by Emily Larkin
“That’s settled, then.” Octavius nodded affably at Rumpole. “We’re much obliged to you, baron. It’s most hospitable of you.”
The baron looked anything but hospitable. In fact, he looked as if he was about to turn the three of them out on their ears.
Octavius headed him off: “My grandfather, the duke, always says that you can tell a man’s breeding by how hospitable he is.”
The word “duke” hung in the air for a moment, reminding the baron that Octavius outranked him. Rumpole’s cheeks puffed in and out several times, then he gave a stiff nod.
Octavius raised his glass to the man and directed a wide, sunny smile around the table. “A week in Hampshire. I can’t think of anything better. Can you, chaps?”
Dex rolled his eyes, and swallowed the last of his brandy in one long gulp. Newingham looked almost as dyspeptic as the baron.
Rumpole refilled his glass with port and drank it as if it were water. His color was higher than it usually was, his jowls almost puce against the white of his neckcloth.
The faintest of bruises marked the bridge of his fleshy nose and a smudge of discoloration lay under one eye.
Octavius wondered whether the lesson he’d tried to teach Rumpole in London had taken, or whether, like the bruises, it had faded.
There was only one way to find out.
“Anyone up for a game of billiards?” he asked, putting down his glass.
“Billiard room’s past the library,” the baron said, with a curt wave at the door.
“Billiards?” Newingham said. “Yes, let’s have a game.” He pushed his chair back.
The three of them trooped out into the corridor.
“Damn you, Otto,” Newingham whispered. “A whole week?”
“Just think of those blood bays,” Octavius whispered back.
Newingham muttered under his breath and turned toward the billiard room. Dex made as if to follow him, but Octavius caught his elbow. “I need a quick word with my cousin,” he told the viscount. “You go ahead, Bunny. We’ll join you shortly.”
He waited until Newingham was out of earshot, then said, “Come upstairs with me. I need to change.”
They climbed the stairs quickly. “Lord, did you see Rumpole’s face?” Dex said, as they crossed the half landing. “I thought he was going to die of apoplexy!”
Octavius grinned unrepentantly.
“I don’t think I can endure another dinner with him,” Dex went on. “Do you think we can dine in the nursery for the rest of the week? Bunny did come to see those girls, after all.”
“Worth a shot,” Octavius said. And if it worked, it would put them in Miss Toogood’s company.
Octavius’s bedroom was empty, but the curtains had been drawn and the candles lit. He locked the door and began to undress.
Dex leaned against the mantelpiece. “I must say, your Miss Toogood isn’t what I expected.”
“She’s not?” Octavius tossed his shirt on the bed. “I told you she had a great deal of countenance.”
“You didn’t tell me she had ginger hair.”
“Auburn,” Octavius corrected. He narrowed his eyes at his cousin. “What of it?”
Dex shrugged and said, “Nothing,” and then he said, “So . . . you still like her?”
“Yes.” He’d thought that an afternoon in Miss Toogood’s company would cure him of the mad notion that he was in love with her. It hadn’t. The certainty that they were meant for each other had only grown stronger.
Right now, he wanted to marry her, which was disconcerting and exhilarating and quite possibly crazy, but if he still felt the same way at the end of the week then he was going to propose, caution be damned.
But he didn’t tell Dex that. Instead, he peeled off his breeches and stockings. “Where’s that chemise?”
Tonight, Octavius chose to be brunette. He gave himself a heart-shaped face and large hazel eyes. When he was dressed, he examined himself in the mirror. His mobcap was straight, his collar was straight, his new apron was straight, his cuffs were straight. He looked as neat as wax.
“Right,” he said in a brisk and disconcertingly high-pitched voice. “It’s time to put temptation in Rumpole’s way.”
Dex pulled a face.
“What? You think it’s wrong to tempt him? You think he’s got the right to swive me if he thinks I’m pretty?”
“Of course not,” Dex said. “It’s just . . .” He shook his head. “Just be careful, Otto. He might be old, but he’s twice your size. He could really hurt you.”
