by Emily Larkin
Her eyebrows lifted and her chin tilted, so that she was looking down her nose at him even though she was shorter than him. “Or you could just tell me that you need to talk to me.”
Oliver grinned at her. “That’s a very governess look, Prim.”
Primrose flushed and stopped looking down her nose at him. “Or you could just tell me,” she said again, tartly.
“Secret signals are more fun.”
Primrose rolled her eyes.
“What?” Oliver said, spreading his hands. “It’s true!”
* * *
Oliver ate luncheon surrounded by young ladies. Miss Warrington very skillfully built on her success in the music room. She coupled their names together whenever she spoke—when Westfell and I sang together—when Westfell and I chose our songs—managing to imply that a bond had grown between the two of them. Then she reinforced this by sending him private, smiling glances, by speaking to him in a low voice just for the two of them, and, in what could only be an act of magic, by somehow managing to sit closer to him without moving either her place setting or her chair.
Oliver was fully aware of the appearance that he and Miss Warrington presented to everyone else at the table: familiarity, togetherness, intimacy.
Ordinarily, he would have awarded Miss Warrington high points for such tactics, but today he didn’t. Today, he found himself watching Miss Middleton-Murray carefully, his foreboding growing as her dimples became more pronounced and her eyes sparkled more brightly.
Every time Miss Warrington said Westfell and I, he hid a wince. Every time she sent him one of those glances, he wanted to cringe. Every time she said something for his ears alone, he grimaced internally.
At the close of the meal Oliver caught Primrose’s eye and stroked his nose imperatively, then he pushed back his chair and headed for the door.
Miss Warrington detained him with a hand on his arm. “Westfell,” she said, gazing up at him through her lashes. “Have you seen the conservatory yet? It’s quite magnificent.”
“Perhaps later,” Oliver said, disengaging his arm. He took two strides towards the door.
“I say, Oliver.”
He stopped. “Yes, Uncle?”
“How about that hand of piquet? Not much else one can do in this rain.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle, I can’t right now.”
He had almost reached the door when someone said at his elbow, “Cousin . . .”
He halted again. “What is it, Ninian?”
“Could I possibly have a word with you?”
Oliver looked more closely at his cousin. There were two anxious creases on Ninian’s brow and his hands were performing a nervous little movement, as if he wanted to wring them but was restraining himself.
“I’m sorry, Ninian, I can’t right now.”
The creases on Ninian’s brow multiplied.
Oliver reached out and gripped his cousin’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Later. I promise.”
* * *
Oliver let himself quietly into the State apartments. The red-and-black reception room was empty, as were the sitting room, the dressing room, and the bedchamber. Rain streamed down the windowpanes. Even though it was early afternoon, it was as dark as if it were twilight. Shadows were thick in the corners and if he’d had a timorous disposition he wouldn’t have wished to be alone here, but he wasn’t timorous; he was impatient.
He was checking his pocket watch for the fifth time when he finally heard a door open and close. A few moments later, Primrose joined him in the State dressing room.
“Ten minutes,” Oliver told her, waving the pocket watch in front of her face. “Where have you been?”
Primrose did that trick of looking down her nose while looking up at him. “If you must know, I had to pluck a rose.”
As euphemisms went, “pluck a rose” was one of the most ridiculous Oliver had ever heard. Whoever the person was who’d first equated picking roses to using a chamber pot, he—or she—had to have been a complete idiot.
“Oh.” Oliver jammed the watch back into his pocket—and then froze in mid-motion. “You didn’t go up to your room, did you?”
Primrose stared at him for a moment, and then said, “Oliver, did no one teach you any manners?”
He felt himself flush—and ignored it. “Tell me you didn’t go up to your room.”
“Of course I went up to my room.”
Oliver groaned out loud, and then swung away from her, clutching his hair with his hands.
“You should have been an actor,” Primrose observed. “Such theatrics.”
