Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right (20 page)

“Perhaps I will,” she said stoutly.

“Let’s test this theory out right now. I’ve got a Bath bun of sorts for you.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Just take it. Promise?”

She nodded.

He grabbed her hand and hauled her behind a small shed and kissed her. She didn’t stop him, either. Instead, she tugged his face closer by threading her fingers in his hair and kissing him back.

All around them, the wind rattled an uneven rhythm through the leaves—nature’s song.

His need for her was crazy. Demanding. And highly illogical. There were thousands of girls in London. But the one who’d stumbled into working for the Service, who used to believe she loved a Russian prince, who gave Nicholas every reason to run in the opposite direction—this Spinster—was the girl he wanted to laugh with, to argue with.

To make his own.

CHAPTER 21

Two days had passed since Poppy’s eventful visit to the Caldwells. Mrs. Travers had left their estate wreathed in smiles, her pendant recovered. Natasha had happily returned to London, where she had no one else hovering over Boris but herself. And even Prince Sergei had gone back to Town with a modicum of his pride restored, probably because all the London papers wrote articles wondering where he’d gone off to for a few days.

Drummond had unceremoniously dropped Poppy off at her house and told her he’d some work to catch up on for Groop.

So much for our kisses,
she’d thought at the time. But she hadn’t forgotten what he’d said about Bath buns.

About possibilities.

And about ruts.

The morning sun was casting bright bands of yellow into the drawing room at 17 Clifford Street when Lord Derby walked in and held up a thick, cream-colored card.

“Daughter,” he asked in suspicious tones, “what’s this?”

Poppy had been waiting for this moment with a mixture of dread and anticipation. She put down her ongoing needlepoint of the Winter Palace—she’d just pulled out one whole section of thread that she’d done in the wrong color—and took the card.

“It’s an invitation to come to dinner tomorrow night, Papa.” She hoped he wouldn’t make up an excuse not to be there. “I’ve decided to invite the Russian prince and princess—as well as the Count and Countess Lieven.”

She’d had the thought that if the Lievens enjoyed the dinner party, they might very well reciprocate and invite her family to their home for an intimate social occasion. Drummond would come along and perhaps they’d catch a glimpse of the Pink Lady portrait before the ball.

“I can read,” her father said tersely. “I also see you’re sending a similar invitation to Drummond as well as several other acquaintances of mine.”

Aunt Charlotte put aside her embroidery. “Perfectly acceptable mix, I believe.”

Papa glowered at her. “I’m aware of that, Charlotte. But why a dinner party?”

“Why wouldn’t we have a small dinner party?” his older sister asked him.

“Because—” He pressed his lips together.

Poppy stood. “We haven’t had one in a great while, Papa. Not since before … before Mama died. I felt it was time.”

He stared at her, no doubt attempting to intimidate her with his scowl, but she vowed to ignore it.

“Time to do something new,” she added a bit weakly. But there, she’d said it. “I do hope you’ll be here.”

“You should have asked me first.”

She knew that. But she also knew if she had, he would have said no.

“Don’t allow Cook to make anything I don’t like,” he said.

Poppy smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

And then he strode out the front door.

The rest of the morning, she planned the menu with Cook and consulted with the housekeeper until she felt her party was sure to run smoothly and that her guests would be pleased with the fare offered them.

She was discussing seating arrangements with Aunt Charlotte at their noon meal when Kettle came into the dining room with a note.

Aunt Charlotte looked up from reading it. “Princess Natasha has accepted our invitation on one condition. She begs us to patronize a new seamstress on Oxford Street, one of her former lady’s maids. It seems she has ready-made gowns the princess believes will be perfect for the dinner party. She’d be delighted if we would seek her out as this woman is not only talented but dear to her heart.”

“Why, that’s so thoughtful of Natasha! I’m pleasantly surprised to see her thinking of someone other than herself and her dogs.” Poppy chuckled. “She does make an excellent suggestion: new gowns for the party. The ready-made ones will do nicely since we don’t have time to have any made.”

“Very good suggestion.” Aunt Charlotte nodded, well pleased. “I’m glad Drummond has had an invigorating influence on you.”

“Has he?” Poppy put her spoon down, rather surprised.

“I believe he has.” Aunt Charlotte looked at her assessingly.

Poppy felt herself blush. “I think I’ll excuse myself now.” She felt suddenly awkward—and no wonder. She’d much to do. Discussing the duke with Aunt Charlotte wasn’t a good use of the time she had left before the party, was it? Particularly as she found that subject rather confusing.

Now was the time to focus on details, plans … dresses.

An hour later, the seamstress smiled broadly at Poppy’s reflection in the full-length looking glass at her shop. “The color matches your eyes and complements your hair,” she said with genuine admiration in her voice.

Poppy was a betrothed woman now, the seamstress had reminded her, so she should venture beyond pastels. As a consequence, she’d selected a deep emerald-green satin sheath with shimmering emerald-green beads sewn to the skirt and to the tight, three-quarter-length, sheer lace sleeves.

“And the bodice.” Aunt Charlotte stood back to admire her in it. “It sets off your charms to perfection. I like seeing you this way, my dear.”

Poppy smiled. It was her first time wearing this magnificent glowing green color, and she loved it. The fit of the gown was superb, the bodice perfectly hugging her breasts, the skirt falling in sleek lines. She felt like a princess, a very grown-up princess. It was ironic that she should be grateful to Natasha for bringing her and this fabulous garment together, but she was. She couldn’t wait to tell the princess so at the party.

And another part of her couldn’t help thinking about Drummond. She shouldn’t care what he thought. She shouldn’t care at all. But part of her, no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, couldn’t wait to see his reaction when he saw her wearing this gown. She found herself breathless imagining him eyeing her from head to toe, his gaze finally lingering on her bodice.

