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

They were perfect for each other.

“They are a fine-looking husband and wife,” said Sergei.

“Aren’t they?” Poppy replied, knowing every girl in the room was wishing the same for herself—

A love match.

And then she noticed someone else at the top of the stairs. Under the blazing candles, he was wild-looking. Not in his dress. That was perfectly presentable. But even from this distance, she could see his eyes were a stormy gray and his mouth forbidding. His dark blond hair was longer than was fashionable and brushed straight back from his rather commanding forehead.

The way he stood was different from the other men of her acquaintance, too. He stood as if he owned the room. As if he owned the Grangerfords’ house and all the company in it.

And didn’t care for it or them.

Sergei studied him. “He looks a heathen, doesn’t he? Even though his coat is of superb cut.”

Poppy said nothing in return, unable to look away from the brazen-eyed gentleman.

And then he made eye contact with her.

She felt a jolt down to her toes. Her breath grew shallow, and a buzzing began in her ears. Who was he? And why did he gaze at her as if he knew her?

She abruptly looked away—disconcerted by his boldness—and instead watched the butler thrust out his chest, clench his fists at his sides, and boom, “The Duke … of Drummond!”

Poppy stopped breathing. And then somehow, very slowly, the room began to spin.

Which one was Lady Poppy?

Nicholas looked around the room and spied her immediately next to the Russian prince, Natasha’s brother. He’d never met Sergei, but Natasha had told him her brother always got what he wanted.

He’d just better damned well not want Poppy.

She was already taken.

“You won’t be able to miss her, of course,” Lord Derby had told him at White’s earlier that evening. “She’s got titian hair, and she’s beautiful, but she won’t look demure. As much as I love her, I’m often baffled at how many suitors have offered for her hand. She’s most unbiddable. Let that serve as a warning to you. Oh, and for years she’s been besotted with that Russian prince, whom we met several years ago in St. Petersburg. She speaks a bit of Russian and will no doubt be attempting to converse with him.”

Sure enough, the girl in the seductive pale blue gown at the prince’s elbow had shimmering red-gold hair and a direct gaze that took no enemies. Nicholas felt a twist of lust in his belly when he caught the wink of a diamond-shaped pendant at her breasts, but he was actually far more intrigued by the shocked expression on her face, which was quickly followed by a determined tug on the prince’s arm.

There was nothing docile about her.

No matter. He’d marry her, ship her off to Seaward Hall, and give her what every woman wanted—babies and the occasional bauble to keep her happy. He’d even bring her to Town once a year to satisfy that yearning every woman seemed to have to socialize.

But then he’d send her back to Seaward Hall again—to write letters, entertain the neighbors, arrange flowers, rear their children, and whatever else it was that women liked to do—while he went back to London and worked for the Service.

Being married wouldn’t have to change his life much at all.

The music started up again, people converged on the dance floor once more, and Nicholas strode down the stairs. He caught Lord Derby’s eye and then moved straightaway toward the copper-haired goddess, ignoring all attempts to snag his attention along the way.

As he approached Lady Poppy, her eyes, a dazzling emerald color, grew larger and larger. Prince Sergei cast a careless glance at him, as if he were nothing more than a fly to be swatted away once he came close enough to be a genuine nuisance.

Nicholas felt an instant dislike for the man.

“Nicky!” A feminine arm reached out from the crowd of dancers and stopped him.

Blast. It was Natasha. He saw the bracelet he’d bought for her dangling from her wrist.

“Do you always ignore royalty?” she asked him peevishly.

He suppressed his impatience and kissed her fingers. “Hello, Your Highness. I’m sorry I missed you.”

“I’m thirsty,” she said, like a small child.

Right. He was meant to get her a drink, but she was surrounded by perfectly respectable gentlemen who’d be willing to get her some lemonade.

“I’m sure Lord Crowley or Sir Benjamin would be happy to oblige.” He moved on, ignoring the princess’s loud sigh.

But his efforts to disentangle himself came too late. Lady Poppy had disappeared.

Poppy thanked God she had a strong constitution. Her momentary dizziness had been almost instantly replaced by a strong survival instinct—

To flee.

She gave Prince Sergei a flimsy excuse—her hem had come down—and left him before he’d had a chance to reply.

