Primrose and the Dreadful Duke: Garland Cousins #1

by Larkin, Emily

  Sunshine flooded into the room.

  Oliver felt a surge of grim exultation. Today’s the day.

  Someone knocked quietly on the door.

  “Who is it?” he called.

  “Monsieur Benoît.”

  Oliver unlocked the door and opened it.

  Benoît brought a ewer of steaming water with him. “How’s Thayne?” Oliver asked, as the valet set the ewer beside the washstand.

  “He’s much improved, Your Grace.”

  Oliver shaved and dressed hastily, then went next door to see for himself. He found Rhodes going through his wardrobe with Grimshaw.

  “Your sleeves are an inch too short,” Rhodes told him.

  “Your arms are an inch too long,” Oliver retorted. He stepped closer and examined his friend. “You look a hundred times better.”

  “I feel a hundred times better.” The huskiness was gone from Rhodes’s voice and his face was no longer flushed. His eyelids were slightly puffy and his eyes a little bloodshot, but compared to how he’d been yesterday it was nothing.

  “Your eyes still itchy?”

  “Tiny bit,” Rhodes said. “I’ll keep bathing them. Should be fine by tonight.” He paused. “We are on for tonight, I take it?”

  “We’re definitely on,” Oliver said.

  * * *

  Benoît departed to fetch a tray of breakfast for Rhodes, and Oliver went down to the parlor.

  Four people were already at the long table: Uncle Algernon, Ninian, and Mrs. and Miss Middleton-Murray. They gave him four different smiles. If he was going to score those smiles, he would have awarded Miss Middleton-Murray full marks—ten out of ten for the pretty curve of her lips, the delightful dimples, and the warm admiration in her eyes—but he was no longer scoring Miss Middleton-Murray on anything.

  Oliver piled a plate high with eggs and sirloin, and sat down next to her, the better to keep an eye on Ninian, who was seated opposite. Miss Middleton-Murray mistook his motive; she lowered her gaze to her plate, but not before he saw the triumph there.

  He left the onus of conversation to his table companions, all of whom were close to finishing their meals. Miss Middleton-Murray was particularly cheerful that morning—on account of the sunshine, she said, which could have been true, but Oliver thought it was mostly on account of successfully eliminating her competitors.

  Ninian wasn’t cheerful. In fact, he seemed rather on edge. He kept darting looks at Oliver.

  Oliver pretended not to notice. He chewed his food, and smiled, and nodded—and kept his thoughts to himself.

  The door opened. Oliver looked up, hoping it was Primrose, but it was Miss Cheevers. She blushed prettily and bade them good morning, filled her plate, and sat next to Ninian.

  Ninian stopped sending Oliver those darting glances. His attention became wholly focused on Miss Cheevers.

  Oliver eyed the pair of them, and wondered how on earth he failed to notice that romance.

  Lord Cheevers was next to enter the breakfast parlor. When he saw his daughter sitting next to Ninian, he frowned. It appeared that Primrose was right: Cheevers didn’t want his daughter to marry a mere Mister.

  And thus, I have to die.

  Oliver hid a grimace, and demolished another egg.

  Fortunately, the next person to appear was Primrose. Since Lord Cheevers had taken the seat next to Oliver, she sat alongside Miss Cheevers. “Have you seen my brother this morning?” she asked, spreading her napkin in her lap. “How is he?”

  “I think he’s getting worse,” Oliver said, and gave her a wink.

  “Such a shame,” Uncle Algy said. “Poor Thayne.”

  “Yes,” Oliver said, managing not to glare at Ninian. “Poor Thayne.”

  “Perhaps he needs to be cupped again?” Uncle Algy said.

  “I’ll suggest it, certainly.” Oliver caught Primrose’s eye, and stroked his nose—and then surreptitiously snapped his fingers.

  Primrose understood the silent message: Meet me in the State dressing room when you’ve finished eating. And can you please translocate to behind the screen so I can watch? She gave a tiny nod.