She looked down and bit her lip. It
was
a daring neckline. But perfect.

The party couldn’t come soon enough.

Meanwhile, Aunt Charlotte found a charming dull gold gown. Even though it was nothing like the style she preferred to wear, which was well outdated with panniers and pinched waists, she was happy to carry it home.

“I shan’t even wear my wig,” she said to Poppy. “In honor of our guests.”

The next evening, Poppy donned her gown with high hopes and descended the stairs, her hair perfectly coiffed and her mother’s pearl earrings dangling from her ears. She felt beautiful and elegant, ready for her first attempt at being a hostess.

The china on the dining room table sparkled. The extra candles were lit in a candelabra depicting a famous Russian battle scene, and the fresh flowers gifted everyone with their heady fragrance. From the kitchen, delicious smells wafted through the house whenever a servant opened a door to bring in another serving dish or bottle of wine.

The first guests to arrive were Eleanor and Beatrice. Poppy sat with them to enjoy a comfortable coze.

Eleanor wore an exquisite pale blue satin gown with a wide ivory satin sash banded beneath her breasts. Her hair shimmered with little crystal butterflies pinned to her curls. “Your engagement is the talk of London,” she told Poppy.

Beatrice was stunning in her white Grecian sheath with gold trim and Grecian braid. “And you’re rather a reigning queen.”

“Am I?” Poppy laughed. “I hadn’t even noticed.”

“Well, you are, so enjoy every moment of it.” Eleanor hugged her.

Beatrice eyed her thoughtfully. “You already appear to be enjoying yourself. I’m rather intrigued by the spark of liveliness in your eye. I haven’t seen that in quite a while.”

“You’re right,” said Eleanor. “I wonder if you don’t like your duke, after all.”

“Of course not.” Poppy huffed.

“Have you kissed him?” Beatrice asked point-blank.

Poppy’s mouth fell open. “I—I—” But it was as if she had a piece of bread stuck in her throat.

Eleanor clapped her hands. “You have.”

“And apparently he’s a marvelous kisser,” said Beatrice with a mischievous grin.

Poppy finally recovered. “All right. I
have
kissed him. But that doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does if it sends tingles to your toes,” said Eleanor. “It’s one of the requirements of the early dispensation clause, as you know.”

“Tingles … warm, heady feelings—” Poppy began.

“Warm, heady feelings?” interjected Beatrice.

“Whatever you want to call them,” Poppy said dismissively, “they don’t mean anything without the other requirements in the early dispensation clause.”

“True,” said Eleanor. “I can’t imagine he respects you the way Sergei must.”

“Or that he’s as interested as Sergei in what you have to say,” Beatrice said. “The prince was most attentive at the Grangerford ball.”

“No, I’m sure you’re right on both counts.” Poppy tried mightily to be annoyed at Drummond for not being a gentleman and for not hanging on her every word, but it was difficult when she couldn’t stop thinking about the daring and pleasurable way he’d nudged a knee between her legs and pinned her against the shed wall while he was kissing her after Lady Caldwell’s outdoor breakfast.

“But I have something to confess,” she told her two best friends. “I made a huge mistake with Sergei. He’s nothing like what I thought he was six years ago.”

Beatrice and Eleanor both widened their eyes.

“He’s not?” asked Eleanor, her strawberry-blond curls shaking.

Beatrice shook her head. “What a shame!”

Poppy bit her lip. “It’s worse, girls. He wants me to be his mistress. Can you believe it?”

“I despise him,” Eleanor sputtered.

“As do I!” Beatrice’s brows became slash marks above her dark almond eyes.

Eleanor drew in her chin. “Why on earth did you invite him tonight when he’s such a scoundrel?”

Poppy’s mouth fell open. Oh, dear. She couldn’t explain that, could she? She couldn’t reveal anything about Operation Pink Lady.

She supposed she shouldn’t have told her two friends about Sergei’s true nature, but they were her closest companions. She couldn’t have held that back. She needed their support.

But … how to explain his presence tonight?

She gave them a weak smile, hating to lie. “I, um, I invited him and his sister because of old times’ sake. I think it will bring Papa a great deal of comfort to have a Russian meal with Russian guests, don’t you? St. Petersburg was the last place he had fun with Mama.”

Beatrice nodded. “That makes sense.”

“It’s a tremendous sacrifice for you,” Eleanor said, “but very thoughtful.”

“And I believe I can handle the prince,” Poppy said, assuaging her guilt with a genuine smile of affection for her friends. “Especially with you two in my corner.”

“Exactly,” said Beatrice. “We’re Spinsters. He’s asked the
wrong
girl to be his mistress.”

“Speaking of which”—Poppy grabbed their hands—“I put you on either side of him at the table. We keep our enemies close. So do take good care of him. But never let him guess what you know.”

“Poor Sergei.” Eleanor giggled.

And Poppy breathed a sigh of relief. Everything she’d said about Sergei had been true, hadn’t it? She’d simply left out that one small bit about his involvement with the portrait she was trying to help Drummond retrieve.

Fortunately, Aunt Charlotte arrived just then, resplendent in her gold gown, and diverted the talk away from Sergei by passing out her new version of the Spinster bylaws for the ladies to place in their reticules, with a strict reminder that wisdom was imperative in all Spinsters and couldn’t always be accrued in sufficient amounts by age twenty-one without some effort at seeking it.

Which led her into a speech about acquiring as much experience as possible as soon as possible—from traveling to studying to flirting with interesting men … as long as that flirtation didn’t involve …

Disrobing.

“It leads to all sorts of complications,” their club advisor insisted. “Especially if the man in question is—how shall I say?—endowed with qualities you can’t really appreciate until you see them. Or, um, until you see
it
. It could be simply
one
quality. A very nice quality.”