Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right Read Free Page A

forced to marry. Luckily, that sad fate hadn’t fallen to him or any of his friends but to a weasel who’d been seducing young virgins for years and getting away with it—until Prinny’s scandalous bet, that is.
    Which reminded Nicholas—he was a Bachelor, known for his skill at evading the parson’s mousetrap—so what was he still doing here? And where was his damned coat?
    He bent low, sending a crashing pain through his head. But there the rumpled garment lay, under the bed, a comfortable nest for two snoozing corgis.
    Natasha lifted her feet, and he nudged the dogs awake long enough to pull the coat from under them with the least amount of disturbance to their slumber.
    When he stood, a slant of that dreaded morning sunlight hit him square in the eye.
    As if on cue, Natasha bounded from the bed and took his arm. “Imagine the children we could have if we married.” Her expression was more determined than dreamy. “ My hair. Your blue eyes. And the boys with that sweet cleft in their chins, like you.”
    She pulled him closer, and he paused in his dressing, one arm inside his coat sleeve. “I’m sure I mentioned I’ve no intention of marrying and having children of whom I’m aware for at least another decade, possibly two.”
    He was an expert at seduction and was damned sure she wasn’t in danger of producing any ebony-haired, blue-eyed children any time soon—ones fathered by him, that is. The women he bedded never seemed to notice how disciplined he was, how carefully he kept a wall up between them, even in the throes of passion—
    Especially in the throes of passion.
    He looked around the room for his hat and found it next to another corgi—Boris, the one with the missing eye—and a small, empty bottle of brandy on the floor by the bed. Of the two glasses nearby, one had a golden puddle in the bottom. The other—he picked it up and sniffed it—had never been used.
    Natasha laughed, but he caught an uneasiness in her tone. “Men and their brandy. It turns them into—” She gave him a smoldering look then, and he knew she was thinking of their sensual play of the evening before. Or attempting to get him to think of it.
    She bit her lip.
    He sat down on the bed next to her and shackled her slender wrists with his fingers. “Tell me truthfully what happened,” he said. His voice was firm. But fairly gentle, for a man with a sore head, a growing suspicion, and an unfulfilled, hot carnal need.
    She lowered her eyes.
    “Natasha?”
    “All right.” She looked up, her tone defiant. “I took liberties last night. I added something to the brandy because I wanted you to stay. Is that too much to ask?”
    Bloody well it was too much to ask. “Do you often drug men who take you home?”
    She refused to answer.
    He turned her chin toward him. “Tell me.”
    She shrugged. “It’s a habit of mine. I find it rather titillating.”
    Looking into her lovely face, marred by a petulant expression, Nicholas saw how stupid he’d been to give in to temptation. He rarely made such careless mistakes. In fact, he wondered if he was losing his touch.
    He’d known after one conversation with her at Gunter’s, where he’d followed her one day last week, that she’d no political on-dits of any import to offer, not even a morsel or two about her famous uncle Revnik or her twin brother, Prince Sergei.
    Yet when Nicholas had run into her at a musicale later that evening, he’d come back with her afterward to Lord and Lady Howell’s residence, sneaking into her bedchamber through her balcony—out of sheer boredom.
    He’d been back twice, which said a great deal about his mindset these days. He was in a rut, well before he should have sunk into one, by his appraisal. Ruts were for men over thirty.
    He released Natasha’s wrists and stood. “Today we say good-bye.”
    She sniffed. “You’ve no heart, Nicholas.”
    “Consider yourself lucky for having found out so quickly.” He arched a warning brow. “You