Primrose and the Dreadful Duke_Garland Cousins 1

by Emily Larkin

“You were right, Prim. I shouldn’t have made it into a game.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Miss Middleton-Murray and the others. I didn’t flirt with them, but I didn’t discourage them, either. If I’d made it clear I wasn’t looking for a wife, none of this would have happened.”

  Not looking for a wife.

  Primrose stopped plucking at his button. She removed her hand from his chest.

  “What was that quote? The Aurelius one.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one about being yourself. Not acting a part.”

  It took her a moment to realize which quote he meant. “‘Settle on the type of person you wish to be and stick to it, whether alone or in company.’”

  “That’s what I should have done,” Oliver said. He stared up at the bed canopy, as if memorizing its arrangement.

  “Well, yes, but . . . Oliver, that’s the type of person you are. You play games all the time. So in one way you were being yourself.”

  His gaze slanted to her. “Is that what you think?”

  Primrose hesitated, and then nodded.

  “I play games some of the time,” Oliver said, pushing up to sit. “Not all the time.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Primrose said, also sitting up. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  Oliver stared at her for a long, frowning moment.

  “There’s nothing’s wrong with playing games,” Primrose said. “As long as you don’t hurt people.”

  Oliver looked as if she’d slapped him.

  “I don’t think you’ve hurt anyone,” Primrose told him hastily.

  “No?” His voice held a faint bite. “I’m fairly certain Miss Carteris’s wrist is hurting right now, and Miss Warrington’s nose.”

  “That wasn’t your fault!”

  Oliver looked away. “If I hadn’t played my game, Miss Middleton-Murray may not have played hers.”

  Primrose couldn’t refute this. “Yes, but your intention was never to hurt anyone.”

  “No,” Oliver lay back down on the bed. He stared up at the bed canopy again. “My intention was only to amuse myself.”

  Primrose bit her lip and looked down at the Holland cloth. She smoothed a wrinkle with her fingertip.

  “I want to be a good duke, Prim. I want to be as good a duke as your father. So . . .” Oliver took a deep breath, and released it. “No more games.”

  “What?” It was a horrifying thought. Oliver not playing games would be like a sunflower with all its bright petals plucked off. “Don’t do that!”

  His gaze slanted to her again.

  “You have a natural levity, and that’s a good thing, Oliver. An enviable thing. It will help you be a good duke.”

  His brows drew together. She saw his perplexity.

  “You’re very new at being a duke. You haven’t even seen your estates yet, let alone shouldered all your responsibilities. Your secretary and your men of business and your bailiffs are still bearing the brunt of it.”

  Oliver’s brows drew more sharply together. He opened his mouth.

  Primrose held up a hand to forestall him. “That wasn’t a criticism. I know you’re touring the estates this summer, and by the end of the year you’ll have everything in hand, but the thing is, Oliver, being a duke is a lot harder than it looks. It’s not life and death, like in the army, but your decisions will affect hundreds of people. Perhaps even thousands.”

  Oliver closed his mouth.

  Primrose smoothed another wrinkle in the Holland cloth, looking at it rather than Oliver’s face. “It wears on Father, the responsibility of it all. Sometimes I think that if he didn’t know how to laugh, he’d go mad.”

  Oliver said nothing.

  After a moment, she glanced at him. He was watching her gravely.

  “You’re going to need your sense of humor,” Primrose told him. “It’s going to keep you sane. So, don’t stop playing games, just . . .” She searched for the right words.

  “Choose them more wisely.”

  “Yes.” She smiled at him. “That’s it exactly.”

  Oliver reached for her, drawing her down until she lay on his chest. “How did you get to be so long-headed, Prim?”

  “I’m not long-headed,” Primrose said, into the starched muslin folds of his neckcloth.

  “No?” He stroked her hair. “I think you are.”

  Primrose’s cheeks grew warm at this praise. “I read a lot.”

  Oliver stroked her hair again, then ran his fingers lightly and ticklingly from her temple down to her jaw. “‘There are none more lazy, or more truly ignorant, than your everlasting readers.’”