“He won’t.” Octavius said. He headed for the door. “Give Bunny my apologies. Tell him I had a letter to write.”
Octavius lingered in the upstairs corridor until Dex was long gone, then he crept down the staircase. The female clothes were unpleasant to wear—the constriction of the stays, the nakedness of his loins. Damn it, he ought to have bought a pair of boy’s drawers before leaving London. The airiness around his nether regions was extremely disconcerting. All someone had to do was flip up his skirts and he’d be exposed.
How could women bear to walk around like this?
The door to the billiard room was ajar. Octavius peeked in and saw Dex and Newingham.
He backed away and went in search of the baron. Rumpole was no longer in the dining room. He’d moved to the library, where he was pouring himself another glass of port.
Octavius watched from the doorway as Rumpole pushed away from the sideboard and staggered to the nearest armchair. He sat, belched loudly, then slurped from his glass.
Octavius’s upper lip curled in disgust. He pressed two fingers to his mouth, forcing his lip flat. He was a housemaid, and housemaids didn’t sneer when their employers belched or slurped their port. They kept their gazes down and their faces expressionless.
Housemaids also didn’t carry out tasks in the library after dinner, but Rumpole looked too drunk to notice such a detail.
Octavius sidled into the room, not making eye contact with the baron. He scuttled across to the sideboard. Rumpole hadn’t bothered to replace the stopper in the port decanter, so Octavius did that, with a tiny clink, then he made certain that the bottles were perfectly aligned, a quarter of an inch between each one. His hands were busy, but his attention was on the man seated behind him, alert for the smallest sound—but the baron said nothing, not even when Octavius lingered, taking the time to arrange the decanters according to the color of their contents: the deep red of port, the amber of brandy, the pale gold of sherry.
He’d been in the library more than a minute and the baron still hadn’t said anything. Was it possible the man had learned his lesson?
Octavius turned away from the sideboard, bobbed a curtsy, and said in as close to a Hampshire accent as he could manage, “Do you need anything, sir?”
His gaze was fixed on the carpet, a rather fine Axminster, but he was aware of the baron seated not two yards away. If he’d had ears like a dog’s they’d have been pricked at the man.
Rumpole didn’t speak.
Octavius risked a glance at the baron. Rumpole was looking at him. The expression on his face was predatory.
Octavius’s heartbeat sped up. He took a wholly unintentional step backwards.
The baron stared at him. Octavius forced himself to stand still. He held his breath and waited. It was going to happen. He knew it. The baron was going to open his mouth and say . . .
“You. Come here.”
Octavius had grown up in houses filled with the servants, but he’d never heard anyone speak to a housemaid like that, as if she was less than a person. Less, even, than a dog. He was so offended that for a moment he didn’t obey.
“Come here,” the baron said again.
Octavius gritted his teeth and trod closer, slowly and deliberately. He had to force himself not to clench his hands. Don’t look him in the eyes, he told himself. Not yet. Look at his feet.
He halted in front of the baron, unlocked his jaw, and said, “Sir?” to the baron’s shoes.<
br />
He was expecting the man to demand a kiss, as he had in London, but instead Rumpole said, “Play my flute.”
For several seconds Octavius literally couldn’t breathe. It was as if every part of him froze—his brain, his heart, his lungs—all were paralyzed with outrage.
Play the baron’s flute?
His head jerked up. He stared at the baron’s smug, red, well-fed face.
Rumpole drained his glass. “Go on,” he said. “Kneel for me and play my flute. Or I’ll see that you’re turned off.”
Octavius felt a surge of rage so strong that he actually shook with it. His hands curled into fists. His lips drew back in a snarl.
Rumpole was too drunk and too complacent to notice. “Hurry up,” he said.
