Primrose and the Dreadful Duke_Garland Cousins 1

by Emily Larkin

  “What’s wrong with my face?”

  He grinned at her, his eyes sparkling with good humor. “You were misnamed, you know. You should have been called Rose. Pretty, but prickly.” He flicked her cheek with one finger, and then turned away, his attention on the food.

  Primrose blushed hotly. Pretty? Had Oliver just called her pretty?

  How different the word sounded when it was applied to her. Not unoriginal at all, but rather . . . flattering.

  He’d called her prickly, too, which was not a compliment. In fact, it stung slightly.

  Primrose rubbed her cheek, and told herself that Oliver hadn’t meant either the pretty or the prickly. He’d just been teasing her, the way he always had and always would. In fact, he’d probably moved on to teasing someone else now.

  She looked for him, and sure enough, Oliver was standing amid a cluster of would-be duchesses, a slight swagger in his stance, pontificating.

  Primrose watched for a moment, torn between amusement and disapproval.

  “Ollie’s at it again,” someone said at her shoulder. Primrose didn’t need to look around to know it was Rhodes.

  “How can any woman want to marry him?” she asked. “He behaves like a conceited fool!”

  Conceited fool or not, the Misses Warrington, Carteris, and Middleton-Murray were striving for Oliver’s attention, giggling and tossing their ringlets and fluttering their eyelashes, each trying to outshine the others.

  “He’s a good catch,” Rhodes said mildly.

  Primrose suppressed a snort, but the truth was that Oliver was an excellent catch. He was a duke, he was wealthy, and despite that ridiculous swagger he was attractive. Very attractive—if one liked burly, sun-browned men with disgraceful senses of humor. “You were a good catch—you still are!—but no one ever behaves like that over you.”

  “I don’t play up to it like Ollie. Do you think I should?” Rhodes thrust out his chest and struck a pose.

  Primrose smacked his arm. “Don’t you dare. One of you is more than enough.”

  Chapter Nine

  The picnic was surprisingly pleasant. Primrose leaned back on her cushions, feeling agreeably relaxed. The island had cast a spell over them all, an enchantment woven of dappled sunshine and a green-scented breeze, birdsong and the lazy hum of bees among the wildflowers. It took effort to concentrate on Algernon Dasenby, but concentrate she did. She nibbled a slice of ham, and watched him. Sipped a glass of lemonade, and watched him. Ate a grape, and watched him.

  Lord Algernon smiled a lot and talked a lot and laughed a lot, but twice she caught him looking at Oliver, and both times a strange expression crossed his face.

  She felt she ought to recognize that expression.

  She’d seen it before, she was certain of it. But where? When?

  Primrose frowned, and bit into a macaroon. It dissolved in her mouth, tasting of sugar and coconut.

  That fleeting expression of Lord Algernon’s was a serious one, a solemn one—but what did it mean?

  Puzzle over it as she might, she couldn’t decipher it. But she was convinced of one thing: whatever that expression meant, it was nothing inimical, nothing malevolent or dangerous. Lord Algernon didn’t want his nephew dead.

  Primrose finished the macaroon. She glanced at Rhodes. It didn’t take great powers of perception to tell what he was thinking. His expression was pensive and his eyes and nose were suspiciously pink, as if he was trying not to cry.

  Primrose wished Oliver were sitting alongside Rhodes, rather than amid a gaggle of young ladies. Oliver would make Rhodes laugh, if anyone could. Oliver had a gift for laughter. He was laughing now, as Miss Carteris picked wildflowers and wound them around the brim of her bonnet.

  Primrose looked more closely at the flowers. Yellow, pink, blue—and white.

  She glanced sharply at Rhodes, and caught him rubbing his eyes. They were even redder than they’d been before, swollen and a little bloodshot.

  “Is that bishop’s weed?” she asked Lady Cheevers, gesturing to the white blossoms that studded the grass.

  Everyone looked at her, including Rhodes.

  “Why, yes,” Lady Cheevers said. “I believe that’s what it’s called.”

  Rhodes muttered what was probably a swearword and climbed to his feet. “Bishop’s weed and I do not agree,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to the house.”

