Primrose and the Dreadful Duke: Garland Cousins #1

by Larkin, Emily

  “I know,” Oliver said cheerfully. He turned to Rhodes. “So, old fellow, are your eyeballs going to burst?” He picked up the pillow from the floor and hurled it at Rhodes with unerring aim.

  Rhodes fended it off, snatched up another pillow, and threw it.

  It struck Oliver in the chest. He gave a loud “Oof,” and staggered back, flinging his arms out. His legs buckled. He collapsed dramatically to the floor.

  Primrose considered telling them that they were behaving like children, but she didn’t, because Rhodes was laughing, and the more Rhodes laughed the better. Instead, she left them to it, letting herself out into the corridor. There, she stood for a moment. Her cheeks felt hot.

  Oliver had kissed her.

  Well, not kissed her kissed her, but those two kisses had definitely been more than the brotherly, cousinly, and fatherly pecks she was used to.

  She touched first one cheek and then the other, storing the memory carefully away. It might be the only time Oliver ever kissed her.

  That thought made something knot painfully in her chest. For the first time in her life she wanted more. More than she had. More than she could ever have.

  It was a disturbing thought.

  Now just wait one moment, Primrose told herself sternly. She was letting both her emotions and her imagination run away with her. She didn’t want to marry Oliver.

  Did she?

  Primrose frowned and set off for her own bedchamber, which was in quite another part of the house, the Cheevers having prudently separated their guests. The bachelors—Rhodes and Oliver, Lord Algernon and Ninian Dasenby—were in the North wing; the unmarried ladies and their parents were in the South wing. Privately, Primrose had named the wings the low wing and the high wing, because the South wing was two feet higher than the North wing—and why had the architect done that? There was no logical reason for it.

  She traversed a long gallery hung with paintings, and then a smaller, sunnier one that would be perfect for reading in—it even had deep wing-backed armchairs one could curl up in—and finally reached the South wing. The high wing. There was a short staircase up to it—four steps—which she climbed. At the top, a corridor stretched in both directions. She turned left—and almost bumped into Miss Middleton-Murray.

  “Oh,” she said, with a start.

  “Lady Primrose.” Miss Middleton-Murray recoiled slightly, and then caught herself and dipped a demure little curtsy.

  “Miss Middleton-Murray,” Primrose said coolly, remembering what she’d seen take place on the jetty. She gave a nod of acknowledgment and moved around her.

  At the door to her bedchamber, she glanced back. Miss Middleton-Murray was still standing at the top of the stairs. Was she waiting for someone? Miss Carteris?

  Primrose remembered the jetty again, and felt a shiver of unease. And then she scolded herself. Miss Middleton-Murray was hardly going to push her rival down the stairs. For one thing, she wasn’t stupid. And for another, it wouldn’t kill someone to fall down four steps.

  * * *

  In the privacy of her bedchamber, her reaction to Oliver’s kisses seemed quite ridiculous. Two pecks on the cheek and she’d become totty-headed! “Oliver’s not the addle-pate,” Primrose said aloud. “I am.”

  She crossed to the window and looked down at the rose garden, with its winding paths and dancing fountains, sunny nooks and shady bowers.

  And its lovers.

  Primrose watched Mr. Dasenby and Miss Cheevers stroll together among the flower beds for a minute and decided that she’d been hasty with the word “lover.” A decorous amount of space separated Dasenby and Miss Cheevers from each other. Primrose saw diffidence in the way Dasenby held himself as he spoke, shyness in the way Miss Cheevers replied.

  Strange that she’d always thought Ninian Dasenby was a fop: pretty, but without any substance. Today had taught her otherwise. He had substance. And he was unlike the other Dasenbys. All the Dasenbys she’d ever met had one thing in common: a great deal of self-assurance. Except for Ninian. He didn’t have his father’s bluff, expansive nature. He didn’t have Oliver’s lighthearted confidence. He didn’t have his dead cousins’ arrogance.

  He was shy. Almost as shy as Chloé Cheevers. He just hid it better, behind exquisite clothes and an air of elegance.

