But, he was a duke, and he did have his arm around Primrose Garland, so life wasn’t completely terrible.
Oliver gave himself a mental shake. “‘Do not say, ‘I am unhappy, because this has happened to me. Say instead, ‘I am happy, although this has happened to me.’”
He felt Primrose stiffen in surprise.
“That Aurelius fellow knew a thing or two,” he told her.
She pulled away from his embrace, far enough that she could see his face. “I can’t believe that you read him. That you like him enough to quote him. I thought you liked novels, preferably ones with headless horsemen or ghosts.”
Oliver grinned at her. “I do. I read one once that had a madman, a secret passage, an oubliette, and two ghosts, one of them headless. Best book I’ve ever read.”
He couldn’t see her face clearly, but he was absolutely certain that Primrose rolled her eyes.
“Truthfully, Prim . . . I didn’t think much of Aurelius at school.” He gathered her close again, settling his arm around her shoulders. “But your father gave me a copy when I sailed for India, said Aurelius had been a good soldier and a good leader, and I should read him since I was going to be a soldier myself.” He chuckled in memory. “I didn’t want to read it; I won’t deny it, Prim. In fact, I only read it out of obligation to your father. But the funny thing was that it made a lot more sense than it had at school. And I found myself going back to it, and every time I read it, it made even more sense.”
“What’s your favorite quote?” Primrose asked.
Oliver thought about this for a moment. “‘The first rule is to keep an untroubled spirit,’” he said. “‘The second rule is to look things in the face and know them for what they are.’”
“An untroubled spirit?” She uttered a faint, almost soundless, laugh. “Yes, that’s you.”
Her head rested on his shoulder, her hand rested on his chest. Her fingers idly twisted one of his coat buttons one way and then the other, not coquettishly, but absent-mindedly, as if she was thinking and didn’t know she was doing it.
Quite likely, they were thinking the same thing.
Look them in the eye and know them for what they are.
Miss Middleton-Murray.
Ninian.
“‘Think of the things which goad man into destroying man,’” he said quietly.
Primrose completed the quote: “‘They are hope, envy, hatred, fear, and contempt.’” And then she said, “Miss Middleton-Murray hopes to be a duchess, and fears that she won’t be.”
“And Ninian envies me.”
Primrose was silent for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. I think he’s afraid Lord Cheevers won’t let him marry Miss Cheevers.”
“What?”
“He’s as much in love with her as she is with him. Hadn’t you noticed?”
“No,” Oliver said, feeling a little unsettled. Was he really that unobservant?
“But Lord Cheevers wants a duke for a son-in-law.” Primrose twisted the coat button one way, then the other. “So . . .”
“I’m in Ninian’s way.”
She released the button and laid her hand on his chest. “I’m sorry, Oliver.”
“So am I.” He sighed, and then gave himself another mental shake. “‘I am happy, although this has happened to me.’”
“It’s easy to say,” Primrose observed. “But not particularly easy to do. At least, I don’t find it easy.”
Oliver laughed. “No, I can’t say I always do, either.” He was feeling a lot less melancholy, though—and the reason for that wasn’t Marcus Aurelius, but Primrose.
He rested his head against the wall and simply enjoyed the moment: sitting on the floor, his arm around Primrose Garland.
Unfortunately, the moment didn’t last long. Primrose slipped out from under his arm, climbed to her feet, and dusted off her skirt. “Come on,” she said, holding out her hand to him. “Rhodes will want to hear about that piece of string.”
Oliver took her hand and stood, but he didn’t release her. “There’s something we need to do first.”
“What?”
He drew her into an embrace. “Kiss.”
“Oliver!” Primrose protested, but she didn’t try to pull away. In fact, she tilted her face upwards, and when his mouth touched hers, her lips parted.
Oliver had kissed quite a few women in his time, and all of them had been more skilled at it than Primrose. But perhaps that was why kissing her was so special? Her innocent enthusiasm inflamed him in a way that practiced expertise never had. Or maybe it was because every other woman he’d kissed had been playing a game—the same game he’d been playing: flirtation, casual intimacy.