  Oliver and Primrose both stood at the same time, both spoke at the same time: “I’ll take you back—I’ll come with you.”

  “No,” Rhodes said. “I don’t need an escort. You stay here.” He gave Primrose a significant look, which she had no difficulty interpreting: she was to keep watch over Oliver.

  * * *

  A servant punted Rhodes back across the lake and everyone else resumed their picnic. Oliver’s admirers decorated their bonnets with wildflowers and then Miss Carteris very prettily coaxed Oliver into accepting a few flowers for the buttonholes of his tailcoat. She placed the flowers herself, while the Misses Warrington and Middleton-Murray did their best not to look jealous.

  Oliver glanced at Primrose briefly, over the top of Miss Carteris’s head, and rolled his eyes.

  Miss Warrington sprang to her feet. “Let’s skip stones!” she cried. “I’m sure you’re very good at it, Westfell.”

  “I am, rather,” Oliver said, and winked at Primrose.

  He and his three admirers went down to the shore and began hunting for small, flat stones. Primrose stayed where she was, watching Lord Algernon. From time to time he looked at Oliver, brief, amused glances that told her absolutely nothing—and then, when she was about to give up and hunt for wildflowers for her own bonnet, Lord Algernon finally did it: he gave Oliver that look, the strange, serious, solemn one.

  Primrose stared at him.

  What was the man thinking when he looked like that?

  She saw Lord Algernon’s lips press together, not angrily at all, but rather . . .

  All of a sudden she recognized that expression. It was regret.

  Primrose frowned, and tried to puzzle out why looking at Oliver should make Lord Algernon feel regretful. It took her a moment—and then it was blindingly obvious.

  “Is Oliver much like his father?” she asked, when Lord Algernon reached for more grapes.

  “The spitting image,” Algernon said. “Got the same laugh, too. Reminds me of Tristan every time I hear it.”

  Primrose nodded, and looked across to where Oliver and the young ladies were now competing at skipping stones. Miss Carteris was shockingly bad at it. She begged Oliver for a lesson. Oliver puffed out his chest and obliged, stepping close and taking Miss Carteris’s hand for a moment, showing her the correct angle, the correct flick of the wrist.

  Miss Carteris gazed up at him, her expression a pretty combination of shyness and adoration. She listened raptly, nodded several times, and then attempted to skip her stone. It sank with a loud plop, and she turned back to Oliver with dismay on her face.

  Primrose repressed a laugh. She was certain that the plop had been deliberate.

  This time Oliver spent considerably longer in his demonstration. He held Miss Carteris’s hand for almost a full minute.

  Primrose shook her head, admiring Miss Carteris’s ploy. She glanced at the girl’s rivals. They both had tight smiles on their faces.

  This time Miss Carteris successfully skipped her stone. She gave a little skip herself and turned back to Oliver. Admiration glowed on her face. “Oh, thank you, Westfell. You’re so clever.”

  Oliver’s face twitched and Primrose realized that he was very close to laughing out loud. “I believe I have some skill as an instructor,” he said pompously.

  Primrose swallowed a laugh of her own. She looked at the Misses Warrington and Middleton-Murray, to see how they were taking their rival’s machinations. Miss Warrington was still smiling tight-lipped, but Miss Middleton-Murray was giving Miss Carteris a startlingly venomous look.

  Primrose lost the urge to laugh
.

  The look was gone in an instant. Miss Middleton-Murray smiled sweetly at Miss Carteris. “Well, done,” she said, and then she clapped her hands together as if an idea had occurred to her. “Let’s have a competition, the four of us. How about at the jetty?”

  This idea was instantly taken up, and the foursome departed for the jetty. After a moment, Primrose climbed to her feet. The malice in Miss Middleton-Murray’s gaze had been disturbing.

  She followed Oliver and the would-be duchesses to the little jetty and stood in the shade of the willows, watching, while they chattered and laughed. Miss Middleton-Murray wanted to shove Miss Carteris into the water—Primrose could see it in every line of her body—but she had the wit not to do so; instead, she was everything that was sweet and lovely and charming. She commiserated with Miss Warrington on a poor throw, was effusive in her praise of a much better one, and when Miss Carteris threw a stone that skipped eight times, Miss Middleton-Murray clapped in delight. “Well done!” she cried—and slid her foot behind her rival’s, so that when Miss Carteris stepped back, flushed with triumph, she stumbled and overbalanced.