  “What?” Her voice was an indignant squawk. Primrose pushed up on her forearms and looked down at him.

  Oliver grinned up at her. “Aurelius, Prim.”

  “I know it’s Aurelius!”

  Oliver widened his eyes. “What? An Aurelius quote you don’t like?”

  “It’s not one of my favorites, no.”

  Primrose gazed down at him. Woodland eyes, green and brown and gold. She bent her head and kissed him. Their lips parted, their tongues touched briefly, and then she drew back.

  “What was that for?” Oliver asked.

  “Knock-kneed nag.”

  “I think that deserves two kisses, don’t you?”

  Primrose shook her head sternly. “One kiss per alliteration.”

  Oliver thought for a moment. “Fiddle-faddle fellow.”

  Primrose bent her head and kissed him again. This time it lasted longer. His tongue invaded her mouth. His hand crept up to cup the nape of her neck, holding her to him.

  Primrose was breathless by the time she broke the kiss. Oliver’s face was flushed and his woodland eyes were darker than they’d been before.

  She watched his pupils contract slightly, and said, “Next.”

  Oliver’s brow furrowed for a moment. “Dreadfully dull duke.”

  Primrose laughed and bent her head again, losing herself in Oliver’s mouth, in its taste and its heat, in the wonders of his lips and tongue and teeth. She was breathless again when they stopped.

  “Melancholy marquis,” Oliver said. “Virtuous viscount.”

  “You missed out earl.”

  “I left it for you.”

  Primrose thought for a moment. “Elegant earl.”

  Oliver grinned up at her, and drew her head down again. His kiss was demanding yet playful, a combination that seemed uniquely him. If she were to kiss a thousand other men Primrose doubted any of them would kiss exactly as Oliver did—the mischievous nip of teeth on her lower lip, the teasing slide of his tongue against hers. Oliver might not be able to wish himself from one place to another, but he did possess magic. His kisses were magical. His mouth was magical.

  The kiss deepened, became less playful, more intense. All that single-minded passion focused on her was overwhelming. Dizzying. Perfect. He was devouring her mouth now, crushing her to him, one hand buried in her hair, the other at her waist, holding her flush against his chest.

  Oliver shifted on the bed, shifted her—and suddenly Primrose found herself with one of his legs between both of hers.

  She froze and stopped kissing him. There were layers of fabric between them—gown, petticoat, chemise, breeches—but even so, his thigh was cradled between her legs. “Oliver?” She lifted her head so that she could see his face.

  “You don’t like it?”

  She wasn’t sure whether she liked it or not. It felt intimate and . . . and dangerous, as if something more than kissing might happen between them.

  Oliver watched her face, waiting for her reply.

  Primrose tried to find the words to articulate what she felt, but it was almost impossible to think. Her heart was beating fast and her lungs seemed to have grown smaller and she was intensely aware of the broad, solid strength of his thigh nestled between her own thighs. “It feels dangerous,” she admitted.

  “It’s not. I promise.” Oliver touched her cheek
lightly, gently. “It’s just something I think you might like. If you don’t, we’ll stop.”

  It was the gentleness of his touch that decided her, that feather-light caress. Oliver might play games with her, but he would never harm her.

  “All right,” Primrose said, and after a moment’s hesitation, she dipped her head and kissed him again.

  That thigh was distracting, though. It was impossible not to be aware of it—so strong, so muscular. And almost as distracting was that this position brought her pudendum level with his hipbone. Layers of clothing separated them, but that didn’t alter the fact that her groin pressed against Oliver’s hip, and perhaps that was why this felt so intimate and so dangerous?

  Oliver tightened his arm around her waist at the same moment that his hips moved, arching slightly off the bed. Through all those layers of fabric, she rubbed against him.

  Primrose gasped.

  He did it again.

  “Oh,” Primrose said into his mouth.

  “Like that?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know.” But that wasn’t completely truthful. Her brain might not know whether she liked it or not, but her body certainly knew, because when Oliver did it again, she uttered a small, unexpected moan.