Primrose definitely wasn’t playing a game—and for once, neither was he. And while that scared him a little, it also made his heart beat faster, made heat flush beneath his skin, made his blood pound in his head.
God, he couldn’t get enough of her: that warm, welcoming mouth, the soft lips and smooth teeth and velvety tongue, the taste of her. And surely that was one of life’s great conundrums? How someone with such a tart tongue could taste so sweet?
Oliver kissed Primrose until he ran out of breath, and then he raised his head and dragged air into his lungs. He was shaking ever so slightly, and he’d never done that after kissing a woman before. It was unprecedented. But then everything about kissing Primrose was unprecedented.
He held her tightly to him, while his breath slowly steadied and his pulse stopped galloping, and it was almost as good as the kissing had been: just standing here, their arms around each other, her cheek pressed to his chest, his cheek resting on her hair.
Even after his heartbeat had steadied and his breathing was even, Oliver was reluctant to let her go. Because this was the best moment of the whole day. The best moment of any day since he’d returned to England.
Such a simple emotion, happiness.
He felt it right now. Felt it in the marrow of his bones. And how ridiculous was that? His cousin was trying to kill him, and yet he was happy.
Because of Primrose.
Finally, unwillingly, Oliver released her.
Primrose stepped back, and smoothed her gown. “You are a very unexpected person.”
“Me?” Oliver thought about tart tongues and sweet kisses, about young ladies appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye, about Faerie godmothers and magical wishes. “So are you.” He held out his hand to her. “Come on, let’s go see your brother.”
They held hands all the way to the reception room door, and Oliver was as reluctant to release Primrose’s hand as he’d been to stop kissing her. Which was more than a little confusing.
Look things in the face and know them for what they are.
If he looked this in the face . . . it looked an awful lot like he was falling in love with Primrose Garland.
Chapter Nineteen
By the time they’d brought Rhodes up to date, it was almost dinner time. Oliver went next door to change. His valet had a steaming pitcher of water ready, and a change of clothing laid out on the bed.
Oliver was tying his neckcloth when an urgent knock sounded on his door.
He paused, while his valet opened the door.
Monsieur Benoît stood in the corridor. He looked agitated. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Grace—”
“Is it Rhodes?”
“Yes, sir.”
Oliver threw aside the neckcloth and strode out into the corridor, ignoring the fact that he was in stockinged feet and shirtsleeves. “What is it?”
Benoît ushered him hastily into Rhodes’s bedchamber and closed the door.
Rhodes was standing in the middle of the room in his nightshirt. The bed was in a state of disarray, pillows tumbled on the floor.
“What’s wrong?” Oliver asked.
“Your fucking cousin, is what’s wrong,” Rhodes said, his voice thick with rage.
“What?”
The valet picked up one of the tumbled pillows and brou
ght it to Oliver. “Look,” he said, peeling back the pillowcase.
Oliver looked. And then looked more closely. “Is that . . . ?”
“Bishop’s weed,” Rhodes said. His face was livid with fury, his fists clenched. “Your fucking cousin put bishop’s weed in my pillows—and I am going to kill him—”
Oliver crossed to him quickly and caught him by one wrist. “Lower your voice, man. He’s only two doors from here.”
Rhodes paused on an inhalation, caught between rage and prudence.
“Benoît, how much of that stuff is in his bed?”
“I haven’t searched properly yet,” the valet said.
“Then let’s do that now.” He released Rhodes’s wrist. “Stay here, away from the bed.”
Rhodes hissed out a breath. He didn’t say anything, just gave a curt nod.
Oliver and Benoît searched the bed. It took five minutes, and in those five minutes they found bishop’s weed not only in every single pillow, but also under the bottom sheet and beneath the mattress. There were even sprigs of bishop’s weed tucked into the bedhangings.
