by Emily Larkin
“Could I do that?” Pip asked, once Mr. Pryor and Lord Newingham had departed, grumbling.
Lord Octavius shook his head. “Probably not. It’s almost impossible for a woman to throw a man. You don’t have the height or the weight.” He glanced around, as if to check that the schoolroom was indeed empty, then lowered his voice and said, “I did throw the baron the other night, but it wasn’t easy. Only managed it because I’ve been doing it for years.”
“You did that to the baron?” Pip said, gesturing at the spot where Newingham had fallen.
Lord Octavius nodded. “Laid him out on the floor, then poured a ewer of water over him.”
Pip opened her mouth, found herself speechless, and closed it again.
Lord Octavius grinned. “I’ll show you how it’s done, shall I?” He took hold of her wrist. “You grab and pull, and as you pull you twist. Like this, see? And then you throw them over your hip.” He didn’t go so far as to throw her over his hip, but he did pull and twist—gently—and even done gently it tipped Pip off balance. She caught herself by placing her free hand on Lord Octavius’s chest, then snatched it back, because placing one’s hand on a man’s chest wasn’t at all proper, even if the man in question was going to ask one to marry him, then put it back because she did need it for balance.
She looked at her fingers resting on his silk damask waistcoat, then risked a glance at his face.
Lord Octavius was watching her. His gaze was intent. Unnervingly intent. Spine-tinglingly intent.
Heat flared in Pip’s body, and alongside it, nervousness. It became impossible to swallow, almost impossible to breathe. Her heart began to beat exceedingly fast. She was intensely aware that they were almost embracing, intensely aware of his fingers around her wrist, the heat of skin against skin.
She ought to step back. It was what a respectable governess would do. But she didn’t feel like a respectable governess right at this moment; she felt like a woman who wanted to be kissed by the man she was in love with.
Lord Octavius must have discerned this, for he bent his head and skimmed his lips over hers. It was the lightest and briefest of kisses, and yet it made her heartbeat stutter.
He raised his head and looked at her, assessing her reaction.
Pip smiled shyly at him.
Lord Octavius smiled back, and kissed her again, a kiss that was still light, but not quite as brief. She felt his lips, soft and warm, felt his breath against her cheek, felt her pulse skip and jump with delight.
Lord Octavius was kissing her. Kissing her properly. And not merely one kiss but many, a full dozen of them laid in a delicious, tingling path from one corner of her mouth to the other, as if he was mapping its shape. Then his tongue touched her lower lip in a tiny and intimate caress. It felt startlingly good. Pip gave an involuntary shiver of pleasure and parted her lips.
Lord Octavius released her wrist and gathered her to him. His arms were around her, but this wasn’t a hold Pip wanted to break. She clutched his waistcoat and pressed even closer. His tongue caressed her lower lip again and then dipped briefly into her mouth, an intimacy that was even more startlingly wonderful.
Pip’s pulse thundered in her ears. She felt as if she was Sleeping Beauty being kissed awake by her prince, as if she’d been asleep her whole life and now, suddenly, she wasn’t just awake, but alive, blood racing in her veins, heat spilling over her skin.
Lord Octavius didn’t stop kissing her until they were both out of breath. Reluctantly, their lips parted. Reluctantly, they eased their embrace. Pip stared up at him. His cheeks looked as hot as hers felt. His eyes were hot, too. Hot and dark.
He hadn’t quite released her and she hadn’t quite released him. His hands rested lightly at her waist; her fingers still clutched his waistcoat. Pip knew she ought to step back, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to stand here, toe to toe with Lord Octavius, face hot, lips tingling, forever.
“Will you marry me?” he asked—and then he winced and stepped back, releasing her. “I beg your pardon, Miss Toogood. It’s too soon after what happened in the shrubbery. I know I shouldn’t—”
“Yes,” Pip said.
Lord Octavius stopped speaking, his mouth open, a word half formed on his lips, and then his eyebrows quirked, as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears.
“Yes,” Pip said again.
The expression of disbelief on his face transformed into something bright and hopeful. “Yes, you’ll marry me?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you,” Pip confirmed.
Lord Octavius uttered a joyful laugh, then picked her up by the waist and swung her in an exuberant, dizzying circle.
Pip clung to his shoulders. He laughed again, and she laughed, too, giddy with happiness, giddy with love.
Lord Octavius swung her around one more time, then set her carefully on her feet. “You’re quite certain?” he asked, his hands still at her waist.
“I’m quite certain.”