  Oliver laughed breathlessly and continued to kiss her, continued to move his hips, his arm strong around her waist. It was almost as if she was riding him, riding his thigh, riding his hipbone, and my God . . . that rhythmic pressure against her most private place . . .

  Heavens, that felt good. She was melting from the inside out.

  Primrose clutched his hair with one hand and his shoulder with the other and struggled to keep control of her wits, but it was futile. Her brain had ceased to function. Oliver’s hand was on her derrière now, holding her against him more firmly, and instead of being outraged she reveled in that firm pressure. “That’s right, Prim,” he whispered, and did it again: tilting up with his hips, bearing down with his hand.

  Pleasure shivered through her.

  Oliver’s rhythm sped up. It became difficult to breathe, impossible to think. She could only exist, shamelessly pressing herself against Oliver’s hipbone—she didn’t want it to end—didn’t want it to end—and then it did end, in a cascade of bright, unexpected ecstasy.

  Oliver stopped moving. His arm was around her waist again, holding her close and his mouth was against her cheek, gently kissing her.

  It took a while to catch her breath. Catching her wits was even harder. What had just happened?

  Oliver stroked her back, stroked her hair, chuckled softly in her ear. “I thought you’d like it.”

  Primrose lifted her head and looked down at him. Her eyes took several seconds to focus. The room seemed to swing dizzyingly around her, as if she’d just translocated. But she hadn’t; the only magic here was Oliver. “What was that?”

  He grinned. “My gift to you.”

  Gift? Primrose dragged air into her lungs and stared at him. He looked utterly debauched—hair disheveled, neckcloth in disarray, cheeks flushed, eyes dark and glittering.

  His gift to her?

  What did that mean?

  What should she say in reply?

  “Thank you,” she said, finally.

  Oliver’s grin widened. “You’re welcome.”

  Her acorn pendant dangled between them, almost lost in the crushed folds of his neckcloth. Oliver fished it out with one hand and held it up so that he could see it. His expression changed ever so slightly, eyes fractionally narrowing, the tiniest crease between his brows, as if he weighed up a course of action.

  Primrose felt a flicker of excitement. Was he going to suggest putting her acorn to the test?

  Oliver’s gift had made her feel more alive than she ever had before—skin tingling, blood rushing through her veins—and it had also made her feel reckless, made her want to cast propriety to the winds and do shocking things, such as touch his bare skin and let him touch hers.

  Right now. On the State bed.

  She held her breath, anticipating his words: Let’s put it to the test, Prim.

  Oliver released the pendant. He shifted beneath her and grimaced. “Much as I enjoy having you on top of me, Prim, I’m going to have to ask you to get off. I need a moment to, uh, compose myself.”

  Her disappointment was sharp. The recklessness folded in on itself. Embarrassment took its place.

  Primrose scrambled off him, and not just off him but away from him, putting a good foot of Holland-cloth-covered bed between them. What on earth had she just done? What on earth had she been thinking?

  The embarrassment strengthened and began to feel a lot like mortification. She’d rubbed herself against Oliver’s hipbone. Shamelessly and wantonly.

  Alongside her, Oliver adjusted his breeches slightly. Her gaze followed his hand—and stayed there. Oliver’s breeches looked fuller than they usually did. A lot fuller.

  And then understanding rushed in.

  Oh.

  Primrose sat on the bed, frozen with shock. For a moment she couldn’t even breathe.

  She might be innocent, but she wasn’t naive. Just as she knew that the place between a woman’s legs was called a pudendum, she also knew that the fullness in Oliver’s breeches meant that his organ was distended.

  And she knew what that meant: He wanted to bed her.

  She looked away from him, not merely embarrassed now, but confused. If Oliver wanted to bed her, why had he stopped?

  This morning he’d told her he wasn’t playing with her, and then this afternoon he’d said he wasn’t looking for a wife. So what did that make this?

  Something more than a game but less than matrimony?

  A liaison?

  “God damn it,” Oliver said, sitting up alongside her. “Look at that, Prim. It’s raining.”

  Primrose looked at the window. It was indeed raining.