Oliver’s own rage grew while they searched. By the time they’d finished he was as angry as Rhodes. Perhaps angrier. He put his hands on his hips, took a deep breath, and tried to not be pushed into action by his rage but rather to think.
“All right,” he said. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” He turned to the valet. “Benoît, my cousin is trying to kill me.”
The valet’s eyes widened.
“He did this—” Oliver gestured to the disordered bed, “—to get Rhodes out of the way.”
The valet looked from the bed to Rhodes, and then back to Oliver.
“I want to catch my cousin red-handed,” Oliver said. “So, I think it’s best if we pretend we haven’t found the bishop’s weed. Rhodes, you and I’ll swap rooms. You sleep in my bed; I’ll sleep here.”
Rhodes gave a single nod.
“I want you to stay in my room all day tomorrow.”
“But—”
“By evening you should be well enough to help me catch Ninian—but he won’t know that. He’ll think you’re still laid up in bed.”
Rhodes closed his mouth.
“Can you bear to wear my clothes tomorrow? I think it’s best if you leave everything here.”
“I agree,” the valet said. “I want to check the linings and all the pockets before Thayne wears anything.”
Oliver glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Damn, I’ve got to go. Wait until everyone’s at dinner before moving to my room. It’s important that no one in this wing notices. My cousin mustn’t hear of this.”
“No one will see us,” Benoît promised.
Oliver strode to the door. “I’ll tell Primrose what’s happened. And my valet. He’ll be expecting you.”
* * *
By the time he had explained everything to his valet, Grimshaw, and hastily finished dressing, Oliver was late for dinner. He hurried downstairs, to find everyone in the drawing room—although “everyone” wasn’t that many people now, what with the Carterises gone, and Miss Warrington and Rhodes confined to bed. Lady Warrington was absent, too—presumably with her daughter, upstairs.
“I beg your pardon,” Oliver said. “I lost track of time.” His gaze skimmed the faces, passing over his uncle, his cousin, and Miss Middleton-Murray, before coming to rest on Primrose. Damnation. He wished they had a signal for I have to talk with you the instant dinner is over. He tried to convey his message with a single glance, then let his gaze move on, to Lord Warrington. “How is your daughter, sir? I trust her injuries aren’t too serious?”
“Broken her nose,” Warrington said gruffly.
The temptation to look daggers at Miss Middleton-Murray was almost overwhelming. Oliver mastered the impulse. “I’m very sorry to hear it, sir.”
At that moment, dinner was announced. Everyone rose. Oliver made a beeline for Primrose and offered her his arm. Private conversation was impossible, surrounded as they were by eight other people, but he lightly pinched the back of her hand and gave her a significant look, and then he knocked over a lyre-back chair and took a moment to pick it up again and set it on its feet.
“Honestly, Westfell,” Primrose said, exasperation in her voice, while at the same time she bumped into a sofa table, knocking several ornaments askew. She paused to reposition them. By the time she was satisfied with their arrangement, they were the last people in the drawing room. Her eyes met his. “What is it?” she whispered.
“I need to speak to you. Immediately after dinner,” he whispered back. And then he realized that the State apartments would be pitch black at that hour. “The library? I’ll duck out before the port is served.”
Primrose nodded, and they stepped into the corridor. A minute later, they were seated on opposite sides of the dining table.
Oliver unfolded his napkin. He had Miss Middleton-Murray to one side of him, and Miss Cheevers to the other. He suppressed a sigh, and wished that the meal was already over.
The first course was served. Oliver helped himself to chicken á la reine, asparagus, peas, and two beef olives. Then he turned to Miss Cheevers, ready to start polite conversation, but Miss Cheevers’s attention was wholly occupied by the man to her right: Ninian.
Oliver observed her for a moment—the flush on her cheeks, the shy smile on her lips. Primrose had been correct: Miss Cheevers was in love with Ninian.
How the devil had he missed that?