  Primrose watched them stroll, not touching, just talking, and knew that she wasn’t witnessing a flirtation, she was witnessing the first tentative steps towards an understanding. Perhaps even a marriage.

  She felt a strange painful sensation in her chest, and recognized it for what it was. “Envy,” she whispered, her gaze on the two figures far below.

  When she’d been Miss Cheevers’s age she’d thought it possible she might marry. Now, she knew she probably never would, because she had ideals. Rather high ideals. Perhaps too high.

  Her ideals weren’t ideals of appearance or fortune or title; they were intellectual ideals. She wanted to marry a great thinker. Someone she could talk to about philosophy and history and science, about life and death and everything in between, about ideas.

  Which was why her reaction to Oliver’s kisses was so ridiculous.

  Oliver was not a great thinker. No one would call him that, least of all Oliver himself.

  Although he did possess a gift: laughter. The ability to be happy and to make those around him happy, and that was—arguably—as important to the world as great thinking was.

  Chapter Eleven

  Primrose read for the rest of the afternoon. By dinnertime the memory of Oliver’s kisses had faded and she was able to tidy it away in her mind as a trivial event. She felt exceedingly calm and rational as she dressed for dinner. When she chose her jewelry she didn’t select the diamonds or the pearls, but instead the tiny golden pendant that she’d inherited from her great-great-grandmother, partly because she wasn’t trying to outshine anyone or catch anyone’s eye, but mostly because she preferred the pendant to anything else.

  She looked in on Rhodes on the way down to dinner, and found the valet bathing his eyes with chamomile water. “Ollie already went downstairs,” Rhodes said fretfully. Primrose heard his unspoken words—by himself—and realized that she hadn’t yet had a chance to tell him that Oliver’s relatives weren’t trying to kill him.

  It wasn’t something she could discuss in front of the valet, so she merely said, “Then I shall see him down there.”

  Oliver was indeed in the drawing room. So were most of the other guests. The atmosphere was strangely subdued. Chloé Cheevers’s eyes were reddened, as if she’d been crying.

  “So dreadful!” Lady Cheevers said, twisting her hands in an agitated manner. She was wearing another turban, this one blue crêpe with pearl tassels.

  Lady Warrington gave a melancholy shake of her head. “The poor girl. Such a terrible thing to happen. One should never run down stairs.”

  Primrose felt a chill of foreboding. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “Poor Miss Carteris tripped on the stairs this afternoon.”

  Primrose’s mouth felt suddenly dry with horror. “Is she dead?” She searched the drawing room for Miss Middleton-Murray. There she was, seated on the sofa looking solemn.

  “Oh, no,” Lady Cheevers said, hastily. “Nothing like that, Lady Primrose. But she broke her wrist, the poor dear. Her parents have taken her home.”

  A smothered look of glee swiftly crossed Miss Middleton-Murray’s face—and was just as swiftly gone.

  “Was she pushed?” Primrose blurted.

  “Pushed?” Lady Cheevers repeated, a sharp note of shock in her voice. “Of course not. She tripped on her hem.”

  * * *

  There were four fewer places set at the table, on account of Rhodes and the Carterises. The ladies still outnumbered the men, and Primrose found herself with Lady Warrington to her left.

  Fortunately, Lady Warrington was a talker. By the end of the first course, Primrose had ascertained that the stairs Miss Carteris had fallen down were the very same
ones Miss Middleton-Murray had been loitering alongside, that the accident had occurred not long after Primrose had seen her loitering, and that Miss Carteris had been alone when it happened.

  By the end of the second course, she had learned that Miss Carteris had been on her way downstairs to practice a duet with Miss Middleton-Murray.

  “They both have nice enough voices, but I fancy my Emma has the advantage. She has a truly superior talent.” Lady Warrington spoke with a kind of smug conceit that made Primrose think of Oliver’s posturing earlier. Lady Warrington had even puffed out her chest slightly.

