“I do,” Oliver said. “I have treated you abominably. I judged you by your clothes, not your character. I can only offer my profound apologies and hope that you will accept them.”
Ninian colored faintly, and looked down at the water. After a moment, he said, “I suppose you thought me a . . . a tulip.”
“No,” Oliver said bitterly. “Only a fribble and a namby-pamby.” He closed his eyes. “God, Ninian, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Ninian said.
“No, it’s not all right. You had my back this entire time and I didn’t even notice! I’ve been in England for five weeks, and I haven’t once tried to get to know you.” He shook his head, angry at himself. “I’m sorry, Ninian. I truly am.”
“It’s all right,” Ninian said again.
It wasn’t all right, but Oliver wasn’t one to beat a dead horse. “Why did you have my back?” he asked.
Ninian glanced at him, then away. “Because I like you. You’re nicer than Basil and Percy ever were.”
Oliver was nonplussed by this answer. “I never knew them.” He’d gone to Winchester and Cambridge; they’d gone to Eton and Oxford. “What were they like?”
Ninian grimaced, and watched the water lap against the jetty piles.
Oliver waited.
“They were bullies,” Ninian said finally. “Both of them, although Basil was the worst. And Uncle Reginald was a bully, too. And grandfather.” He looked at Oliver. “The Dukes of Westfell have always been bullies. You’re the first one who isn’t.”
Oliver was so surprised that he found himself unable to speak.
Ninian looked out across the lake. “I’m not saying I’m glad they’re dead, because I’m not. Not exactly. But I am glad it’s you who’s duke.” He stole a glance at Oliver. “You’re a lot nicer than they were.”
It was Oliver’s turn to grimace. “I’m not always nice.”
Ninian shrugged with one shoulder. “Well, at least you’re not a bully. That’s better than nothing.”
Oliver looked at him sharply, and discovered that there was a glint of amusement in Ninian’s eyes. He laughed, relieved to discover that Ninian had a sense of humor. Then he sighed. “No, I’m not a bully. But I am a fool. I labeled you a man milliner the first time I saw you, and then cast you in the rôle of murderer. I’m sorry, Nin.”
The gleam of humor disappeared. Ninian gave that one-shouldered shrug again. “You didn’t know me.”
“No. But I do, now.” Oliver held out his hand. “Will you accept my apologies?”
“Of course.”
They shook hands gravely, almost formally. “I’m glad you’re my cousin,” Oliver said.
“I’m glad, too.” Ninian’s smile was shy, and the expression in his eyes caught Oliver off guard for a moment. He remembered what Primrose had told him, days ago: He hero-worships you.
Oliver had scoffed then, but he realized now that she’d been right. He could see it quite clearly: the admiration shining in Ninian’s eyes.
He released Ninian’s hand, feeling even more ashamed of himself. He’d done nothing to deserve that admiration. He might be nicer than Basil and Percival had been, but he’d never been nice to Ninian; he’d only ever been polite.
He’d do better from now on. A hell of a lot better.
A fish jumped near the jetty, falling back into the water with a plop. Oliver watched the ripples spread outwards from that point of impact. He’d been intending to tell Ninian about Uncle Algy’s other attempts at murder, but now he found himself hesitating. Did Ninian really need to know about the Cunninghams’ ball or the thirty-six steps yesterday?
After a moment’s reflection he decided that, no, Ninian didn’t need to know; it would alter absolutely nothing and only serve to make him more miserable than he already was. But there was one subject they needed to discuss.
Oliver cleared his throat. “Ninian?”
Ninian looked at him.
“I hesitate to ask you this, but I must.” He met Ninian’s gaze squarely, took a deep breath, and said, “Do you think your father had anything to do with Uncle Reginald’s death? Or Percival’s?”
Ninian flinched.
“I’m sorry, Nin,” Oliver said. “But I do need to know.”
Ninian shook his head. His face was pale with shock, his eyes wide. “I don’t know! How could I? I never thought—! I never . . .”
“Think about it now,” Oliver said quietly. “Please?”
