They burst into that final room and Oliver released Primrose’s hand and flung himself down on his back on the bed, panting.
“Why here?” Primrose asked, breathless and laughing. “The suites are exactly the same.”
“No, they’re not,” Oliver said, smiling up at her from the bed. “This suite has history.”
Primrose blushed faintly.
“This room has history.”
Primrose’s cheeks became pinker.
Oliver wiggled his eyebrows at her. “This bed has history.”
Primrose blushed an even brighter pink and looked away from him. “Honestly, Oliver, you are—”
Oliver didn’t wait to hear what he was. He captured her hand and tugged her down to sit beside him on the bed.
“Oliver!”
Oliver lowered his eyelashes and glanced up at her through them, coyly. “Please kiss me, Lady Primrose.”
Primrose gave him a stern look, but her lips tucked in at the corners in that way that meant she wanted to laugh.
Oliver fluttered his eyelashes at her, and pushed out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout. “Please, pretty Primrose.” Then he heard what he’d said, and grinned. “Alliteration, Prim. That’s got to be worth a kiss.”
Primrose rolled her eyes at this. “Do you never stop playing games?” she asked, and then bent her head and lightly kissed him.
The answer to that question was, yes, he did stop playing games. Quite often, in fact. And despite what Primrose thought, he wasn’t actually playing a game right now. His intentions towards her were quite serious—but that didn’t mean that his kiss had to be serious, did it?
The kiss rapidly did become serious, though. Oliver took the nape of her neck in one hand, sliding his fingers up into her hair, pulling her closer, plundering her mouth, taking her lips and tongue hostage. No, he was the hostage; she the plunderer. Her kisses left him breathless, light-headed, defenseless. Whatever she wanted, she could take. He’d give her anything. Anything at all.
What Primrose wanted was his mouth, so Oliver gave it to her, over and over again. He was panting, almost winded, and it had nothing to do with running through seven rooms, and everything to do with Primrose and her eager kisses.
He didn’t want it to end. He wanted to stay in the State bedroom for the rest of the day, just he and Primrose, alone together, so when Primrose broke the kiss and drew back, pushing up off his chest, he uttered an inarticulate protest.
“No, Oliver,” she said, and she sounded as out of breath as he was. “We have to stop. Luncheon.”
Her face was flushed, her lips plump and rosy, her blonde hair disheveled. Oliver thought he’d never seen a more irresistible sight in his life. “The devil with food,” he said, reaching for her. “I have everything I need right here.”
Primrose evaded his hand. “People will notice if we’re not there.”
She was right, damn it.
Oliver stopped trying to recapture her. He lay back on the pillow and concentrated on catching his breath. Primrose climbed off the bed. “I need a mirror.”
After a moment, Oliver climbed off the bed, too, wincing as his body reminded him of the bruises he’d acquired yesterday. He found Primrose in the dressing room. She’d pulled the Holland cloth off the wide cheval mirror and was trying to tidy her hair.
Oliver looked at his own hair. It was almost as disheveled as Primrose’s. He combed it with his fingers, then repaired the damage to his neckcloth. When he’d finished, he looked at Primrose. She was frowning at her reflection. “What do you think?” she asked.
Her hair was tidy again, but she still looked as if she’d been recently kissed. Those lips gave her away.
“I think we should wait a few more minutes,” Oliver said, stepping behind her. He slid his arms around her waist and looked at them both in the mirror—and once he’d looked he couldn’t stop looking.
He could see it so clearly. Feel it so clearly. Not just physical lust, but connection. It was as if the years of childhood bickering and the weeks of friendly verbal sparring and the past few days of kissing had come together into something as inevitable as it was perfect.
Did Primrose feel it, too? The sense that this was how it was meant to be? That everything had led to this moment: his arms around her waist, the warmth of her body pressed against his, his gaze caught in hers in the mirror.
Perhaps she did, because she didn’t pull away; instead, she lifted one hand and laid it over his.