  “Emma had the best music tutors, of course. I made certain of that. No young lady can be called accomplished without proficiency in music. I think very poorly of parents who neglect their daughters’ musical education. Very poorly, indeed.” And then Lady Warrington must have recalled that Primrose wasn’t musical, and that she was the daughter of a duke. She turned beetroot red.

  Primrose almost disgraced herself by laughing out loud. She bit her lip and wished—quite desperately—that Oliver had heard that comment. How he would laugh.

  * * *

  That evening, instead of musical performances, they played card games. Lord and Lady Warrington sat down to silver loo with Lord and Lady Cheevers, and everyone else crowded around a table to play Speculation. Primrose was more interested in the participants than the game itself. She’d never realized it before, but one could tell a great deal about a person’s character by observing how they played cards. The Speculation players fell into three distinct groups. There were those who erred on the side of caution, such as Ninian Dasenby; those like Oliver, who were reckless in their play and laughed whether they won or lost; and then there were the ambitious ones, who wanted only to win.

  Lord Algernon and Miss Middleton-Murray fell into that latter category. Neither of them liked to lose. Lord Algernon’s lips became thinner and Miss Middleton-Murray’s laugh sharper.

  Primrose excused herself after three games, saying that she wanted to check on Rhodes. Oliver pushed back his chair. “I’ll come, too.”

  Primrose tried to tell him with a look that his relatives weren’t trying to kill him and he could use the main staircase without fear of being pushed down it, but if Oliver saw her look, he failed to interpret it correctly.

  There was a footman in the corridor. Primrose bit her tongue, holding words back until they reached the vestibule, which was empty except for shadows and candlelight. “Oliver—”

  Oliver didn’t give her a chance to finish speaking. He caught her elbow and said in a low, fierce voice: “Prim, you need to be careful.”

  Primrose blinked at him. “Me? Careful?”

  He steered her to a shadowy corner and bent his head to whisper in her ear. “Miss Middleton-Murray tripped Miss Carteris on those stairs.”

  “You saw it? Why didn’t you say something!”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t see it, but I’m certain she did it. I knew she was a harpy the instant I met her.”

  “I didn’t know she was one until this afternoon,” Primrose said. “When Miss Carteris almost fell off the jetty . . . it wasn’t an accident.”

  “I didn’t think it was.” He frowned. “Prim, what do you know about her? Miss Middleton-Murray?”

  “She’s Lord Cheevers’s goddaughter. I’m guessing her circumstances are somewhat straitened, because the Cheevers were to have sponsored her début this Season. But the measles put an end to that.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “As I understand it, the nursery children caught the measles, and then Lady Cheevers and Chloé did, too, and since they couldn’t go to London, Miss Middleton-Murray didn’t go either. She has to wait until next year.”

  “Clearly she doesn’t want to wait,” Oliver said. “She wants to catch a husband now, and she’s eliminating her competition.”

  “Yes.” Primrose shivered, thinking of those stairs and Miss Carteris’s broken wrist.

  Oliver must have felt the shiver. His hand tightened reassuringly on her arm. “Then you’ll be careful?”

  “There’s no need,” Primrose said. “She knows I’m not a rival. I’m too old.”

  Oliver put up his eyebrows. “Old?”

  “I’m twenty-seven, Oliver. An ape leader by anyone’s reckoning.”

  He gave a loud snort. “Who’s guilty of hyperbole now?”

  Primrose ignored this comment. “Miss Middleton-Murray knows you’d never marry me. Everyone knows it.”

  “Do they?”

  “Of course they do!”

  “Well, I don’t see how they can when I don’t even know it myself.”

  Primrose’s heart gave a funny little lurch in her chest. “Of course you know it.”

  “No, I don’t.” Oliver opened his mouth as if to say more, then shook his head. “That’s by the by, Prim. Promise me you’ll be careful.” He tightened his grip on her elbow, and awareness suddenly blossomed inside her. Awareness of how strong his fingers were, awareness of how close they stood to one another, how alone they were at this moment, how intimate it was—the two of them in this shadowy corner of the vestibule, heads bent together, talking in low voices.

  On the heels of awareness came a rush of heat. Primrose felt her cheeks grow warm.