Octavius was more furious than he’d ever been in his life. He was more furious than he’d thought humanly possible. His rage was so consuming that he was afraid that if he hit the baron once, he wouldn’t be able to stop until he’d killed the man. So, instead of punching Rumpole so hard that his nose broke and his teeth fell out—which was what he wanted to do—he uncurled one fist. “How dare you!” he said, rage hissing in his voice, and since he couldn’t risk punching the baron, he slapped him as hard as he could, once on each florid cheek, the sounds as sharp as pistol shots in the room.
The baron reared back in his seat. He gaped at Octavius, mouth open in shock, face even redder than it had been before.
“I may be a servant,” Octavius said. “But I am not a whore!” He turned on his heel and stormed from the library before he could give in to his rage and rip the baron’s head off his neck.
He ran past the dining room, where servants were clearing the table, ran past the drawing room, past the parlor, to the end of the corridor, where he ducked into a darkened room. His bosom was heaving like a heroine’s in a gothic novel. His heart was thundering and his hands were balled into fists and he was so angry he couldn’t think straight. He paced for several minutes, practically gnashing his teeth. He wanted to punch something—the walls, the furniture, a person. How dared Rumpole ask a maidservant to play his flute?
Play Rumpole’s flute.
The thought was so repulsive that Octavius’s dinner threatened to make a reappearance. He stopped pacing, squeezed his eyes shut, and concentrated on breathing shallowly and carefully. The nausea slowly retreated, and with it, some of his rage. But not all of it. He was still furious. His heart was still beating stupidly fast. Energy still coursed through him. Lord, but he wanted to punch someone.
But not Rumpole. Not tonight.
Octavius smoothed his apron and straightened his mobcap. He’d done enough for tonight. He’d tested the baron and found him wanting. Now, he needed to get out of these horribly uncomfortable clothes and back into his own body.
And then, he needed to think.
He wasn’t going to leave Hampshire until he’d taught Rumpole a lesson that would stick—a lesson that was both forceful and indelible. There had to be a way—he knew there was—but he also knew he wouldn’t find it while he was this angry. He needed to calm down and talk it over with Dex. Between them, they’d come up with something.
Octavius peered out into the corridor. He saw no one.
He walked quietly back past the now-dark dining room, pausing at the library to take a quick peek inside. The baron was no longer there.
Octavius continued along to the billiard room. He peeked in that door, too. Dex and Newingham were both there.
Dex glanced up and saw him. He gave a minuscule nod.
Octavius knew his cousin well enough to interpret that nod: Dex would come to undress him just as soon as he could.
He was in his room, struggling with the dress, when someone knocked on the door. He froze. Was it his valet? Or was it Dex?
He didn’t dare ask; his voice was still female.
“Otto?” someone asked. “You in there?”
Octavius crossed swiftly to the door and unlocked it.
Dex slipped inside. “Well? Did Rumpole like your looks?”
Octavius locked the door again. “He did.”
“And?”
“He told me to play his flute.”
“He what?”
“You heard me.” Octavius was growing angry again, just thinking about it. He reached behind himself, trying to undo the gown.
Dex took over, freeing the buttons from the holes. “What did you do?”
Octavius discovered that he’d clenched his hands into fists. He shook them out. “I slapped him.”
“Slapped him?” Dex echoed, disbelief in his voice. “Lord, I’d’ve knocked his damned block off!”
“I wanted to,” Octavius said, pulling the gown over his head. “But I was so angry I was afraid I’d kill him.”
Dex was silent while he undid the stays. Once the laces were undone, he met Octavius’s eyes in the mirror. “Rumpole is . . .” He shook his head, apparently unable to find a word that sufficiently described the baron’s depravity.
The door handle rattled as someone tried the door. “Lord Octavius?” It was his valet.
Shit, he was still in female form—complete with a female voice. Octavius stripped out of the chemise and hastily changed shape. “I shan’t need you tonight, Staig,” he called out.
“Very good, sir.”
They waited for the sound of the man’s footsteps to die away, then Dex turned to him. “So, what are you going to do?”