Oliver turned back to her and released his death grip on his hair. “It’s not theatrics! Did you not see what happened at luncheon?”
“I saw several things at luncheon,” Primrose said, seating herself on the Holland-covered sofa. “To which are you referring?”
“Miss Warrington, of course! Didn’t you see what she did?”
“I saw her eat,” Primrose said. “Two slices of ham, three tarts, and some grapes.”
“She did a lot more than eat.” Oliver paced to the window and back again. “She made it look as if there’s a bond between us.”
Primrose opened her mouth.
He silenced her with a pointed finger. “And don’t tell me I’m imagining it, because I’m not.”
“I wasn’t intending to,” Primrose said, mildly. “I was going to say that I thought she laid it on rather thickly.”
Oliver snorted. “‘Westfell and I,’” he mimicked.
Primrose laughed, and then abruptly sobered. “Miss Middleton-Murray wasn’t pleased.”
“No.”
“Is that why you wished to talk to me?”
“Of course it is!” He crossed to the sofa and sat beside her. “I wanted to warn you. Good God, Prim, you have to be careful!”
“Thank you, but the warning is unnecessary.”
“I’m going to check that staircase every hour,” Oliver said grimly.
Primrose looked down at her lap, smoothed the muslin gown, and looked back at him. “Do you think we should tell someone?”
“Who? Lord and Lady Cheevers? They wouldn’t believe it. No one would!”
“Then perhaps we should speak to Miss Middleton-Murray herself. Tell her we've guessed about the stairs, that we’re watching her. Warn her off.”
Oliver considered this for a long moment, and then said slowly, “My fear is that if we do that, she may try something else instead. Something we won’t notice until it’s too late.”
“Or she might just give up.”
“Possibly.” Oliver conceded this with a shrug, and then admitted, “I want to catch her red-handed.”
“Do you think that’s possible?”
“I think we’ve got a good chance.” He pushed to his feet. “I’m going to check those stairs again.”
“I’ve just checked them,” Primrose said. “There’s nothing out of the ordinary. But if you don’t trust my judgment . . .”
Oliver hesitated. He did trust Primrose’s judgment. And her intelligence. He sat again. “We’ll both check. As often as we can. We should have a signal for that. Something unobtrusive.” He thought for a moment, and touched one corner of his eye with a fingertip. “This means I’m going to check the stairs.”
Primrose nodded.
“And this means that I’ve checked them and they’re safe.” He gave her a thumbs up.
“That’s a gladiatorial gesture,” Primrose said.
“I know.” He smiled at her. Tart, bookish Primrose Garland.
She didn’t look bookish right now, seated alongside him on the sofa. In this shadowy room she looked otherworldly—her hair like spun silver, skin as pale as moonlight, eyes dark and luminous.
Otherworldly, and beautiful.
The impulse to kiss her was suddenly almost overwhelming.
Oliver stared at her, and listened to his heart beat out the seconds. What would Primrose do if he kissed her? Would she slap
him? Kiss him back?
There was only one way to find out.
The Romans had a lot of quotes, and there was one for moments like this: Fortuna audaces iuvat. Fortune favors the bold.
Oliver reached for Primrose’s chin, tipped it up, bent his head, and kissed her, a brief touch of his lips to hers.
Primrose stiffened. He heard her breath catch. She put one hand on his chest, but didn’t push him away.
He waited a moment—two seconds, three seconds, four—and then kissed her again, letting his mouth linger this time, learning the contours of her lips, their smoothness, their taste, and it appeared that fortune did favor the bold, because instead of slapping him, Primrose parted her lips.
She’d never kissed anyone before, that much was obvious, but that was all right because Oliver had more than enough experience for the two of them. He gathered her a little closer, cupping her nape with one hand, sliding his fingers into her silky hair, tilting her head just so, and set himself to the task of introducing Lady Primrose Garland to the art of kissing. He kept it teasing and light, letting her feel the gentle nip of his teeth on her lower lip, the tickling flicker of his tongue, and then, when she still didn’t pull away, he deepened the kiss, daring to delve into her tart, sharp-tongued mouth, but her mouth wasn’t tart at all, and her tongue was soft, not sharp.