He smiled down at her and Pip smiled back, and for a moment she almost felt lightheaded. How had something so extraordinary happened? A week ago she hadn’t even known of his existence, and now she was going to marry him.
Someone knocked loudly on the schoolroom door. They sprang apart.
The door opened and Mr. Pryor poked his head into the room. “Thought I’d find you both still here,” he said, with a smirk.
A hot rush of embarrassment flooded Pip’s cheeks.
“What do you want?” Lord Octavius said.
“Are we going to teach Rumpole his lesson tonight?” Mr. Pryor asked. “Or had you forgotten about him?”
Lord Octavius’s expression became rather sheepish. Clearly, he had forgotten.
“Baron Rumpole,” Mr. Pryor said, in an annoyingly pedantic voice. “The villain of this piece, who needs to learn an almighty lesson. Remember him? Or has kissing Miss Toogood addled your brain?”
Lord Octavius stopped looking sheepish. “That’s enough, Dex,” he growled.
Mr. Pryor’s smirk deepened. “So, are we doing it tonight?”
“Yes,” Lord Octavius said, and then, “No, we’re not ready.” He rubbed his forehead. “I need to practice being Amelia, decide what I’m going to say.”
“Let’s do that now, then,” Mr. Pryor said, throwing himself down in one of the chairs.
“Not here,” Pip said, aware that a housemaid would come looking for her at any moment—a fact she’d completely forgotten while she and Lord Octavius were kissing.
She sent up a brief prayer of thanks that it hadn’t been a maid who’d interrupted them.
Mr. Pryor climbed to his feet again. “Your room then, Otto.”
Lord Octavius bent and kissed her cheek. “Good night,” he whispered against her skin.
“Good night,” she whispered back.
The men departed. “I still think we need a sword,” Mr. Pryor said, as the door closed behind them.
Pip stayed where she was, listening to the silence and the slow thump of her heart. Her lips still tingled. She pressed her fingertips to them.
Lord Octavius had kissed her.
Lord Octavius had asked her to marry him.
Lord Octavius had asked her to marry him—and she’d said yes.
He’d called his family’s magic fantastical that afternoon, but this was every bit as fantastical. She, a vicar’s daughter, was going to marry Lord Octavius Pryor, grandson to a duke. It was astonishing and miraculous and almost unbelievable . . . and his family would not be pleased.
A tiny scrap of worry winkled its way into her brain.
What would Lord Octavius’s parents think when they learned that their son was throwing himself away on a mere governess?
The door swung open. Lord Octavius came into the schoolroom in a rush. “I’m off to London,” he said, crossing to her in three long strides and taking both of her hands in his. “First thing in the morning.”
“London?” Pip said.
“I’ll be back the next day. Word of h
onor!”
“London?” she said again. “Why?”
“To get a sword,” Mr. Pryor said, from the doorway. “I told him he doesn’t need to travel all the way to London to get one, but he wants to.” He winked at her.
Pip stared at him, baffled. What on earth had that wink been for?
“Doctors’ Commons,” Mr. Pryor said.
Pip still had no idea what he was talking about.
“Special license,” Mr. Pryor clarified.
Pip looked at Lord Octavius. He was grinning at her. “Special license,” he agreed.
“But . . . do you think that’s wise? Your family—”
“Oh, we’ll have the wedding at Linwood Castle,” Lord Octavius said cheerfully. “Everyone’ll be there. Special license just means we can get married whenever and wherever we want.”
Pip removed her hands from his. “Your parents may not wish to have a governess for a daughter-in-law.”
He took her hands back. “You’re worried about what they’ll think? Don’t be. They’ll love you. Won’t they, Dex?”
Mr. Pryor nodded.
Lord Octavius lifted one of her hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I’m off to London tomorrow, I’ll be back the next day, we’ll deal with Rumpole and his valet, and then we’ll start thinking about us.”
“I can’t leave the girls,” Pip protested.
“We’ll sort something out, I promise.” Lord Octavius kissed her other palm. “What’s your full name?”
“Philippa Mary Toogood,” Pip said, feeling faintly discombobulated.
“Daughter of Llewellyn and Mary, correct?”
She nodded.
“Excellent.” Lord Octavius bent and kissed her cheek, released her hands, and headed for the door. He sent her a smile bursting with happiness, and then he and his cousin were gone.