Octavius tossed the chemise on the bed and hunted for his nightshirt. Where had Staig put the damned thing? Ah, there it was. He pulled it over his head. “I’m going to teach Rumpole a lesson he’ll never forget.”
“How?”
“I have no idea,” Octavius admitted.
Chapter Seven
In the morning Pip was even more eager to climb out of bed than she’d been the day before. She crossed to the window and threw back the curtains. Daylight spilled into her bedchamber. The sun had just risen and everything was tipped with gold.
She leaned against the windowsill and drank in her fill of the view. The day brimmed with things to look forward to—making kites, flying them with the girls, exploring Selborne. But if she was honest with herself, she was also looking forward to time spent in Lord Octavius’s company, and that was foolish. Dangerously foolish.
Pip turned away from the window and went to wash her face in cold water from the ewer. Lord Octavius was charming and amusing and one of those people with whom one felt instantly at ease. Yesterday he’d made her feel as if there was nothing he’d rather do than talk with her, but the truth of the matter was that there must be hundreds of people he would rather have spent an hour talking to. He was a marquis’s son with good manners, and that’s all yesterday had been: a nobleman being polite to a governess. Pip dried her face and looked at herself in the mirror, seeing red hair and gray eyes and a scattering of freckles. She leveled a stern finger at her reflection. “Don’t be flattered by his attention; he’s like that with everyone. Don’t imagine that he’s interested in you, because he’s most definitely not. And above all, do not fancy yourself in love with him.” She waited a beat, and then said, “Do you hear me, Philippa Mary?”
Yes, she did hear herself.
After breakfast, Pip resumed the geography lesson that had been interrupted yesterday. Half an hour passed. Then a whole hour. Her anticipation dwindled, and faded, and finally withered into nothing.
It ought not to surprise her that the men had reneged on their promise. There were undoubtedly a great many things they’d rather do than fly kites with little girls. Even so, her pang of disappointment was sharper than it ought to have been.
“Open your French grammar books,” Pip said, as cheerfully as she was able.
They were conjugating the verb devoir when she heard male voices in the corridor. Newingham poked his head into the schoolroom. “I say, are we in the right place?”
Pip’s heart gave a foolish little leap. “Indeed you are, Lord Newingham.”<
br />
The viscount stepped into the room. Behind him were Lord Octavius and Mr. Pryor.
“Good morning,” Lord Octavius said, and the smile in his dark eyes seemed to be just for her.
Pip’s heart gave a much larger and even more foolish leap. “Good morning,” she said, and then silently, to herself, He smiles at everyone like that. Don’t let it go to your head, Philippa Mary.
Newingham laid a handful of sticks on the worktable by the window and Lord Octavius placed a ball of string alongside it—and that, Pip realized, was why they were so delayed: they’d been gathering supplies.
“You have paper and scissors and paste?” Newingham asked.
Pip did, and she hurried to set them out on the table.
In theory, kites were simple to make; in practice, they took quite some time to construct. The girls watched with rapt attention as Newingham showed them how to bind the sticks together and notch them for the string, how to measure the paper and glue it down. Their shyness dissolved beneath the viscount’s easy cheerfulness and Mr. Pryor’s jokes and Lord Octavius’s good-natured patience. They asked questions timidly at first, then less timidly, and finally, without any timidity at all.
Pip, who had some experience with kites made of paper and paste—in particular with the way in which they tended to disintegrate in mid-air—made a kite from an old apron, cutting off the strings and stitching cross-channels to hold the sticks in place.
She sat on the opposite side of the worktable from the girls, so she could give approval and encouragement whenever they looked at her, which was often. She tried to confine her attention to those two things only—her sewing, and the girls—but it kept straying.
In the hour that it took the girls to make their kites, Pip discovered that Lord Octavius’s hands were large and well-shaped, that his fingers were strong and lean and deft, that his voice was probably the most pleasant baritone she’d ever heard in her life, that one lock of his wavy black hair had a tendency to fall forward over his brow when he bent his head, and that his eyelashes were quite absurdly long.