Primrose and the Dreadful Duke: Garland Cousins #1

by Larkin, Emily

  “Lie down, Oliver.”

  He gave a low, frustrated growl, and did. “Remind me to wring Ninian’s neck when we catch him tonight.”

  Primrose sat up. “We really should send for a doctor.”

  “I don’t need a doctor. What I need is for someone to kiss me better.”

  Primrose shook her head at him.

  Oliver stared back at her with wide-eyed innocence. “But I do.”

  Primrose bit her lip, and glanced at him through her eyelashes. “Where does it hurt?” And then she heard what she’d said, heard how she’d said it. Was she flirting with him? She, who had never flirted with anyone in her life?

  Oliver gave another of those small, mischievous grins of his. “Here,” he said, pointing to his elbow. “It hurts here.”

  Primrose gave him what felt like a governess look—raised eyebrows, pursed lips, more than a little skeptical.

  Oliver opened his eyes even wider, exuding innocence.

  Primrose huffed out a put-upon sigh. “All right, then,” she said, and bent to place a kiss on the indicated elbow, pressing her lips to the green superfine of his tailcoat. Then she lifted her head and met Oliver’s eyes.

  He was watching her quite intently. He didn’t look innocent any longer, or mischievous. He looked as if he was holding his breath in much the same way that she was holding hers.

  “And here,” he said softly, pointing to his shoulder.

  Primrose obligingly leaned over him and pressed her lips to his shoulder, then she raised her head and met his gaze again. She should have felt stupid, foolish, self-conscious . . . but she didn’t. Not in the slightest. Instead, she felt alive. Anticipation tingled in her blood.

  “And here,” he said, pointing to his ear.

  She laughed. “It doesn’t hurt there.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  Primrose rolled her eyes, and bent and kissed his ear. His short brown hair softly tickled her nose. She wanted to bury her face in it, an urge so strong it was almost a compulsion. With effort she forced herself to break that contact, but speech was impossible; her throat was too tight.

  It seemed that Oliver had the same problem. He pointed wordlessly to the angle of his jaw.

  Primrose bent her head again.

  She knew what his lips tasted like, what they felt like. His jaw was quite different. Nowhere near as soft—skin over hard bone—and not as smooth, either. It felt masculine beneath her lips, faintly prickly with whiskers.

  She wanted to open her mouth and taste him with her tongue and see if he tasted masculine, too. Wanted to bite him lightly, to sink her teeth into that thin, tantalizing layer of skin.

  Primrose lifted her head abruptly. She felt a little light-headed, a little too warm.

  Oliver was staring at her. His eyes looked darker than usual, as if his pupils were slightly dilated. He swallowed, and then pointed to his mouth. “Here. This is where it hurts the most.”

  It was patent nonsense, but she didn’t challenge him on it. Instead, Primrose dipped her head and kissed him.

  For a man who talked so much nonsense, Oliver had a wonderful mouth. A perfect mouth—yielding lips and nipping teeth and a teasing, clever tongue.

  Primrose leaned over him, the better to kiss him. Oliver’s arms slid around her waist. He drew her closer and sighed into her mouth.

  She lost herself in the slow dance of their tongues, in the heat, the pleasure, the sheer perfection of the moment. The Prince Regent could have come into the room and she wouldn’t have noticed. Her whole world was Oliver. Oliver’s lips. Oliver’s tongue. Oliver’s arms around her. Oliver’s body warm and solid beneath her . . .

  Primrose came to her senses—and realized that she wasn’t merely leaning over Oliver; she was leaning on him, the entire weight of her upper body resting on his chest.

  She broke the kiss and lifted herself hastily off him. “I must be hurting you!”

  Oliver laughed, a breathless, ragged sound. “Hurting me? That’s not what I’d call it.”

  “But your injuries—”

  “I feel a thousand times better.” He caught her chin with one hand and brushed his thumb over her tingling lips. “Your kisses are magical, Primrose Garland.”

  Primrose felt herself blush hotly. She tried to shake her head, but Oliver didn’t let her; he held her chin, his thumb pressed to her lips. Her gaze was caught in his. She couldn’t have looked away if the fate of the world had depended on it.