  Satisfied, Oliver finished his breakfast. The day stretched ahead of him. Somehow, he needed to avoid private conversation with Ninian. “We must go for a walk later,” he said to Miss Middleton-Murray. “Make the most of this beautiful weather. Shall we say eleven o’clock?”

  Again, he saw that flash of triumph. “I’d love to, Your Grace,” she said, glancing up at him through long, curling eyelashes.

  Oliver pushed back his chair, and stood. Across the table, Ninian’s head jerked up. An expression of consternation crossed his face. He pushed back his own chair.

  Oliver was in the corridor by the time Ninian caught up with him.

  “I say, Cousin,” Ninian said, a little timidly. “Could we perhaps—”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right: you wanted a private word.” Oliver made himself smile widely at him. “Let’s go riding, shall we? Say in half an hour?”

  Relief flooded Ninian’s face. “That would perfect. Thank you.”

  * * *

  The sunshine made a great difference to the State dressing room. It looked opulently majestic, rather than drearily sepulchral—the red damask on the walls, the black marble fireplace, the huge red-and-black lacquered screen with its chinoiserie dragons.

  Oliver crossed to the sofa and peeked under the Holland cloth. Gilt and red velvet. He wrinkled his nose.

  Come to think of it, now that he was Duke of Westfell he probably possessed more than his fair share of gilt-and-velvet furniture.

  His wife would have to help him redecorate. Better yet, he could cede that task entirely to her.

  He wondered what Primrose’s taste in furniture was . . . and from there, found himself pondering the same questions he’d been pondering yesterday when she’d so unexpectedly appeared from behind that screen.

  Just how much did he like Primrose?

  Enough to marry her?

  Because if he kept kissing her, that’s where they were headed.

  Oliver took up his stance, leaning against the wall where he had a good view behind the lacquered screen.

  Whenever he had difficult decisions to make—ones where he couldn’t see the answer straight away—he liked to take them apart and tackle them step by step.

  Today’s decision felt like the biggest one he’d ever made in his life, bigger even than deciding to join the army. Looked at head-on, it was rather daunting. But if one came up upon it in little steps . . .

  Perhaps not so daunting.

  He rolled his shoulders, and asked himself his first question, which was: Did he want to marry?

  And the answer to that was easy: Yes, he did.

  Eventually.

  The second question was: Of all the women he’d met since returning to England, whom did he like the most?

  Another easy answer: Lady Primrose Garland.

  Which led to a significantly more difficult question . . . Did he want to marry Primrose?

  Oliver pondered this for a while. Primrose’s company was stimulating. She made him laugh. He was strongly attracted to her. And most importantly, she didn’t treat him like a duke; she treated him like a real person. So the answer that question was . . .

  Yes. He rather thought he did want to marry her.

  Which brought him to the most important question of all: If he and Primrose married, would they be happy together?

  But while that question was crucial, it wasn’t actually difficult to answer. It took no feat of imagination to picture them happily married. Which wasn’t to say that he didn’t think there’d be annoyances or disagreements, but that he thought they liked and respected each other well enough to get past those things.

  See? Difficult decisions weren’t really so difficult after all. If one approached them step by step they made themselves.

  In fact, only one decision remained: When should he propose to Primrose?

  Oliver conside
red this while he waited for her to appear behind the screen. He’d intended to find his feet as a duke before seeking a wife, but a woman like Primrose—brought up in a duke’s household—could help him find his feet. He had no doubt that she knew a hell of a lot more about managing estates than he did, and a hell of a lot more about his duties in the House of Lords.

  Which meant that there was no reason to wait.

  However, there was one small problem . . . Primrose might not want to marry him.

  How was that for irony? There were dozens of young ladies who’d leap at the chance to marry him—no, be honest: hundreds—and yet the one he wanted was quite likely to refuse his offer.

  Because she believed they didn’t suit one another.

  Oliver frowned, and shifted his shoulders against the wall. Primrose was intelligent. Sooner or later she’d realize that they did, in fact, suit each other very well.

  More kisses would probably help his cause, because the more she enjoyed his kisses, the more likely she was to—

  At that moment, Primrose appeared from thin air.