  It was very neatly done. If Primrose hadn’t watched Miss Middleton-Murray spend the past two minutes maneuvering into position she would have thought it an accident.

  But it wasn’t an accident, and only Oliver’s snatch prevented Miss Carteris from tumbling into the water.

  “Goodness!” cried Miss Warrington. “Are you all right?”

  Miss Carteris was undoubtedly all right, but she recognized a good opportunity when it presented itself. She clung to Oliver, exclaiming that he’d saved her from drowning, and when Oliver tried to disengage himself, she clutched him more tightly, protesting that she felt quite dizzy with shock.

  Miss Warrington and Miss Middleton-Murray fluttered around her, each trying to outdo the other in solicitude.

  “I know what she needs,” Oliver proclaimed. “She needs to sit in the shade and drink a glass of lemonade.”

  “Yes,” Miss Carteris said in a faint voice, gazing up at him. “That’s exactly what I need. Only . . . I’m not sure I can walk.”

  Primrose snorted under her breath.

  Oliver knew his rôle. Gallantly, he swung Miss Carteris up into his arms.

  Primrose glanced at Miss Middleton-Murray to see her reaction to this turn of events—and glimpsed an expression of such rage that she shivered involuntarily. She hugged her elbows, and stepped back into the shadows under the willows.

  Oliver strode from the jetty, his fair burden in his arms. Primrose had a clear view of Miss Carteris’s face. She was smiling triumphantly.

  Chapter Ten

  The first thing Primrose did when she returned to the house was check on Rhodes. He was lying on his bed, dressed in shirt and breeches, a wet cloth laid over his eyes. His valet, Monsieur Benoît, was reading aloud to him.

  The man broke off his reading, stood, and bowed to her. “Lady Primrose.” He was a Frenchman, young and olive-skinned and dark-eyed, his English lightly accented.

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “Much better,” Rhodes said, and the valet grimaced slightly, which Primrose took to mean, Not really.

  She advanced into the room. “May I see?”

  The valet put aside the book. He removed the cloth and placed it to soak in a bowl beside the bed.

  Primrose understood immediately why the man had grimaced. Rhodes’s eyes were swollen and bloodshot. “Do they still itch?” she asked.

  “Like the devil.” He looked past her and frowned. “Where’s Ollie? You didn’t leave him on his own, did you?”

  “He’s surrounded by Carterises right now,” Primrose said. “What did Nurse use to ease the inflammation? Can you remember?”

  “Of course I can’t,” Rhodes said. “It was bloody years ago!” And then he said, “Sorry, Prim. Didn’t mean to swear.”

  Primrose waved aside the apology, and watched as Rhodes raised one hand to rub his eyes, caught himself, and lowered it to his side. His jaw clenched, and so did both his hands.

  Primrose caught the valet’s gaze and nodded at the bowl of water. The man carefully placed the cloth over Rhodes’s eyes again.

  Rhodes’s hands clenched tighter, and then unclenched. He sighed. “Give the Cheevers my apologies, will you? I won’t be at dinner tonight.”

  “Shall I send for an apothecary?” Primrose asked.

  “No,” Rhodes said. “Don’t fuss, Prim. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

  “Would you like me to stay with you?”

  “No need. Benoît’s been reading to me.”

  “I could dine up here with you,” she suggested. “Keep you company.”

  “No need,” Rhodes said again. “I’d rather you kept Ollie company.”

  Keep him safe, was what Rhodes meant. Don’t let anyone kill him.

  Primrose wanted to tell him that Oliver was quite safe, that she was convinced neither Lord Algernon nor Ninian Dasenby had tried to kill him, but she couldn’t discuss that with Rhodes now, not while his valet stood beside the bed, alert and watchful.

  * * *

  Back in her own bedchamber, Primrose locked the door. Rhodes’s valet was extremely efficient, but he was also extremely young. He had no more idea how to treat Rhodes’s eyes than she did. Therefore, she needed to talk with someone who did know what to do.

