerned, as well.

Sergei drew in a deep breath. “I must involve you in a conversation that you might find distasteful.”

Natasha’s eyes glinted. “I will tell her.”

“No.” Sergei was curt. “I’ll tell her.”

“May I remind you there are two of us here,” Lord Derby said. “You shall have to tell us both.”

While the twins glared at each other, there came another urgent knock on the front door.

“Open up!” a masculine voice cried.

Poppy sat up straighter. It sounded vaguely like Nicholas. But not like the Nicholas she’d come to know. This voice sounded rude. Obnoxious.

There was a small ruckus in the hall—Kettle’s voice could be heard murmuring a hasty greeting—and a few seconds later, Nicholas pushed past the butler before he could announce him and strode into the room.

He looked wilder than she’d ever seen him.

“Why, it’s Lady Poppy Smith-Barnes and her noble father,” he said, his thumbs in the top of his breeches. “As well as her very good Russian friends.”

He bowed and sent a defiant smirk around the company. Then he pulled a flask out of his pocket and took a long draught.

Poppy was mortified. And confused. Very confused.

Lord Derby put up his quizzing glass. “Is that you, Drummond? In your cups?”

Sergei stood. “Perhaps you should come back another time, Drummond,” he said testily.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Nicholas arched a rude brow at him. “I suggest you sit and be quiet. Or leave. Both you and your sister. We’ve had enough of your ridiculous spats, haven’t we?”

Poppy jumped up. “What is wrong with you, Drummond?”

She threw him a desperate look. Don’t you remember you’re supposed to keep our Russian friends happy?

They could leave the country with their uncle’s painting.

He must remember.

But Nicholas didn’t seem to comprehend her meaning. He merely stared at her beneath lowered brows, his gray eyes stormier than she’d ever seen them.

“Yes, Drummond.” Lord Derby stood in a huff. “You don’t speak that way in my house to my guests. Now behave yourself, or leave.”

Natasha put her nose in the air. “I completely agree with Lord Derby. That’s no way to speak to—”

Sergei put a hand on her arm in a signal that she be quiet. Natasha scowled, but she did, thankfully, shut her mouth.

“We will stay.” Sergei’s whole manner was stiff when he sat back down. “But you must not forget—I am a Russian prince.”

“And I am a princess,” said Natasha, her chin in the air.

For goodness’ sake, Poppy thought. How many times were they going to remind everyone?

“I am master of this household,” Lord Derby said, “and I expect decorum on all sides.” He tossed a quelling glance at all their visitors, none of whom seemed intimidated in the least, especially Drummond, who leaned arrogantly against the pianoforte without permission.

Sergei began again. “I was about to inform Lady Poppy and her esteemed father that—”

“I’ll tell them,” Nicholas interrupted, and scratched his jaw rudely in front of the company. “Brace yourselves. You and all of London, actually. The princess and I are to marry.”

A strong sensation of shock and fury coursed through Poppy’s frame even though she’d insisted from the very first time she’d met the duke that she wouldn’t marry him. In fact, she’d planned to end the betrothal in less than a week. Nevertheless, in the eyes of the world, they were betrothed, and from the looks of it, she’d just been royally cast off.

“What could you possibly mean, Drummond?” she demanded. “We’re engaged.”

“Yes, what’s this about, Your Grace?” Lord Derby, his face reddening, was on his feet again.

“I regret to inform you my first obligation is to the princess,” the duke said coolly. “She’s with child, and her guardian, Lord Howell, has made the claim”—he took another swig from his flask—“that I am the father.”

“You are the father, and you will pay.” Sergei jumped up again, his eyes flashing fire.

Poppy’s heart fell to her feet.

Lord Derby’s face was like granite. “I’d call you out, Drummond, if I thought I could kill you.” Poppy had never heard him so menacing.

“Don’t, Papa.” She put a hand on his arm. “Please.”

He took her hand and squeezed it. “I won’t, daughter. But it’s only because I know what he can do with a pistol. I don’t want you an orphan so young.”

Poppy’s thoughts were jumbled, and she felt hot and cold at the same time. She wished she could faint, but apparently she was too stoic to faint.

She’d been a fool. A complete and utter fool. But she wouldn’t dare show the world she was—

Brokenhearted.

Oh, God.

Was she really? Was this what a broken heart felt like? She’d trusted Nicholas with her body and allowed him to see into her soul and—

Become friends with him. More than friends.

She released Papa’s hand, stood, walked to the pianoforte, and slapped the Duke of Drummond across the cheek.

“Ouch,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw.

“I despise you, Nicholas Staunton,” she said between gritted teeth. “And I never want to see you again.”

Natasha said nothing, but Poppy saw her eyes light with amusement.

Nicholas shrugged and looked around the company. “What’s done is done.” He returned his gaze to Poppy. “I’ll go now. It’s obvious you’re not terribly … thrilled to have me here.”

She felt a stillness inside. For a split second, the veil lifted from his gaze. It became clear. Steady. She imagined she could see the old Nicholas. The true Nicholas. The one she’d come to care for.

“Demmed right we’re not thrilled!” Lord Derby pointed to the door. “Out with you, Drummond. I believe everyone should go, as a matter of fact.” He looked pointedly at Natasha and Sergei.