  Oliver gave her a little shake. “Promise me.” His voice was stern, even a little harsh, and for the first time since he’d returned to England, he sounded like a soldier.

  “I promise to be careful,” Primrose said. She didn’t pull free from his grip, even though she knew she ought to.

  They stood in silence for a moment, far too close, Oliver’s hand on her arm. She could hear his breathing, smell his scent: sandalwood.

  Her heartbeat accelerated. Her imagination took a foolish flight of fancy, telling her that Oliver might lean in to kiss her—

  Oliver released her arm and stepped back. “I wish I knew where Miss Carteris fell. I’d like to have a look at those stairs.”

  “I know which ones they are,” Primrose said. She rubbed her elbow. Her skin was warm from his hand.

  * * *

  They looked in on Rhodes, then Primrose showed Oliver the stairs down which Miss Carteris had fallen. Four steps only. An inconsequential number.

  But enough to break a wrist.

  At the top of the stairs, where Miss Middleton-Murray had loitered, they paused. The corridor was empty, lit by candles in sconces. “My room’s that way.” Primrose pointed left. “And so are the Carterises’ and the Warringtons’. The Middleton-Murrays’ rooms are that way.” She pointed right, and as she pointed she noticed an alcove she hadn’t seen before, meant for statuary but currently vacant. So much for her powers of observation.

  “Stay where you are,” she said, and walked to the alcove—three strides from the stairs—and stepped into it, tucking herself out of sight. “Can you see me?”

  “No,” Oliver said.

  Primrose came out of the alcove and went back to the top of the stairs. “Miss Carteris tripped. Possibly on her hem, but most likely—”

  “On a piece of string,” Oliver said.

  Primrose nodded, pleased that they had both reached the same conclusion. “If Miss Middleton-Murray was in that alcove holding one end of the string . . .”

  “Then the other end must have been tied to this newel post.” Oliver crouched and examined the post. It was quite ornate, with beading at the top and bottom. “That’s where I’d tie it.” He pointed. “Ankle height. And look . . . how convenient: there’s a groove in exactly the right place.”

  Primrose crouched alongside him. They were so close that their arms brushed. She heard his breathing again, felt his heat, smelled sandalwood. She examined the newel post carefully. Candlelight flickered and shadows wavered. “Is that a scratch?”

  Oliver squinted. “Hard to tell in this light.”

  “It is a scratch,” Primrose said. “I’d wager she cut the string off with scissors. She wouldn’t have had time to untie a
knot.”

  “No.” Oliver stood. He stared down the steps, hands on hips. The angle of his jaw was grim.

  Primrose stayed where she was, crouching, trying to imagine what had happened. “She tied the string to this post, and let it lie slack along the top step. It would have been practically invisible.”

  Oliver nodded.

  “And then she waited in the alcove for Miss Carteris to come, and pulled it taut.”

  Oliver nodded again.

  “And once Miss Carteris had fallen, she snipped the string off as fast as she could, and made herself scarce.”

  Oliver nodded a third time.

  Primrose thought about it a little more. “You know, if I were to set such a trap . . . I’d do it in advance. Miss Carteris was only fetching some music—she’d have been in her room less than a minute.”

  Oliver glanced at her.

  “I’d tie the string to the post beforehand and tuck the rest out of sight. No one would notice. Why would they? And then, when Miss Carteris went to her room, it would only take a moment to lay out the string and hide in the alcove.”

  Oliver considered this, his gaze flicking from the post to the alcove, and back. He nodded again.

  “There’s no proof, of course,” Primrose said, standing.

  “No. Supposition. But she did it. I can feel it. In my gut.”

  Primrose could feel it, too.

  “Prim, you need to be careful. She could do it again. Promise me you’ll—”

  “I’ll check the alcove before I go down the stairs. Every single time. I promise.”

  Oliver didn’t look reassured. He eyed the spot where the string had most likely been tied.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Primrose said. “You’re in far more danger than I am. No one’s tried to push me under a carriage.”

  Oliver’s face twisted into a brief grimace.