Oliver’s heart seemed to turn upside down in his chest. The sense of connection between them became even stronger. He stared at her in the mirror. Primrose. His Primrose. Primrose of the tart tongue and sweet mouth. Primrose, who kissed like a fallen angel. Who was gazing at him in the mirror as if he was as important to her as she was to him.
A clock struck the hour somewhere in the State apartments, breaking the moment.
Primrose looked away.
Oliver released her and stepped back. “Luncheon?” He held out his hand to her.
Primrose took it.
They walked to the reception room, hand in hand. Oliver didn’t feel his bruises at all.
“How do I look?” Primrose asked, when they reached the door.
“Beautiful,” Oliver said.
“No, I mean . . . do I look as if we’ve been kissing?”
Her lips were still slightly rosier than usual, slightly fuller. His probably were, too. But he didn’t think anyone would notice. “No,” Oliver said.
It was time to open the door, but he didn’t want to. It felt as if they were caught in a magic spell, as if the State apartments were a place of perfect happiness and when he opened the door the enchantment would break and all the troubles of the real world would flood back in.
Oliver released Primrose’s hand and reluctantly opened the door.
They stepped out into the corridor—and the real world immediately intruded, because someone was standing there.
Oliver managed not to start convulsively, but only because he’d had practice recently.
“Oh,” he said. “Miss Middleton-Murray. Fancy meeting you here.” He tried for a nonchalant smile. “Lady Primrose has just been showing me the State rooms.”
“How kind of her,” Miss Middleton-Murray said. “Did you enjoy it?”
Oliver shrugged. “Nothing but a lot of Holland covers.” He was acutely aware of his lips. Would Miss Middleton-Murray guess that he and Primrose had been kissing? He took a step forward, blocking her view of Primrose’s face. “Shall we go to luncheon?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Luncheon was a lot more interesting than Primrose had anticipated. There were so many undercurrents around the table that it was difficult to keep track of them all. She could only concentrate on one person at a time. She dismissed Mrs. Middleton-Murray as unimportant, and Lord and Lady Cheevers and their daughter, ditto. She dismissed Rhodes, too, because his motivations were clear-cut.
Mr. Dasenby occupied her for a few minutes. His emotions must be in a turmoil, poor boy: the elation of being in love, the distress of his father’s villainy. He hid it well, though. His manner was perfectly unexceptional. He talked and listened and ate, exactly as if everything were all right. The only things that gave him away were his glances. In the short time that she watched him, he looked at Oliver three times, and Miss Cheevers three times—and his father not at all.
Primrose next turned her gaze to Lord Algernon—and caught him looking at Oliver—and there, right there, was the expression that had so misled her on the island. Regret and something else that she now recognized as determination.
Implacable determination.
Implacable and regretful determination.
Primrose curled her lip, and attacked her luncheon. How dare Lord Algernon regret the need to kill Oliver? How dare he gamble away his assets and think it necessary but regretful to recover his fortune by killing his nephew?
It was unconscionable. Unforgivable. He should have discovered
determination earlier, should have been implacable towards himself, should have stopped gambling.
Primrose chewed fiercely, and glanced at Oliver. He was watching her intently, and when he caught her gaze he leaned slightly forward over his plate and sent her an urgent look.
That urgent look was easy to read: Be careful of Miss Middleton-Murray! He was practically shouting it at her, signaling it with every part of him—the intent eyes, the tense shoulders, the hands gripping his cutlery.
Primrose smiled soothingly at him.
Oliver’s hands clenched more tightly around the knife and fork. His brow furrowed. His lips parted and then closed again, as if he was only just holding back words of warning.
Primrose smiled even more soothingly at him, and turned her attention to Miss Middleton-Murray.
Miss Middleton-Murray had chosen to sit next to her at the luncheon table and she was being excessively friendly. Primrose didn’t think she’d had so many flattering compliments bestowed on her in such a short amount of time before. Miss Middleton-Murray was quite in awe of her intellect, quite humbled by it, in fact, and she wished devoutly to embark on a course of reading so that she, too, might become as wise and erudite as Primrose was.