Oliver stifled a low groan of pleasure. Heat flushed through him. He wanted to gather Primrose closer, to crush her to him, to plunder that sweet mouth.
Slow down, Dasenby, he told himself. She’s never kissed anyone before.
But it was hard to remember that when Primrose was tentatively kissing him back and her mouth matched his perfectly and arousal was gathering in his blood.
Despite his best intentions, Oliver lost control of the kiss. He didn’t notice the exact instant it happened; all he knew was that what had been slow and gentle had somehow become something much more urgent. Primrose was still the student and he still the master, but now she was in his mouth, now she was tasting him.
The State dressing room, with its Holland-covered sofa and rain-drenched windows, ceased to exist. His world narrowed to Primrose: her soft lips, her silky hair wrapped around his fingers, her hands clutching his lapels, her body pressing close. They kissed with single-minded focus. Hungry kisses. Intimate kisses. Kisses that didn’t stop until they were both gasping for breath.
Oliver reluctantly dragged his mouth from hers. His heart was beating loud and fast and his head felt as if it was spinning. He stared down at Primrose. He’d known her his entire life, and yet in this moment she seemed like a stranger, someone passionate and intoxicating and full of secrets, someone exciting, someone he wanted to get to know better. A lot better.
Primrose disengaged herself and sat back. She touched her fingers to her mouth. She looked as confused as he felt. What the devil had just happened between them? Had he and Primrose really kissed like that? What did it mean?
“Why did you do that?” she asked, sounding breathless and dazed and not at all like herself.
Oliver’s first instinct was to joke. It was usually his first instinct: to joke. But if he said something flippant—It seemed like a good way to pass a rainy afternoon, for example—he was afraid he’d offend her, or worse, hurt her, and that was the last thing he wanted. It had been her first kiss, after all.
Primrose’s first kiss.
All of a sudden what they’d just done seemed a lot more significant.
Was Primrose expecting him to propose?
Oliver felt a faint twinge of panic—and then he remembered what she’d told him this morning: It wouldn’t suit me! Which meant that she didn’t want to marry him, and if he did propose right now—which was what a gentleman ought to do after kissing an innocent and well-bred young lady—she would refuse him.
Why did that make him feel disappointed, not relieved?
“Why, Oliver?” she asked again.
Primrose had called him a jingle brains before, and right now that was exactly what he felt like. His thoughts were scrambled. He had absolutely no idea how to answer her question. With a joke? With the truth? What was the truth?
“Why did you kiss me?” she asked, and her voice had that familiar, tart edge to it this time. Hearing it steadied him.
“Because I wanted to,” Oliver said, and then he said, cautiously, “Do you mind? Are you angry?”
Primrose looked away from him, towards the lacquered screen looming in the corner. “No,” she said. “I’m not angry.”
His heart gave a leap of relief. “Then you won’t mind if we do it again?” he said, and then hastily: “That was a joke, Prim.” And then he said, less hastily, “Unless you don’t want it to be a joke?”
Primrose looked at him, and Oliver found himself holding his breath.
“I don’t mind,” she said, after what seemed like a very long time.
“You don’t mind if we do it again?” he said, just to make certain that they were both on the same page.
Despite the dim light, he saw a blush climb her cheeks. “I don’t mind,” Primrose said, her gaze avoiding his. “But not now.” She rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I want to see if Rhodes is awake.”
“Of course.”
Primrose walked briskly from the room. In fact, he thought she was trying not to run. After a moment, he heard the door in the reception room open and then close.
Oliver stayed where he was, on the sofa. He could taste Primrose in his mouth, could feel the impression of her lips on his. Arousal still throbbed in his blood.
He’d been right this morning when he’d thought they would suit one another.