Ninian nodded jerkily and looked away. He directed his attention at one of the buttons on his tailcoat, twisting, tugging, straining the threads.
After a minute, Ninian said, “Not Percy. Father was as shocked as the rest of us were.” He glanced briefly at Oliver.
Oliver nodded, relieved. “Good.”
Ninian returned his attention to the button.
Oliver watched the threads strain, watched Ninian’s brow furrow, watched his lips press more tightly together. Such a beautiful day, such a grim subject. He was aware of warm sunshine on his back and the quiet lap-lap-lap of the water against the jetty—and Ninian’s distress. It shouldn’t be possible that those things could exist together, and yet they did.
“He might have killed Uncle Reginald,” Ninian said finally. He looked at Oliver, and Oliver saw tears in his eyes.
“Oh, Nin,” Oliver said, and he scooted sideways on the jetty and put an arm around Ninian’s shoulders and hugged him fiercely. “I’m sorry.”
Ninian sniffed, and inhaled a short, sharp breath. His body felt tense, brittle.
“It’s all right,” Oliver said, even though they both knew it wasn’t.
They sat there in the sunshine, Oliver with his arm around Ninian’s shoulders. Ninian didn’t cry, but perhaps it would have been better if he did. Oliver could feel the misery bottled up inside him.
Gradually Ninian’s tension eased. He didn’t feel quite so brittle. He gave a sigh that Oliver felt, rather than heard. “Father was different after Percy died. Distracted. Preoccupied. He would spend hours just thinking. He was on edge, that whole week before we went to Wiltshire, and once we were there he was even worse. I thought it was because Uncle Reginald was so unpleasant, but maybe it wasn’t.”
“Unpleasant? In what way?”
“He was angry his sons were dead. ” Some of Ninian’s tension returned. His shoulders hunched slightly. “I shouldn’t have gone to Wiltshire. It only made him angrier. He said—right in the middle of dinner that first night—he said it was a shame I hadn’t died instead.”
“He what?” Oliver tightened his arm around Ninian’s shoulders. “Jesus, Nin.”
“Father didn’t say anything. He just sat there and looked like he wanted to kill Uncle Reginald.”
“That doesn’t mean he did kill him,” Oliver said, thinking that it was just as well their Uncle Reginald wasn’t alive because he might have had to kill the man himself.
“No. But afterwards, after the fire, Father was . . . I could tell he wasn’t unhappy about it. I don’t mean he was cheerful or gloating. He was quiet, in fact. Quieter than I’ve ever seen him. But he was also . . .” It took Ninian almost half a minute to find the right adjective. “Satisfied.”
Satisfied. Oliver turned the word over in his mind. Did that mean Uncle Algy had killed his brother, or merely that he was glad he’d died?
They wouldn’t know until they asked him, and he doubted Uncle Algy would confess to murder—if it had been a murder.
“When word reached England that I wasn’t dead . . . how did your father react?”
“If he was disappointed not to be duke, he hid it well. He said you being alive was the best of news—and when you came home he was happy to see you; I know he was.” Ninian fell silent for a moment, then said, “He likes you. Everyone does.”
Oliver said nothing. Whether Uncle Algy liked him or not, he was still trying to kill him.
“If it wasn’t for the money, I don’t think Father would have . . . you know.”
/> “Pushed me under a post-chaise?” Oliver said dryly. “No, I don’t suppose he would have.”
“I’m sorry,” Ninian said, in a very small voice.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. In fact, quite the opposite. You saved my life yesterday. I would have drunk that Madeira.”
Ninian made no reply to this.
Oliver was struck with a sudden, unwelcome thought. “Do you think he suspects you know about the poison? That performance of yours was rather conspicuous.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Oliver hoped not. He was suddenly doubly glad the arsenic had been disposed of. Another unwelcome thought struck him. “Ninian . . . If you were to die, who inherits your money?”
The brittle tension returned to Ninian’s shoulders, which was an answer in itself. “Father wouldn’t do that.”
“Of course he wouldn’t,” Oliver said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “Just . . . be careful today, won’t you?”