  Oliver stroked his thumb over her lips again. “We’re going to have to test that acorn of yours, Prim. You know that, don’t you?” His voice was a low whisper that sent a shiver up her spine.

  Primrose could barely breathe, could barely speak. “Perhaps,” she whispered back.

  Oliver smiled at her. Not a mischievous smile; a sensual smile. A smile that promised. Then he released her. “But not now.” He pushed up to sit with a stifled groan. “Now, I have to get ready for dinner, because tonight Ninian gets his comeuppance.”

  “He most certainly does.”

  Primrose scrambled off the bed and briskly smoothed the creases from her gown. The acorn seemed to burn on its thin, golden chain.

  Oliver climbed off the bed more slowly, wincing as he did.

  “What’s the plan?” she asked. “When will Rhodes and I go down to the boat shed?”

  “Immediately after dinner.” Oliver kneaded the back of his neck. “Don’t go to the drawing room at all. Make your excuses, go upstairs and change into warmer clothes, and get yourself down to the jetty.” He snapped his fingers to show how she was to accomplish this. “Rhodes will already be there. He says he won’t set foot on the jetty until you’ve arrived, so you’re safe to translocate there.”

  Primrose nodded.

  “I’ll drink my port, then invite Ninian to stroll down to the lake.” He craned his neck to one side, then the other, then kneaded it again. “I’ll be drunk. Very drunk. Once we’re at the jetty, I’ll stand right at the end—and Ninian will push me in and watch me drown—and you and Rhodes will witness it.”

  “And after that?” Primrose said.

  “Rhodes might punch him,” Oliver admitted. “And so might I.”

  And so might I, she thought.

  “And then we’ll have a chat with him, see what he has to say for himself, ask him if he killed my uncle and cousin. And after that . . .” He blew out a breath and dragged his fingers roughly through his disheveled hair. He looked grim, weary. “I don’t know, Prim. We’ll see how it plays out.” He gave her a lopsided smile and held his hand out to her, palm up. “Ready?”

  Primrose put her hand in his. “Ready,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was actually harder to pretend to be drunk than Oliver had thought it would be. He had no problem slurring his words and uttering the occasional hiccup, no problem giving a rambling and repetitive account of the six-month-long journey from India, no problem stumbling as he walked, almost losing his balance . . . but putting it all together was surprisingly difficult. He kept losing his place in the monologue—which hopefully only added to verisimilitude.

  He was relieved when he and Ninian reached the lake shore. His heart gave a little kick in his chest as the jetty came into sight. This is it.

  Oliver paused for a moment and stood swaying, looking at the silky black water, the dark hump of the island, the silvery moon and its reflection—and the boat shed, with its door discreetly ajar. “Lovely, ain’ it?” he said, and then hiccuped loudly.

  “Yes,” Ninian said. “Cousin, I really must speak with you—”

  “Speaking with me now, aren’t you?” Oliver said cheerfully. He gave Ninian a friendly clout on the shoulder, then staggered onto the jetty.

  Ninian followed. “Perhaps we oughtn’t be out here,” he said nervously. “You might fall off.”

  “Me? Fall off? Agile as a cat, I am.” He gave an artistic lurch, staggered two steps sideways, and caught his balance.

  Ninian clut
ched his sleeve. “Cousin, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  Oliver shook his arm free. “Nonshensh,” he said loudly, and strode down the jetty, veering first to the left, and then to the right. He arrived at the very end and stood swaying, gazing up at the moon, open-mouthed. “Look at that moon. Round as a . . . as a . . . as a round thing.”

  He was aware of Ninian coming to stand beside him.

  Oliver’s heartbeat sped up. He stopped looking at the moon and pretended to be staring at its reflection in the water. The skin between his shoulder blades tightened, waiting for that familiar push. “A pumpkin,” he announced. “Round as a pumpkin.”

  The water looked black. Cold. Bottomless. He repressed a shiver. Whose idea had this been?

  “Not a pumpkin. A norange. Round as a norange. Ha!” He laughed, while the skin between his shoulder blades grew tighter. “D’ you hear that, Ninian? Norange.”

  Ninian plucked at his sleeve. “Please, Cousin. Let’s go back to the house. I really must talk with you.”