Wise? Erudite?
Primrose almost choked on a laugh. She swallowed her ham with difficulty, and risked a glance at Oliver.
If he’d heard Miss Middleton-Murray’s words, he didn’t find them amusing. He sent her another of those looks that cried Beware! Beware!
Primrose was a little piqued. Did he really think her so oblivious—or so susceptible to flattery—that she wasn’t aware of Miss Middleton-Murray’s intentions?
“Do you have a favorite author?” Miss Middleton-Murray asked. “One that you recommend?”
“Marcus Aurelius,” Primrose said—and then, because she wanted to make things extremely easy for Miss Middleton-Murray, she said, “I have a copy with me. You’re welcome to borrow it. It’s up in my room. I’ll fetch it for you later.”
Miss Middleton-Murray thanked Primrose with pretty deference—and a triumphant gleam in her eyes.
Primrose glanced across the table.
Oliver was staring at her in wide-eyed alarm.
* * *
Primrose hurried upstairs and changed into her riding habit, then she quietly let herself out of her room and tiptoed along the corridor.
Satisfied that there was no Miss Middleton-Murray in the alcove, she hurried down to the stableyard. Oliver was already there, pacing. He crossed the yard swiftly. “Prim! For God’s sake.” He caught hold of her upper arms, his fingers digging in painfully. “What are you doing?”
“Catching Miss Middleton-Murray.” She tried to disengage his hands.
Oliver tightened his grip and shook her. “She’s dangerous.”
“I know. Ouch, Oliver. That hurts.”
Oliver released her hastily. “I beg your pardon.”
“I’m setting a trap,” Primrose told him. “It’s the perfect opportunity.”
“But—”
“This time we’ll catch her red-handed.”
“Prim—” His voice was anguished, and so was his expression.
“Trust me, Oliver. I know what I’m doing.”
“I do trust you, but—”
At that moment, Rhodes emerged from the house. Behind him was Lord Algernon.
Primrose wondered what Lord Algernon was planning. Did he have a hip flask filled with poisoned whiskey? Or did he intend to lure Oliver to a secluded destination where he could kill him more crudely? Perhaps hit him over the head with a rock and claim that he fell from his horse? Shoot him and blame it on footpads?
“Ready for our ride, Oliver?” Lord Algernon said cheerfully, striding across the cobblestones.
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Oh,” Primrose said brightly. “My brother and I are going riding now, too. Why don’t we all go together?”
“Splendid idea!” Oliver said.
Lord Algernon’s jaw clenched briefly, and then he smiled. “Splendid,” he echoed.
* * *
They rode for an hour, chatting and laughing, all four of them acting their parts. Primrose felt keyed up, her senses at their most alert. The mare she was riding caught her mood, sidling skittishly, trying to break into a gallop.
“Let’s race,” Oliver suggested, when they came to a long stretch of meadow, and Primrose gladly gave the mare her head.
It was only a light-hearted race, but it felt as if she was riding into battle. The thunder of the horses’ hooves was fiercely exhilarating. Her teeth were clenched, her heart beating hard. A shout built in her throat. A berserker’s wild yell. She wanted to fight. She wanted to win.
Primrose did win—but she didn’t yell. She swallowed the sound. Fierceness still fizzed in her veins, though, and when Lord Algernon rode up alongside her he was lucky she wasn’t carrying a sword, for she would have swung it and lopped off his head.
“That knock-kneed nag of yours is dashed fast, Lady Primrose,” Oliver said. Then he laughed. “Did you hear that? Knock-kneed nag.” He gave her a wink and she imagined his voice whispering in her ear: Alliteration, Prim. That’s worth a kiss.
They returned to Cheevers Court at an easy trot. All was bustle and noise in the stableyard, the grooms running to take their mounts. Primrose caught her brother’s eye and stroked her nose, caught Oliver’s eye and stroked her nose.
“Care for a game of piquet?” Lord Algernon asked Oliver after he’d dismounted.