The dissonance between the beauty of the day and the terribleness of their conversation was even worse, now. Were they really talking about the possibility of a father murdering his son, while the sun shone and the lake sparkled and wavelets lapped gently at the jetty?
“What will you do?” Ninian asked in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.
Oliver heard the words Ninian didn’t utter: After you catch my father trying to kill you tonight.
“I don’t know,” he said, truthfully. “I’d like to keep it quiet, if I can. Out of the courts. But really, it depends on your father. I thought . . . I’d offer him the choice of America or Australia. Do you think he’d go?”
Some of Ninian’s tension eased. Had he been afraid his father would hang at the gallows? “Yes. I think so.”
They sat for several minutes, silently, while the sun warmed their backs. Then Oliver sighed and released Ninian and climbed stiffly to his feet. He extended a hand down to his cousin. “Time to get back, Nin.” And then, “You don’t mind if I call you Nin, do you?”
Ninian took his hand and stood. “Of course not, Cousin.”
“Oliver. Or Ollie, if you wish. Enough of the ‘Cousin.’”
“All right,” Ninian said, a little shyly, and Oliver caught a glimpse of that admiration again. Hero-worship, Primrose had called it—and very misplaced, it was. From Oliver’s point of view, the hero this past week had been Ninian.
“Nin . . . You’ve had my back all this time. I want you to know that from now on I have your back.”
Ninian flushed, and then gave him a shy, glowing smile. “Thank you, Cousin. I mean . . . Thank you, Oliver.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Oliver saw Ninian safely settled in the yellow salon with Miss Cheevers and her mother. Miss Middleton-Murray was there, too, wearing a gown that displayed her décolletage. She gave him a pretty, smiling glance through her eyelashes and flashed her dimples at him.
Oliver ignored her and went hunting for Rhodes and Primrose. They weren’t far away—both in the library, Rhodes reading the London newspaper, Primrose perusing the shelves in the upper gallery.
They looked around at his entrance.
Oliver stroked his nose, and was delighted by the alacrity with which Rhodes thrust aside the newspaper and Primrose abandoned the bookshelves. She descended the stairs from the gallery at an unladylike pace, reaching Oliver only a few seconds behind Rhodes.
“Like magic, it is,” Oliver said, beaming at them both. “All I have to do is touch my nose and the pair of you come running.”
Rhodes didn’t bother to respond to this comment. “Well? How did it go with your cousin?”
“I just made a joke,” Oliver said. “You could at least laugh.”
Rhodes crossed his arms and stared Oliver in the eyes. “How did it go?”
Oliver glanced at Primrose.
Her hands were on her hips and her expression was almost identical to her brother’s: inquisitorial.
Oliver gave a doleful sigh. “I must say you’re a pair of dull dogs today.”
“Ollie,” Rhodes said, a note of warning in his voice. “Do I have to pick you up and shake you to get you to talk some sense? Because I will.”
Oliver knew that he would; he’d been on the receiving end of Rhodes’s shakes before.
* * *
They took a long stroll through the parkland surrounding Cheevers Court. Oliver told them everything Ninian had said. “I’m worried about his safety. If Uncle Algy guesses that he knows . . .”
“It’s unlikely he’ll guess,” Rhodes said.
“And even if he does guess, he wouldn’t kill his own son!” Primrose said—and then, more doubtfully, “Would he?”
At that moment they heard hoofbeats. A horseman cantered down the distant avenue of yews. Oliver recognized that burly figure: Uncle Algy.
They watched horse and rider slow to a trot and disappear in the direction of the stables.
“I’ve promised to go riding with him this afternoon,” Oliver said. “Directly after lunch. Can you both be in the stableyard, then? Invite yourself to come along with us?”
“We most definitely can,” Rhodes said grimly.
“And Rhodes . . . would you mind keeping an eye on Ninian? Just until luncheon? I’ll stay with Primrose, I promise. We won’t go out of each other’s sight.”
“Your wish is my command,” Rhodes said, with an ironic salute. He strode in the direction of the house and climbed the long flight of steps up to the terrace.