  Oliver repressed a sigh of frustration. Look at all this water, you idiot. Can’t you see the lake’s perfect for murder? “Norange,” he said again, out loud. “Thass a new word, y’ know. I made it up.”

  “Yes, I heard it,” Ninian said. “Very clever.” He took hold of Oliver’s sleeve.

  Oliver tensed. He was already shivering in anticipation of the shock of cold water.

  But Ninian didn’t push him. He clearly had something else in mind. Probably a poisoned bottle of port.

  Oliver realized he was going to have to take this into his own hands.

  He hiccupped and gave a lurch and stepped off the jetty—and plummeted into the water.

  It was colder than he’d though it would be. A hell of a lot colder. Cold enough to rob him of his breath for a moment. Cold enough to almost freeze his balls off.

  Oliver gasped in shock, and flailed about with his arms. One foot touched the bottom. He wanted to scramble back up onto the jetty as fast as he could. Instead, he took a deep breath and flopped over on his stomach and lay motionless, face down.

  He was blind like this, quite blind. Unable to see. Unable to breathe. He imagined Ninian standing at the jetty’s edge, staring down at him—

  Someone jumped into the water with an almighty splash, grabbed one of Oliver’s arms, and tried to haul him upright. “Help!” the person cried. “Someone help us!”

  Oliver recognized that voice: Ninian.

  He struggled free of Ninian’s grasp and found his feet. “What the devil?” he said, water streaming down his face.

  “It’s all right, Cousin,” Ninian cried, grabbing Oliver’s arm again. “I’ve got you.”

  Oliver wrenched free and staggered back a step. “Why aren’t you drowning me?”

  Ninian gaped at him, his face ghostly white in the moonlight, his mouth a dark hole. “What?”

  “Why aren’t you drowning me?” Oliver demanded again.

  “Why would I drown you?”

  “Because you want me dead,” Oliver said harshly.

  “What? No, I don’t.”

  “Then why did you push me in front of that post-chaise?” Oliver said, even more harshly. Rage boiled in him. He stepped closer and shoved Ninian in the chest.

  Ninian sat down in the water, submerged briefly, and then scrambled to his feet again. “I didn’t push you,” he protested, spluttering.

  “The devil you didn’t,” Oliver said, his hands clenching.

  “No! I didn’t! I swear I never—”

  “And you just happened to fall out of your chair yesterday,” Oliver said. His voice was as icy as the water. “I’m not a fool, Ninian. I can tell when someone’s trying to poison me.”

  “I wasn’t trying to poison you,” Ninian cried. “I was trying to save you!”

  “No.” Oliver shook his head.

  “He did just jump into the lake to save your life,” Rhodes said from above them.

  Both Oliver and Ninian jerked around in the water. Two figures peered down at them from the edge of the jetty.

  “And he called for help,” Primrose observed.

  “Some pretty compelling evidence right there,” Rhodes said.

  Oliver said nothing. His head was beginning to ache from the cold. He sloshed to the jetty and silently climbed the ladder.

  Ninian followed. Neither of them spoke. The truth loomed hugely in the darkness. Oliver didn’t speak. He couldn’t speak. Denial thundered inside him. No. No, it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.

  “Here,” Primrose said, handing him a blanket.

  Numbly, he took it and wrapped it around himself.

  “And here’s one for you, Ninian.”

  Oliver turned and walked back along the jetty, halting when he reached the shore. He didn’t know what to do, what to say, didn’t even know what direction to walk in. And so he stood, shivering, while the truth loomed larger and larger.

  Who had given him a snuff box filled with a “special mix”?

  Who had poured out five glasses of Madeira in advance, one of which was larger than the others and especially for Oliver?

  Who would become the next Duke of Westfell?

  No one moved. No one spoke. Oliver was aware of Rhodes standing silently beside him. A steady drip-drip-drip came from behind them. Ninian.

  Ninian, who hadn’t been trying to kill him.

  Oliver turned towards that drip-drip-drip and looked at his cousin.

  Ninian was little more than an amorphous shape in the moonlight—dark blanket, pale blur of a face.

  “I don’t understand,” Oliver said. His voice didn’t sound like his own, faint and bewildered.

