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

She pushed an index finger on his chest. “Lord Eversly has asked me to marry him.” Her tone was defiant. “And I’m to give him my answer before the first waltz.”

Everything seemed to stop.

“Don’t marry him,” Nicholas said right away. “Remain a spinster—a luscious, fiery Spinster—and wait for a man who’s worthy of you. However long it takes.”

It wasn’t he. Not yet.

But it would be.

He would prove himself worthy.

He had no choice but to trust her to wait and believe he was the only man for her. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he turned and walked away again, and all the while he was thinking of her, not of his duty.

He must think of her. He would think of her right now. In fact, he intended to think about her—and eat with her and sleep with her and frolic with her—for the rest of their lives.

Because they’d be together.

Happily married.

His duty to the Service and his obligation to Operation Pink Lady were important, yes. They had their place in the great scheme of things. But he had a higher duty to live the life he was meant to live. And an even greater duty to his heart. He was still going to retrieve the painting, but now he’d do it for Poppy. Forget the MR and to hell with Groop’s orders.

Operation Get Poppy Back was officially under way.

“Nicholas!” Poppy called after him. She could hardly breathe.

He turned around for a split second and they locked eyes.

“I want to remind you of something you once told me.” Her hands trembled, so she grabbed bunches of her gown. “You said taking chances is part of the fun—what makes life exciting. You like surprises, don’t you?”

“Of course.” His mouth curved up. “They keep one on one’s toes.”

“Don’t forget that,” she advised him.

“Don’t you forget, either.” He gave her a mock bow and disappeared into the crowd.

“Oh, I won’t!” she yelled, and hopped on her toes to get a last look at him in his normal state of utterly confident complacency.

Because he was going to get quite a surprise. He had no idea how big, but it was huge.

Huge!

She couldn’t wait to tell him the whole thing, but she’d decided to tell him the first part tonight and save the rest for later—if there was a later.

A later that involved disrobing, especially.

She hoped there’d be a later, but how could there be?

He hadn’t asked her to marry him when she’d told him about Eversly’s proposal.

He’d simply told her to wait.

For what?

For him ?

If so, why hadn’t he asked her to wait for him outright?

She bit the tip of her finger. Perhaps she was supposed to read between the lines. He was a secret agent, after all, and she was a brilliant decoder.

Or could it have been her overactive, fanciful imagination attributing all sorts of lovely thoughts to him that simply didn’t exist?

No more fairy tales, she’d told herself. And here she was indulging in them again.

Natasha came up to her and raked her with a scornful glance. “You told me long ago you’d be here with your future husband. And that you would kiss him in front of all the company. But you certainly look all alone and invisible to me.”

“I don’t think so,” said Poppy, “or you wouldn’t be so concerned about putting me in my place.”

The princess gasped. “I have your so-called future husband. He’s mine, and my brother is about to make the official announcement. You might want to leave.”

She gave a simpering little laugh.

“I refuse to give you the satisfaction,” Poppy replied with a toss of her head. “In fact, I plan to be front and center when that announcement is made.”

She turned her back on the princess, only to see Lord Eversly approaching, a hopeful light in his eyes. “Lady Poppy! How good it is to see you.”

She forced herself to smile. “Hello, Eversly.”

He took her elbow and, in the kindest, gentlest manner possible, led her to a corner. “I must know your answer now . We’re about to have the first waltz, and of course, I want to dance it with you. And then soon we shall have our own ball to make our betrothal announcement.”

She looked at him, her heart beating hard, and shook her head. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “My answer has to be no. You’re a wonderful man, and I do hope you’ll find a woman who appreciates you. But I’m sorry—I can’t be the one.”

His sweet expression dissolved into disappointment, which tore at her heart.

“It’s still the Duke of Drummond you love, isn’t it?” he whispered.

She nodded. “I know it’s impossible.”

“It’s all right.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I believe in true love, too.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. “You’re so kind.”

And he left her.

She followed him with her eyes and saw several young debutantes eyeing him as if he were a tremendous catch. And then a matron stopped and spoke to him, gesticulating to a pretty miss to come forward. She did just that, giving him a sweet curtsy. He held out his arm and she took it, her face beaming. And as fast as that, Eversly was swept back into the social whirl.

Natasha was right. Poppy was alone, without even Eleanor and Beatrice for company. They’d left the ball and were hiding in the bushes below the terrace leading to the rear gardens, waiting until just the right moment to enter the ball again.

It was all part of her plan to steal the painting back for Papa and herself.

“It’s time,” Sergei said from a small stage near the musicians. “Time for the first waltz and an official announcement.” His eyes roamed around the room and alighted on Nicholas, who looked more cold and intimidating than she’d ever seen him. Natasha clung to his elbow, her dark, scheming eyes alight with triumph. “Come forward, you two.”

Nicholas strode forward with Natasha, looking as if he were about to go to the guillotine. They both stepped on the stage.

Poppy pushed her way to the front of the crowd.

Nicholas refused to look at her. But Natasha did, and her mouth was pursed in a satisfied smile.

Poppy did her best to remain calm, ignoring her increasingly shallow breaths.

“You can do it,” someone said in her ear. She flinched, looked behind her, and saw a long-faced, beady-eyed footman just disappearing between two matrons.

Mr. Groop was right. She could. And she would.

She looked up at Nicholas, her heart in her throat.

Sergei smiled at the crowd. “It gives me great pleasure to announce the betrothal of my sister, the Russian princess Natasha, to—”

“Stop!” Poppy interrupted him.

A hush fell over the crowd, and she pointed to Nicholas. “That man is not the Duke of Drummond. I have proof that his missing uncle—the one everyone thought had been murdered—is still alive. He’s the Duke of Drummond, not Nicholas.”

“She’s lying.” Natasha stared daggers at her.

Sergei scowled. “What’s this about, Lady Poppy? Duke?”

“I’ve no idea,” Nicholas said low.

“I have his uncle’s signet ring here.” Poppy held it up. “It even has his initials. It was given to me by Tradd Staunton himself. He’s kept his identity hidden all these years because he works for the Service.”

“The Service?” was the general outcry, except for a few debutantes who exclaimed, “What’s that ?” and one ancient gentleman who insisted the Service had been disbanded years before.

“He goes by the code name Mr. Groop,” Poppy went on, and saw Nicholas’s face blanch. “But a document signed by Prinny himself proves Groop’s claim and his right to the Drummond title and properties. So I’m afraid, Nicholas Staunton, you’re back to being Lord Maxwell. You’ll inherit someday, but your uncle is so busy with the Service, the Drummond title, properties, and coffers are his very last priority.”