“Lady Poppy!” Lord Cranston called to her. He’d been the first suitor to have proposed to her at Vauxhall. “Your duke is here.”

“Yes, we shall finally meet him,” said the gentleman next to him, Sir Gordon, who’d proposed to her at the haberdasher’s.

And straight ahead she saw Lord Winsbury and Lord Beech, the Corinthians who’d proposed to her on horseback. And to their left was the pompous Marquess of Stansbury, who’d proposed to her over tea in her drawing room.

She pretended not to hear either Lord Cranston or Sir Gordon, and she must steer clear of Lords Winsbury and Beech and the Marquess of Stansbury. In fact, she must leave the ball immediately.

But the stairs to the front hall were blocked by a cluster of four more of her old suitors—Lord Greenwood, Sir Jared, Baron Hall, and Lord Nottingham—all of whom were staring avidly at the Duke of Drummond and searching the ballroom—

For her, no doubt.

Fear was a new thing for Poppy. She despised it. It took all enjoyment away. She was tempted to cry, but she threw off that idea and put on her most neutral expression instead.

Beatrice and Eleanor came up to her, their brows smooth but their eyes alight with surprise and concern.

Eleanor laid a hand on Poppy’s arm. “We don’t understand what’s going on with this duke who calls himself Drummond. We thought he wasn’t real.”

“I thought so, too,” Poppy said in an anguished whisper. “I’m done listening to Cook. She tells tales—tales that are supposed to be tales but they’re true.”

“Too true,” said Beatrice with a shudder, looking over her shoulder, presumably for the Duke of Drummond. “So they’re not tales, after all.”

“But Cook pretends they are.” Eleanor nodded.

“Which is telling tales, isn’t it?” Poppy hissed.

“No matter,” said Beatrice, all business. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“The only way out without attracting notice is through the gardens,” Eleanor whispered.

“So I’ve surmised,” Poppy said. “I was heading there now.”

She’d sneak round to the front of the house and call a hackney, or if she were unable to, walk home. It was only two streets over.

“I’ll clear a way.” Beatrice did her best to find the path of least resistance toward the terrace.

They were almost to the double doors to the garden, which were flung wide open, when a large figure planted itself in front of the trio and blocked their way.

Lord Washburn. He’d been the one to have no breeches on when he’d proposed to her. He’d lost them in a drunken fight that had taken place in the basin of a fountain.

“We must talk, you and I,” he said to Poppy.

“I can’t.” She didn’t like the look in his eyes. He appeared drunk. Angry. Worthy of the reputation he had of being rather volatile.

“No, she can’t, Washburn,” said Beatrice breezily. “She’s ill.”

Eleanor gave him a stern look. “Please get out of our way.”

“I must ask a burning question first,” Washburn insisted. “The Duke of Drummond is here tonight, Lady Poppy. Yet you’re nowhere near him.”

She hesitated but a moment, not sure what to say, but it was enough of a pause for Lord Washburn.

“Ah.” He nodded his head sagely. “I see how it is.”

“No, you can’t possibly,” Poppy said.

He gripped her wrist. “He’s dishonored you. Cast you off.” His face was beet red. “How dare he.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Washburn,” said Beatrice.

“And let go of her wrist.” Eleanor hit his arm with her reticule.

“Yes, Washburn,” Poppy said, “I’m not a child.”

“Fine, then.” Washburn glowered and dropped Poppy’s arm. “But you’re hiding something, my lady.”

Poppy inched closer to him. “My personal affairs are none of your concern,” she whispered, “but as you’re being quite vocal in your curiosity, I shall give you a short explanation. Drummond is simply busy this evening. As am I. We’ll meet on another day to discuss, um, our impending nuptials.” She made a move to the left, but Washburn cut her off again, his eyes blazing.

“You’re too good for him,” he said. “Duke or no duke, how could any man of breeding ignore you?”

She forced herself to smile, although she would have preferred to push past him and run. “That’s very kind of you to say, but my friends and I really must be going.”

He ignored her, turned, and called, “Drummond!”

Unfortunately into a lull. One of those rare lulls at a ball where the musicians are in the process of lifting their violins once more to their chins, when the women are taking another breath to gossip, and the men, to share information about their latest equine purchase at Tattersall’s.