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

“Thank you,” she whispered shyly.

Her dream was happening too fast. Then again, she’d waited for a moment like this for a long time. She’d endured how many insipid conversations? Patiently danced with how many men who didn’t make her heart speed up? Bought how many ball gowns for parties where she spent half the night yawning behind her fan?

No doubt tomorrow all of London would be talking about how the prince had arrived at the Grangerford ball and had come directly to her . They would wonder what he meant by his attentions.

So would she.

When the waltz ended, a Russian envoy came running over with a glass of lemonade and handed it to Poppy.

“Why, thank you.” She smiled and took a sip. It was quite nice to be spoiled so.

“And find me a beautiful flower,” Sergei said to the man.

“Yes, Your Highness. But your sister will be unhappy. She likes no one to wear flowers except her.”

“My sister is intolerable,” the prince said in a tight voice.

Poppy couldn’t agree more, but she was shocked to hear the prince say so out loud.

But his face softened when he looked at Poppy. “This pretty lady should always wear flowers in her hair.”

She felt a blush rise up her cheeks. The realization that the prince was here and lavishing her with attention was such a shock that she couldn’t think of a response. She sent him a quick smile, but she felt as if she were watching something extraordinary happening to someone else.

Marrying Sergei had been her dream ever since she’d met him. She dared not think that it could possibly come true. But it might. It just might. She was no green girl—she’d had a dozen proposals already, and she recognized the signs.

Sergei was interested in her.

Perhaps their flirtation which had ended so abruptly in St. Petersburg would resume at an entirely new, more sophisticated level.

But she had no precious seconds to cherish the hopeful feelings welling up inside her. The butler announced some late arrivals from the top of the stairs.

“Lord and Lady Harry Traemore!” he cried.

Poppy watched the Traemores descend the stairs slowly, whispering to each other, oblivious to the stares of envy and admiration from the crowd below. They’d been married less than a year and seemed divinely happy. Lord Harry clung to his wife’s hand, and she looked up at him with adoring eyes.

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.