  Oliver didn’t squeak or recoil. In fact, he barely flinched. Which pleased him.

  However, there was some fun to be had here, so he gave a breathy little shriek and pretended to faint, collapsing onto the thick carpet.

  He heard almost inaudible footsteps. A shadow fell over him. A toe nudged his thigh. “Duke of Westfool,” Primrose said, which only reinforced his determination to marry her.

  Oliver opened his eyes and grinned. “Very good, Prim.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “How’s Rhodes?”

  “In excellent shape,” Oliver said, climbing to his feet. “He’ll be fighting fit by tonight.”

  “Good.” She looked as relieved as Ninian had done, ten minutes ago, which reminded him . . .

  “Prim, can you help me out today? Ninian wants to talk privately with me, and I need to avoid it without looking as if I am avoiding it.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  “For a start, I’m going riding with him shortly. I need you to invite yourself along.” The door to the State bedchamber drew his eye. What did it look like now that the sun was out? He peeked inside, and winced. Those gilded columns were really quite garish.

  He walked over to the great four-poster on its dais. “Have any kings slept here?”

  “One, I believe.”

  Oliver flung himself down on the Holland-covered bed.

  “Oliver! You can’t lie on that. It’s a State bed.”

  “I’m a duke. I can lie on State beds if I wish.”

  Primrose shook her head at him. “What time are you riding with Ninian?”

  Oliver fished out his pocket watch. “In twenty minutes.”

  “Twenty minutes? But I’m not dressed for riding!”

  “Then you’d best hurry, hadn’t you?” He snapped his fingers.

  “I can’t translocate to my room. My maid may be there.”

  “Oh. Then I guess you’d better run.”

  Primrose huffed a breath at him, and did just that: run from the bedchamber. A moment later, he heard the door to the reception room open and close. Oliver felt a little guilty, but mostly what he felt was an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

  I can rely on her. She has my back.

  * * *

  Oliver went upstairs to fetch his riding gloves, hat, and crop. He dawdled in the bedchamber, because twenty minutes really wasn’t long if Primrose had to change her entire outfit. Rhodes watched without comment while he pulled on his riding gloves, but his expression was eloquent enough to speak for itself: Rhodes wanted to go riding, too.

  “We’ll go for a long ride tomorrow,” Oliver promised him.

  “I bloody well hope so.”

  “And remember: tonight we go hunting.”

  “I remember,” Rhodes said grimly. “Be careful.”

  “I’m always careful,” Oliver said. He let himself out of his room, walked down the corridor, and paused at the top of the stairs.

  Ninian was waiting in the vestibule below, alone. There was no sign of Primrose.

  Oliver descended the stairs slowly, one second per step, thirty-six seconds in all. As he reached the bottom he heard quick footsteps behind him. He glanced back, and saw Primrose.

  “Oh,” she cried gaily. “Are you going riding, too? Let’s all go together.”

  Oliver exchanged a glance with Ninian, and made a show of reluctance. “Ah . . .”

  “It’ll be fun!” Primrose said, arriving on the final step. She was ever so slightly out of breath.

  Oliver exchanged another glance with Ninian, and obeyed the dictates of courtesy. “It would be our pleasure to ride with you, Lady Primrose.”

  * * *

  Riding occupied an hour. Strolling in the gardens with Miss Middleton-Murray occupied another one. She coaxed Oliver into describing his exploits as a dragoon, encouraging him with an endless stream of compliments: How handsome he must have been in his uniform, how brave, how gallant, how daring, how heroic. Oliver amused himself by imagining his head swelling with each compliment. By the time they had turned back to the house and climbed the long flight of steps up to the terrace—twenty-four steps; another flight of stairs not to be pushed down—his head was the size of a dowager’s landaulet. Fortunately, at that point, they encountered Primrose, who’d changed from her riding habit into a muslin dress.

  “Where have you been?” Oliver asked.

  “Down to the lake,” Primrose said, and stroked her nose.

  Aha! She wanted to talk with him.