Oliver watched him out of sight, and then looked at Primrose. Her expression was solemn.
He reached out and touched her cheek with a fingertip. “Smile, Prim.”
She did, faintly. “I’ll be glad when this is over.”
“We all will.” He took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. “Where shall we walk to next? The rose garden? The water lily pond?”
They walked to both, and then strolled back towards the house. It really was an astonishingly ugly building, a glowering gargoyle of a mansion. Oliver ran his gaze from the widow’s walk at the top to the broad terrace at the bottom—and then back up again.
He remembered Uncle Algy showing him the widow’s walk, their second day at Cheevers Court.
What would have happened if Rhodes hadn’t tagged along?
Would Uncle Algy have pushed him off?
Oliver repressed a shiver. “Still half an hour until luncheon, Prim. Shall we visit the State apartments?”
“We can talk out here. No one can overhear us.”
“Yes, but we can’t kiss out here, can we? Someone might see.”
* * *
They slipped into the building via a side door, trod down a silent corridor, and let themselves into the State reception room. The door snicked quietly shut behind them.
Oliver decided that he rather liked the smell of stale lavender. It made anticipation unfurl inside him, made the blood hum in his veins.
Primrose crossed to the window and glanced out. Sunlight gilded her hair. Oliver watched her, and thought of the girl she’d been when he’d sailed for India eight years ago. At nineteen, Primrose could have become any number of women. But she’d become this one. This Primrose. This sharp-tongued, observant, plucky Primrose who knew her own mind and was unafraid to speak it, who called him a jingle brains, who quoted Aurelius at him, who stood steadfast with him against Uncle Algy.
Thank God she hadn’t become one of those other possible Primroses. Imagine if he’d come home and found that she’d turned into a shrew? Or a coquette? Or a reclusive bluestocking, like her Aunt Lavender?
Imagine if he’d come home and she’d been married.
Primrose stood on tiptoe and craned her neck as she peered out the window. “I’m worried about those clouds. What if it rains tonight?”
“It won’t rain,” Oliver said, enjoying the glimpse of her ankles that her pose afforded him. Primrose had very nice ankles. She had a very nice waist, too, perfect
ly formed for a man to slide his arms around. And very nice breasts. And a mouth that simply begged to be kissed. In fact everything about her begged to be kissed. Her throat, her inner wrists, the nape of her neck. Those breasts. All that tender skin just waiting to be touched, tasted, explored.
A rush of warmth rolled through him as he imagined peeling off her clothes, exposing that skin, introducing her to the pleasures of the flesh.
Warmth? Call it what it was: lust. Sheer, unadulterated lust.
He wanted Primrose Garland. Wanted her clothed, wanted her naked. Wanted her under him and on top of him, wanted to make her pant and groan and laugh and cry out.
At that moment, Primrose turned to face him. Oliver’s gaze skipped briefly to her lips—and then rose to her eyes. His heart seemed to beat a little faster, because as delectable as Primrose’s mouth was, he liked her eyes even better. Those keen blue eyes through which that sharp brain observed the world. Those eyes that saw him, saw Oliver Dasenby, not the Duke of Westfell.
“What?” Primrose asked, tilting her head to one side.
He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to ask her to marry him.
One thing at a time, Oliver told himself.
He took her hand, heading for the dressing room—then paused and glanced at the door to the right of the reception room, the one he’d never ventured through before. “What’s through there?”
“Another sitting room. There are two State suites. They mirror each other.”
“One for the king, one for the queen?”
“Yes.”
Oliver crossed to the right-hand door, tugging Primrose after him. “Let’s try this side today.”
Primrose had been correct; the suites mirrored one another: a sitting room, a dressing room, and a bedroom with the same ridiculous dais and gilded columns. Oliver gazed around that majestic bedchamber, and even though he quite desperately wanted to kiss Primrose, the room was just . . . wrong. “No,” he said. “Not here.”
He towed Primrose all the way back through the apartments—bedroom, dressing room, sitting room, reception room, sitting room, dressing room, bedroom—increasing his pace with every stride until they were running like children.
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