Chapter Fifteen
Oliver did check the stairs again. Not because he didn’t trust Primrose, but because he didn’t trust Miss Middleton-Murray. Then he went to Rhodes’s bedchamber, where he found Primrose.
For a moment it was awkward—he didn’t know quite where to look, didn’t know quite how to talk to her, and he could tell she felt the same way—and then the moment passed and everything was all right between them again—tart Primrose Garland and jingle-brained Oliver Dasenby—and when he teased her and she called him a fiddle-faddle fellow, Oliver laughed out loud in relief.
After ten minutes, Primrose excused herself. Oliver gave her a discreet thumbs up, telling her he’d checked the stairs, and she acknowledged this with an infinitesimal nod.
He spent the next half hour talking to Rhodes, then went downstairs with an obligatory glance over his shoulder. No one lurked behind him waiting to push him to his death, but remembering that someone had tried to—twice—deflated his mood.
Someone, somewhere, wanted him dead.
Oliver descended the stairs slowly, meditatively.
It was still raining. Oliver found most of the ladies in the blue salon—and backed away from the door before they noticed him. The men had congregated in the library. It was a magnificent room, the ceiling fully thirty feet high, with a gallery giving access to the books on the upper level—a gallery that Oliver knew Rhodes would forbid him to set foot on, because it was perfect for accidental-but-fatal falls.
“There you are,” Uncle Algy said, cheerfully. “I was about to send out a search party for you.”
“I’ve been with Thayne.”
“How is he?” Lord Cheevers asked, with a host’s solicitousness.
Oliver grimaced. “Not good. He won’t be joining us for dinner.”
Uncle Algy’s face folded into sympathetic lines. “How unfortunate,” he said. Then he gave a sudden smile. “I say, would you all like some Madeira? I brought a special bottle with me.”
There was a stir of interest, and Uncle Algy went to fetch his Madeira. “Ten minutes,” he promised.
It was more like twenty minutes, not that anyone minded—what was there to do on a rainy day anyway? They gathered in the cardroom, a more masculine room than the library, with dark paneling and shield-back chairs and decanters lined up on the sideboard.
Uncle
Algy had already poured Madeira into five crystal glasses. “Fifty-five years old,” he said, showing them the bottle. “Same vintage as me. A good year.” He gave his booming laugh.
“Let’s have a game of cards while we drink,” Lord Cheevers suggested. “Vingt-et-un, anyone?”
They took their places at the table. Ninian chose the seat to Oliver’s right. He seemed rather nervous, shifting in his chair, fidgeting with his cuffs.
Cheevers produced a pack of cards and dealt, while Uncle Algy handed out the glasses of Madeira. He’d poured generously, and the most generous glass of all, filled almost to the brim, was Oliver’s. “Duke gets the biggest glass,” he said, with a wink.
Oliver gave an awkward laugh.
Ninian didn’t laugh. He fiddled with his cuffs again, looking as agitated as a virgin in a whorehouse.
Uncle Algy lifted his own glass. “May a soldier’s musket always be primed and ready for action,” he said, with another wink at Oliver.
It was a toast Oliver had heard hundreds of times—a toast he’d made himself, with just such a wink at his friends, because “musket” of course meant “cock”—so why did it make him feel uncomfortable to hear his own uncle speak those words?
Oliver gave another awkward laugh and raised his glass—and in that same instant, Ninian managed to fall off his chair and into Oliver’s lap.
Oliver dropped his glass and only just avoided falling off his own chair. Madeira went everywhere.
Ninian scrambled to his feet, scarlet with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry.” He pulled out his handkerchief and began mopping up the spilled liquid.
For a moment all was bustle—whisking the cards out of harm’s way, wiping up the Madeira. Cheevers told Ninian he was a clodpole, in a tone halfway between laughter and scolding, and Lord Warrington teased him for already being in his cups, but Uncle Algy didn’t say anything. His jaw was clenched. He was clearly mortified by his son’s clumsiness.