  Oliver climbed off the bed and crossed to the window, adjusting his breeches again as he walked. He peered out. “Damnation.” He turned back to face her, a scowl on his brow. “I wanted to catch him tonight.” His scowl faded. He tilted his head to one side and looked at her. “That’s a very interesting hairstyle you’re sporting.”

  Primrose put her hand to her hair, and discovered that it was falling down around her shoulders. “And that’s a very interesting neckcloth you’re wearing,” she retorted.

  Oliver peered down at his neckcloth. “So it is,” he said, and headed for the dressing room.

  After a moment, Primrose climbed off the bed and followed him. Oliver was standing in front of the mirror, retying his neckcloth. He moved to one side, making room for her.

  Primrose tidied her hair, but most of her attention was on Oliver—his deft fingers, his frown of concentration, the way his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed slightly as he tried to get the folds of his neckcloth to lie flat.

  What were they doing, she and Oliver? Just how serious was it?

  She opened her mouth to ask him, and then closed it again.

  How serious did she want it to be?

  Oliver met her eyes in the mirror and winked at her, and then struck a pose. “I am perfect,” he declared.

  And he was.

  Perfectly ridiculous. Ridiculously perfect.

  Ridiculously, perfectly, Oliver.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It was raining heavily by dinnertime. Primrose wrapped a warm cashmere shawl around her shoulders—it had grown quite chilly—and marched briskly down to the drawing room. Lord Algernon was the only person there, standing by the fireplace.

  “Good evening, Lady Primrose,” he said. “Quite a cold snap this is, isn’t it? Come and stand here by the fire.”

  Primrose smiled at him, and did as he bid.

  “I understand you had an unpleasant experience this afternoon. Are you quite well?”

  “I am, thank you.”

  “Such a dreadful thing. Frederick will never forgive himself! And poor Isobel is quite beside herself. She won’t be
joining us for dinner. I understand she’s prostrate with shock.”

  “Oh,” Primrose said, thinking of Lady Cheevers’s shrill cry of warning: Look out!

  “You’re made of strong stuff, though, Lady Primrose,” Lord Algernon said, in a jocular tone that she found slightly patronizing.

  “I was never in any danger,” she said.

  At that moment, the drawing room door opened and Lord Cheevers entered. He crossed to the fireplace. “Lady Primrose,” he said awkwardly. “I must apologize for what happened.”

  The door opened again. This time the newcomers were Rhodes and Oliver.

  They didn’t join them at the fireplace; instead, Rhodes caught her eye and stroked the end of his nose, then he and Oliver strolled across to one of the windows and looked out at the encroaching dusk.

  “That you should almost come to harm while under my roof,” Cheevers said. “Injured by my own goddaughter—”

  “You weren’t to blame, Lord Cheevers.”

  Cheevers looked at her uncertainly. She saw that his apology wasn’t just for the sake of form; he was genuinely distressed by what had happened.

  “You weren’t to blame,” Primrose repeated. “No one thinks so. I certainly don’t, and I know my brother and Westfell don’t either.” She glanced at Lord Algernon. “You don’t, do you, sir?”

  “Of course not!” Lord Algernon said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “It’s a devil of a thing, Frederick, but not your fault. Miss Middleton-Murray was a charming girl. Quite charming! No one would have thought her capable of such malice.” He hesitated. “Ah . . . may I ask, Lady Primrose, how you came to suspect Miss Middleton-Murray of her, er, her dastardly deeds? As I understand it, the victims themselves were unaware there was foul play.”

  Lord Algernon’s gaze was intent. Instinct told her that there was more to his question than mere curiosity. Was he afraid that she suspected him of his dastardly deeds?

  “Oh, it was quite by chance,” she assured him. “It was the scratches on the newel post. I noticed them in passing. I never would have guessed otherwise.”

  “You must have sharp eyesight.”

  “Tolerably sharp.” Primrose glanced across at the window. “If you will excuse me? I need to speak with my brother.” She nodded politely to Cheevers and Lord Algernon, left the warmth of the fire, and crossed to where Oliver and Rhodes stood. “What is it?” she asked quietly.