  Primrose clasped her hands together, and pictured her mother’s private parlor in Gloucestershire, with its Grecian sofa and rosewood worktable and the hand-painted screen in the corner.

  The screen that had been placed there just for her.

  She took a deep breath and wished herself there: in her mother’s parlor, behind that screen.

  An instant later, she was.

  There was a dizzying moment of vertigo, when she felt as if the world had tipped upside down and turned inside out, then everything steadied.

  She cautiously peered around the edge of the screen.

  The parlor was empty.

  Primrose took a moment to refocus her thoughts. She built an image in her mind of her father’s study: the shelves of books and ledgers, the desk, the armchair by the fire—and the screen in the darkest corner.

  She wished herself there. When she peeked around the screen, she saw a man seated at the desk, head bent, writing swiftly. Frazier Garland, Duke of Sevenash.

  * * *

  “Rose water,” Primrose told Rhodes’s valet twenty minutes later. “If you bathe his eyes with rose water, it will help. As will bathing them with cold milk. And you should set some chamomile leaves to steep in boiling water. Once the water’s cool you can bathe his eyes with that, too.”

  “I shall do it at once,” the valet said, heading for the door.

  Before he reached it, someone knocked. It was Oliver. He posed in the doorway for a moment, chest out-thrust, hand on hip. “I’ll have you know that you’re looking at the most handsome, most courageous, and most fascinating man in all England.”

  Rhodes snorted loudly. The valet bit his lip, swallowing a smile.

  “Who told you that?” Primrose said dryly. “Miss Carteris?”

  “Naturally.” He strutted into the chamber, thrusting his chest out even more. “I saved her life, you know.”

  Primrose waited until the valet had departed, then said, “You are such an idiot, Daisy.”

  Oliver looked affronted. “A hero,” he corrected her. “I’m a hero.”

  Rhodes lifted the cloth covering his eyes. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  Primrose told him in a few brief words, while Oliver crossed to the armchair by the fireplace and collapsed into it with a weary, theatrical sigh. “Marry me, Prim,” he said. “Save me from Miss Carteris and her compliments.”

  “You’re the hero,” she reminded him tartly. “You can save yourself.”

  Oliver groaned. He tenderly felt his brow. “There are only so many compliments a man can take. I believe my head is ready to explode.”

  �
��You are the greatest addle-pate in England,” Primrose told him.

  “Ah,” Oliver said, massaging his temples. “That helped a little. Another one, if you please, Prim.”

  “Goosecap,” Primrose said, severely. “Nodcock. Jingle brains.”

  “Jingle brains!” Oliver lowered his hands. “Did you just call me a jingle brains?”

  “What? You think you aren’t one?” Despite her best intentions, she was grinning at him.

  Oliver grinned back at her. “I know I am,” he said, and then he gave a beatific sigh. “Thank you, Prim. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I feel as good as new.” He sprang up from the armchair, lifted her off her feet, and swung her around in a circle.

  “Oliver!” she cried, clutching his shoulders. “Put me down, you great lummox.”

  “Lummox,” he said, approvingly. “Well done, Prim.” He lifted her even higher and twirled her around again.

  Primrose discovered that she was laughing. No man had ever dared to pick her up before, let alone twirl her. Oliver swung her around again, and she felt—for a moment—as if she was no longer herself but someone much younger and more carefree.

  She clutched Oliver’s shoulders and looked down into his face, and all of a sudden it became difficult to breathe. Her heart beat faster, and it had nothing to do with the circles, but everything to do with Oliver’s warm hands at her waist, his effortless strength, his playfulness, his grin, the laughter in his eyes. Woodland eyes. A little bit green, a little bit brown, with glinting flecks of gold.

  It became even more difficult to breathe. Her laugh choked off.

  Miss Carteris had been wrong; Oliver wasn’t the most handsome man in England—but he was perhaps its most attractive.

  “Unhand my sister, you great oaf,” Rhodes said. He tossed a pillow at Oliver. It missed.

  Oliver set Primrose on her feet and kissed her loudly on each cheek. “Thank you, Prim. You’re the perfect antidote to Miss Carteris.”

  To her annoyance, Primrose felt herself blush. She smoothed her gown with hands that weren’t quite steady. “You are abominable,” she told him.