  Ninian hunched into his blanket. He shook his head.

  “I mean, I understand why you would want to kill me—Cheevers wants a peer for a son-in-law—but why would Uncle Algy—?” His voice broke on that name. He couldn’t speak for a moment. The sense of disbelief, of betrayal, was too overwhelming.

  Uncle Algy had been trying to kill him?

  Uncle Algy, who’d visited when he’d been a boy, who’d laughed and given him guineas?

  Uncle Algy, who’d dealt with all the paperwork when Oliver had inherited the dukedom, and who’d welcomed him so enthusiastically back to England?

  “Why, damn it?” His voice was too loud, almost a shout, rough and hoarse, as if he was trying not to cry. “Why?”

  “Money,” Ninian said, his voice as quiet as Oliver’s had been loud.

  Oliver shook his head. No. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. He wouldn’t let it be true.

  And then, as he looked at Ninian, shivering and dripping and huddling into his blanket, he realized something. This was as terrible for Ninian as it was for him. Perhaps even more terrible, because while Lord Algernon was Oliver’s uncle, he was Ninian’s father.

  Oliver crossed to his cousin and hugged him. “I’m sorry, Ninian.” And he was sorry. Sorry that he’d misjudged Ninian. Sorry at how painful this must be for Ninian. “Thank you for jumping in to save me.”

  Ninian shivered, and uttered a sound like a sob.

  “This is why you’ve been trying to speak to me alone, isn’t it? Your father?”

  Ninian gave another convulsive shiver. “Yes. I’m sorry. I—”

  “No, I’m sorry. We’re sorry.” Oliver hugged him more tightly. “We thought . . .” He couldn’t say We thought you were a murderer to Ninian’s face, so he shut his mouth instead.

  “We need to talk,” Rhodes said, from behind them. “All of us. But first, the pair of you need dry clothes—and a stiff drink.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Primrose waited in her room, pacing the floor, watching the clock on the mantelpiece. When half an hour had ticked past, she hastened to Rhodes’s bedchamber.

  Monsieur Benoît opened the door. Rhodes stood by the fireplace, arms folded, unsmiling.

  Primrose crossed to her brother. “Well?” she said, by way of greeting.

>   He grimaced. “Guess who I ran into outside Ollie’s door?”

  Her heart sank. “Not Lord Algernon?”

  “None other. I bumped into him—quite literally.”

  “That’s . . . unfortunate.”

  “He knows I’m up and about, now. Damn it.”

  A quiet knock sounded on the door. This time, it was Ninian Dasenby who stood on the threshold.

  Primrose directed her warmest smile at him. “Come in, Mr. Dasenby.”

  Dasenby hesitated, and then did so. His manner was apprehensive, his eyes wide and a little wary.

  “How do you feel?” Primrose asked, examining his face. She thought he looked extremely pale. “Here, sit in this armchair by the fire.”

  Dasenby hesitated again, and then crossed to the fireplace and sat. Rhodes poured brandy from a bottle Primrose hadn’t noticed into a glass she hadn’t noticed and gave it to Dasenby. Then he poured one for himself.

  “I’ll have one, too,” Primrose said. “Tonight has been . . .” There were too many adjectives to describe tonight’s events—dramatic and shocking were only two of them.

  Rhodes didn’t tell her that drinking brandy was unbecoming of a lady; he silently poured another glass.

  Primrose took a sip. The taste wasn’t exactly pleasant, but the heady burn of alcohol made up for it—the rush of sensation across her tongue and down her throat, followed by a soothing warmth. She looked at Dasenby, perched nervously in the armchair, clutching his glass. Perhaps it was a trick of the firelight, but he looked disconcertingly young—a boy, not a man, pale-faced and vulnerable.

  He’s only twenty-two, she reminded herself. Twenty-two—and dealing with the fact that his father was trying to murder his cousin.

  Someone rapped on the door.

  Benoît admitted Oliver, then looked at Rhodes. “Do you wish me to leave, sir?”

  “No, you’re part of this, too.”

  “As you wish.” Benoît closed the door and locked it.

  Dasenby stood at Oliver’s entry, looking even younger and more apprehensive, but Oliver waved him back into the armchair.