“I’m sorry, Uncle, but I can’t,” Oliver said. “Thayne and I have plans. But later, definitely.”
Lord Algernon’s smile was a trifle tight. He gave his nephew a nod and headed into the house.
He’s getting impatient, Primrose thought.
Which boded well for tonight’s trap at the jetty.
She glanced at the sky, where clouds were gathering, and hoped that it wouldn’t rain.
“Let’s walk in the rose garden,” Oliver said.
But once they reached the rose garden, they didn’t walk; they talked. “Miss Middleton-Murray has decided that Prim is a rival,” Oliver told Rhodes. “She’s going to try her trick with the stairs again.”
Rhodes’s eyebrows lifted. “Surely not? Prim’s a duke’s daughter. Miss Middleton-Murray would be mad to try such a thing!”
“She’s going to,” Oliver said. “I’m certain of it.”
“So am I,” Primrose said. “And we’re going to catch her in the act.”
Rhodes stared at the pair of them. “Oh, we are, are we?”
“Yes. There was no fresh string tied to the newel post when I came downstairs, but I’m willing to wager there’s some now. Tucked out of sight.”
Oliver frowned, and opened his mouth.
“I don’t think she’ll be waiting for me yet because she doesn’t know exactly when I’ll be back, but—”
“Yes, but—” Oliver said.
“But if she is already there, I’ll let you know.” Primrose snapped her fingers. “I’ll translocate down to the State apartments, and then come and find you.”
Oliver closed his mouth. He was still frowning.
“But I think she’ll spring her trap later this afternoon—she’s already laid the groundwork, asking to borrow my Aurelius.”
Oliver frowned more deeply, and opened his mouth again.
Primrose rushed on: “We’ll need as many witnesses as possible. Both of you, definitely, and if we can get Lord or Lady Cheevers, that would be even better.”
“Agreed,” Rhodes said.
“This is how I see it working,” Primrose said. “I get changed. I come downstairs. The three of us sit in the yellow salon, or the blue one, wherever Miss Middleton-Murray is. She asks to borrow my copy of Aurelius. I go upstairs to fetch it. She follows me and hides in that alcove. You follow her—and we catch her. What do you think?”
“We’d need to get our timing right,” Oliver said. “We have to be at the foot of those
stairs at the exact moment she tries to trip you. That’s not going to be easy.”
Rhodes took out his pocket watch. “What time do you have, Ollie?”
Oliver fished his watch out. “Twenty-five past. You?”
The men conferred over their watches. When both timepieces were showing the same time to the second, Oliver gave his to Primrose. “Ten minutes,” he said. “Exactly ten minutes after you leave the salon, you come out of your bedroom. Not a second earlier, not a second later.”
Primrose took the watch. It was smooth and heavy and warm from his hand. “Ten minutes. Exactly.”
“We’ll be waiting at the foot of the stairs,” Oliver said.
Rhodes nodded.
“Make sure you’re quiet,” she told them.
“We’ll be as quiet as mice.”
“Well, then . . .” She closed her hand around Oliver’s watch. “Let’s do this.”
They walked back to the house, but Oliver hesitated at the door. “If she’s already up there, waiting for you . . .”
“Why don’t we look for her?” Rhodes said. “Right now, before Prim goes up to change. If she’s downstairs—if she stays downstairs—Prim’s safe, correct?”
“Correct,” Oliver said.
They entered the house, walking silently along first one corridor, then another. At the door to the yellow salon, they halted. No one said a word. Rhodes opened the door, looked in, and shut the door again. He shook his head.
He looked into the blue salon next, then withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him. “She’s in there,” he said in a low voice.
“Then I’ll go upstairs.” Primrose gathered up the long skirt of her riding habit. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t let her follow me!”
“We won’t,” Oliver promised. “If there’s fresh string tied to that post—”
“I’ll let you know,” Primrose said. “Thumbs up means there is; thumbs down means there isn’t.”
* * *
Primrose and the Dreadful Duke: Garland Cousins #1 Page 21