With Miss Cheevers thus occupied, the only person Oliver could make conversation with was Miss Middleton-Murray. He brought out his favorite subject for harpies: Trésaguet’s method for paving roads.
Miss Middleton-Murray was a very good actress; whatever he thought of her, he had to give her that. She listened to his monologue with an appearance of rapt attention, and whenever he paused for breath she made no attempt to change the subject, but instead offered him compliments. “How fascinating, Westfell. Do tell me more,” and “How knowledgeable you are, Westfell,” and “I could listen to you talk for hours, Westfell; you make everything sound so interesting!”
During the second course, Miss Middleton-Murray changed her tactics, asking about the innovations he intended to make on his estates. “I’m sure a man of such intelligence and vision as yourself must have plans.”
Intelligence and vision?
Oliver swallowed his wine the wrong way. It took all his willpower to avoid choking. Once he could breathe again, he glanced at Primrose. To his profound disappointment she hadn’t heard Miss Middleton-Murray’s words.
“Plans?” he said. “Why, yes, I do.” And then he proceeded to describe in tedious and painstaking detail a great number of wholly fictitious alterations that he was going to make to the mansion on Berkeley Square—that being the only one of his properties he was familiar with so far. He talked about the roof tiles for a full ten minutes, then moved on to the wainscoting, then the skirting boards, then the banisters, then the window treatments. Thank God, at that point, the footmen came to clear the meal.
He was exhausted—and he had to wonder who’d suffered most during dinner: Miss Middleton-Murray, or himself?
The ladies withdrew. Primrose sent him a glance as she left the room, to which Oliver returned an infinitesimal nod.
The brandy and port were placed on the table.
Oliver pushed back his chair. “Excuse me for a few minutes.”
He left the dining room, and stood in the corridor for a moment. All was silent. No ladies lingered outside the drawing room.
Oliver trod quickly and quietly to the library, opened the door, and slipped inside.
Candles were lit in the sconces and a fire burned in the grate, but the light barely penetrated the shadows. He couldn’t see the high ceiling. Couldn’t even see the gallery that gave access to the upper tier of shelves.
Two wing-backed armchairs were positioned in front of the fireplace. Oliver crossed to them to wait for Primrose.
&
nbsp; As he reached them, a figure rose from the armchair he’d been intending to sit in.
Oliver was so startled that, for the second time that day, he squeaked. And then—because what else could one do when one had squeaked?—he flung out his arms and pretended to swoon on the floor.
“Honestly, Oliver,” he heard Primrose say.
He opened one eye and peered up at her.
Primrose stood over him, her hands on her hips. “Was this why you wanted to see me? So that you could indulge in dramatics?”
“No.” He opened his other eye, too, and grinned up at her. “You do knock a man off his feet, Prim.”
She shook her head at this.
“You startled me,” Oliver said, climbing to his feet. “I was about to sit in that chair.” He was tempted to suggest that they both sit in it together, she on his lap, but this was the library after all, and anyone could walk in at any moment, so he gestured for her to sit again and took the neighboring armchair.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Your brother,” Oliver said, sobering. He told her about the bishop’s weed in Rhodes’s bed, and about their secretly swapping rooms. “So you can’t visit him anymore, because people would think you’re visiting me.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Dash it. I’d better get back to my port.”
“And I to my tea.” Primrose stood. “Oh—I almost forgot to tell you! The string’s gone.”
“String? You mean that scrap around the newel post?”
She nodded. “It was gone when I came down to dinner. Now the only evidence we have is two scratches.”
“It’s not enough,” Oliver said.
“I know.” Primrose pulled a face, and headed for the door.
Oliver followed.
They parted ways in the corridor, Primrose to her tea, he to his port.
Chapter Twenty
Oliver went to sleep to the sound of rain against the windowpanes—and woke in the morning to silence. He flung back Rhodes’s bedcovers, strode to the window, and jerked the curtains open.
Primrose and the Dreadful Duke: Garland Cousins #1 Page 15
