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

“Introduce us, please,” she said to one of her escorts. Several had appeared around her in the last few seconds, two of whom Poppy recognized as her father’s cronies from Parliament.

The uniformed man, probably serving as the princess’s bodyguard, moved back. One of the Englishmen, Lord Wyatt, stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Princess Natasha, this is Lady Poppy Smith-Barnes, daughter of the widowed Earl of Derby.”

Poppy inclined her head. “Honored to meet you, Princess.”

Lady Natasha inclined her head, as well. “I see Russian flowers in your hair,” she said in flawless, honey-thick English. “Chamomiles. I saw them from the top of the stairs, in fact.”

“Yes.” Poppy smiled, pleased the princess had noticed. She’d decided that if she were to wear flowers tonight, she would choose the national flower of Russia in honor of Sergei.

“Remove them,” Natasha said curtly.

Poppy felt an immediate stab of alarm in her middle, and her face flamed. “Wh-why?” she asked again.

But Natasha moved on without explaining. Lord Wyatt turned around, his brow lowered, and whispered impatiently, “Do as she says, Lady Poppy. We don’t want any friction between our countries.”

Friction? Between England and Russia?

Because of her flowers ?

Poppy didn’t see how wearing flowers in her hair constituted a diplomatic gaffe. But as the daughter of a member of the House of Lords, she dared not take any chances. With shaky hands and without leaving the ballroom floor, she pulled the flowers out of her curls and stuffed them in her reticule.

Everyone around her stared.

“Look at someone else, please,” she blurted out, and made a beeline for Eleanor and Beatrice.

Before she could open her mouth to tell them what had transpired between her and the princess, Beatrice said, “We saw.”

“She’s wicked,” Eleanor added.

“But Sergei’s not,” Poppy insisted. “Every family has its bad apples, don’t they?”

But Beatrice and Eleanor had stopped listening. They were looking over her shoulder.

“There he is.” Eleanor gasped.

“Good heavens,” said Beatrice. “I see what you mean. He’s—”

“Perfect,” breathed Eleanor. “No wonder you’ve been fobbing off all your suitors.”

Poppy turned and looked at the man standing at the top of the stairs. Her heart swelled with happiness.

Sergei!

He was older, of course. But he’d only grown handsomer. The memories of her romantic week with him in St. Petersburg came flooding back.

“Gracious, he’s staring right at you,” said petite Eleanor, her masses of strawberry-blonde hair highlighted by the glow of hundreds of candles in the double chandeliers overhead.

Beatrice, gorgeous as always with her luminous brown eyes and her rich, dark hair pulled back in a sleek knot, squeezed Poppy’s hand. “He’d be lucky to have you,” she said firmly. “Remember that.”

“If you’re meant to be, we’ll find out together,” added Eleanor.

“Thanks.” Poppy felt a lump in her throat. “I’m so glad I have you two.”

Without another word, the three of them overlapped their hands. “Hell will freeze over,” they recited in whispers, “before we—”

“Give up our passions,” said Beatrice.

“And give in to our parents,” murmured Poppy.

“To marry men we don’t love,” added Eleanor.

Whereupon they released their hands and said together, “The Spinsters Club? Never heard of it,” as Eleanor gave a delicate yawn, Beatrice sipped from a glass of ratafia, and Poppy fiddled with a curl on her shoulder.

She usually felt exhilarated after saying the pledge. Stronger and braver, too. Because no matter what Papa said about women knowing their places and marriage being a business arrangement, she wasn’t going to marry a man who didn’t have her heart in his full possession. She’d far rather be a Spinster—a Spinster with very good friends in the same predicament—than succumb to such a fate.

The prince made eye contact with her and grinned, and Poppy felt her whole insides light up. She couldn’t help it—she grinned back.

He remembered her .

He headed her way with a small entourage. Poppy schooled herself to be calm, and she prayed she’d say the right thing.

Once in front of her, the prince raised her hand and kissed it, just as he had the first time he’d met her six years ago.

“Poppy. It is you.” He stared deep into her eyes, and her knees trembled. “What a fantastic surprise to see my little English friend all grown up.”

“H-hello, Sergei.” She drew in a breath. “I mean, Your Highness.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t dare call me that. I am always Sergei to you, and I would like you to introduce me to your friends as Sergei.”

What a gracious royal he is, Poppy thought, as he paid his respects to Beatrice and Eleanor. They were charming, witty, and sincere in their enthusiasm about the prince’s visit to London. She couldn’t have been more proud to call them her best friends.

The prince was impressed by them, as well. “I see, Lady Poppy, you’ve been in delightful company since I saw you last. My own friends would be honored to dance with them.” Indeed, two very distinguished Russian aristocrats had already bent low over the other Spinsters’ hands.

Which meant Poppy could abandon herself to the enjoyment of the evening. She did just that when Sergei took her hand and wrapped it under his arm.

“There are few things in the world more intimidating than a roomful of curious people,” he said. “Best to face them down first and let the other gentlemen in the room know what’s what. And then we shall dance.”

What’s what?

Poppy couldn’t help thinking the prince was using strong language. Was he implying she was his ? That all the other men ought to steer clear?

Oh, if so, he was simply adorable, even after all these years. So effortlessly charming. And so … kissable.

Poppy’s schoolgirl crush came roaring back, stronger than ever.

Of course, if any one of her old suitors noticed her affinity for the prince and cared to ask about her Duke of Drummond tonight, she already had an easy reply. The duke had asked her to marry him, and she’d declined.

Who could blame her?

Prince Sergei was obviously a worthy distraction.

While they paraded about the room, Sergei deigned to stop and converse with only two important members of Parliament—although at least five more Very Important People attempted to capture his attention—and then he took Poppy out to the dance floor and swept her into a waltz.

She released a happy sigh. Hadn’t she waited six years for this moment?

Sergei squeezed her hand. “You are pleased, I think, that I’ve arrived. In fact, I see from your expression you feel it has been too long since we’ve last met.”

“It has been too long,” she dared to say.

“Tell me about your life.” He was gorgeous when he arched his brow.

She shook her head. “I’ve been quite busy since I saw you last. In between my studies and my social and charitable obligations, I run the household, planning the menus, conferring with the staff. I only wish I could serve as my father’s hostess, but he won’t entertain, not even his stuffy government colleagues.”

Prince Sergei’s expression was sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear the news about Lady Derby. She made quite an impression on St. Petersburg society.”

Poppy’s heart warmed to hear the kind words about her cherished mother. “Thank you for saying so.”

“Oh, but it’s true.” He gave her an endearing grin. “I’m equally sure your father can’t have had a better helpmate than you these last six years. He’s a lucky man, although you’re meant for more than serving as the mistress of your father’s household. So much more.” His voice was warm. The look in his eye promised something. And although she wasn’t sure what, it left her breathless.