  Oliver smiled, to show that he understood her message, and covertly snapped his fingers.

  Primrose’s eyelids twitched, which showed that she understood his message.

  Once inside, Oliver shed Miss Middleton-Murray as quickly as he could, and headed for the State apartments.

  Primrose arrived a minute later, appearing behind the lacquered screen.

  “Aargh!” Oliver shrieked, and then pretended to swoon to the floor.

  “You should have been an actor, not a duke,” Primrose told him dryly.

  Oliver opened one eye. “I know.” Then he opened the other. “Wait! Do you think I could be a duke and an actor?” He sat up on the floor. “That’s a thought! What do you think, Prim? The Duke of Westfell as . . . Romeo!”

  “The Duke of Westfell as . . . Dogberry.”

  “Harsh, Prim. Very harsh,” Oliver said—while making a mental note to hunt down a copy of Much Ado About Nothing and learn some of Dogberry’s lines.

  Primrose ignored this comment. “I had a look at the jetty. The boathouse doesn’t have any windows, but if we open the doors a crack we’ll be able to see everything. It’s nearly full moon, so there should be enough light.”

  “We?”

  “Rhodes and I.”

  Oliver shook his head. “It’s not necessary, Prim. Rhodes and I can handle it alone.”

  “You can’t possibly think that I’m not coming.”

  “I do think it.”

  Primrose crossed her arms and looked down her nose at him. “Why? Because I’m a female?”

  Oliver realized that he was at a disadvantage, sitting on the floor. He climbed to his feet. “Because there’s no need.”

  “We want as much proof as possible, don’t we? As many witnesses as possible.”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “So, I’m coming.”

  Oliver took a moment to consider how much danger she could potentially be in. “Can you swim?”

  “It’s you Ninian’s going to push in, not me.”

  Oliver grimaced at this reminder. “Even so—”

  “I can swim,” Primrose said. “At least, enough to get out of the lake.” And then she gave a mischievous smile. “I can also wish myself ashore.”

  That was certainly true—but it didn’t make Oliver feel any happier. He hesitated before speaking: “It might get a little ugly, Prim. If Ninian puts up a fight there’ll likely b
e some blood, some language you’d rather not hear.”

  “I’m twenty-seven, Oliver. I can handle blood and swearing.”

  Still Oliver hesitated—and then he realized, somewhat belatedly, that he couldn’t prevent Primrose from being at the boathouse tonight. If she wanted to be there she would simply wish herself there.

  “All right,” he said, grudgingly. “But you must promise to be careful.”

  “I promise.”

  He pointed a finger at her. “You’re an observer only. You do not get involved.”

  “I promise,” she said again.

  “All right. You can come.” But he wasn’t happy about it. In fact, he was so unhappy about it that he found himself unable to stand still. He walked to the window, looked out for a moment, then walked into the State bedroom and looked out the window there, too. Both rooms had a fine view of the rose garden. When he turned around, Primrose was standing in the doorway. “Stay behind Rhodes at all times,” he told her. “Do not confront Ninian. Leave that to Rhodes and me.”

  “Yes, Oliver.” She smiled, as if she found his anxiousness amusing. “I’m not an idiot, you know.”

  “I know.” But he was still worried, damn it.

  Primrose crossed to where he stood. Daylight gilded her hair, bringing out glints of silver and gold. The pendant she wore at her throat, a tiny golden acorn, gleamed as brightly as the sun. She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm in a manner that she no doubt thought was comforting. The odd thing was that it was comforting.

  “Only a few more hours,” she said.

  “Yes.” And that was comforting, too: knowing that this whole God-awful mess would soon be resolved. Not happily, of course—he winced at the thought of what Uncle Algy’s reaction would be when he learned the truth about his son—but finished. Done with. Over.

  And then he could move on with being the Duke of Westfell. Learn to manage his estates. Find his feet in the House of Lords. Take a wife.

  He gave Primrose a sidelong glance. I want you, he thought. Although it wasn’t so much a thought as a feeling, a sense of certainty.