Pip pressed one hand to her cheek, where his last kiss had landed. She felt as if a whirlwind had picked her up, spun her around, and set her on her feet again. She also felt a tiny bit uncertain. This was all happening so fast.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Octavius left at daybreak, which was somewhat earlier than he’d have liked, but the sooner he left, the sooner he’d be back, the sooner they could deal with Rumpole and his valet, and the sooner he could carry Miss Toogood off to Linwood Castle. He dozed for the first twenty-five miles, then spent the next twenty-five planning. By the time they reached London’s outskirts, he had a good idea what Amelia Rumpole’s “ghost” was going to tell her husband. The threat was quite simple—castration—and the sword she’d be holding would reinforce it. Which was why the sword was important. It would work for Rumpole and it would work for the valet. Accordingly, as the carriage rattled over the bridge into London, he said to his manservant, Staig, who was seated across from him, “I need you to purchase two things for me this afternoon.”
“Very good, sir,” Staig said.
“The first thing is a sword. Not a foil or a rapier, but something like a cavalry officer’s sword, or perhaps one of those swords the Romans used.”
Staig looked as if he had no idea what a Roman sword had looked like.
“About this long and this wide,” Octavius said, sketching a shape in the air with his hands.
“Very good, sir,” Staig said again.
“There’s a place on Piccadilly that sells swords, and another on Bond Street.” He fished out his pocketbook and rifled through the banknotes. “Doesn’t have to be fancy—plain is fine—just as long as it looks dangerous, the sort of thing you wouldn’t want anyone waving near your face.”
Or your balls, he refrained from adding.
“Very good, sir,” Staig said again.
“The other thing I need you to buy is two kites. The best kites you’ve ever seen. Made out of silk, with long tails and bright colors. But sturdy, mind—something that will last more than five minutes.” He paused, and thought for a moment, and then said, “Actually, make that six kites. Four run-of-the-mill ones, and two that are the best you can buy.” He handed Staig several bank notes.
Staig pocketed the money. “Six kites and one sword,” he said. If he thought his employer had gone mad, he concealed it well.
The carriage halted.
Octavius peered out and saw that they’d reached Doctors’ Commons. “The carriage is yours for the rest of the afternoon,” he told Staig.
Purchasing the special license took a matter of minutes, but waiting for the clerk to laboriously inscribe the names on the license took a great deal longer than Octavius thought necessary. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, checked his pocket watch, and managed, with great restraint, not to fidget with his cuffs. At last it was done—the names had been written, the ink was dry, the precious piece of paper was in his pocket, and he could move on to the next thing on his list. The next very important thing on his list.
Octavius took the stairs two at a time down to the street and hailed a hackney. Twenty minutes later, he was in Hanover Square. He stared up at the palatial residence his parents inhabited, took a deep breath, and climbed the stairs to the towering front door. “Are my parents home?” he asked Titmus, the butler, in the vast, echoing expanse of the entrance hall.
“His lordship is in his study and her ladyship is in the music room.”
“Thanks, Titmus.” He headed for his father’s study, knocked once on the door, and opened it.
The Marquis of Stanaway looked up from his paperwork. “Otto? I thought you were in Hampshire.”
“I was,” Octavius said. “I’m going back tomorrow, but I need to talk to you. You and Mother both.”
His father studied him for a moment, then laid down his quill. “Important, is it?”
“Yes, sir. Very.”
The marquis pushed back his chair and stood. Together they climbed one flight of stairs, to the sunny music room where Octavius’s mother spent a great deal of her time.
Lady Stanaway was tuning her violin when they entered. She lowered the instrument, alert enquiry on her face. “Otto, darling, what are you doing back in London so soon? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mother. Quite the opposite.” And then he told them about Miss Toogood.
Next on his list was Quintus, and after him, Sextus and Ned. Providentially, he found all three of them at his brother’s house on Curzon Street. Ned had his boots up on the rosewood sofa table again.
They looked up at his entry. He saw surprise on their faces. “Thought you were going to be away a whole week,” Quintus said.
Octavius flung himself down on the sofa beside Ned and kicked his cousin’s feet off the table. “Came back to buy a special license.”
“What?” three voices said.
“I’m getting married.”
They gaped at him in wide-eyed, opened-mouthed astonishment. Sextus found his voice first. “Not that governess you went to protect?”
Octavius nodded.
“Do Mother and Father know?” Quintus demanded.
“Just been to see them.”
“And?”
“They want to meet her. They’re closing the townhouse and heading to Gloucestershire later this week.” He climbed to his feet, went over to the sideboard, and poured himself some claret. When he turned to face them, they were all frowning, even Ned. “We’ll be married within the month,” Octavius told them. “So you’d better come up to Gloucestershire if you want to be at the wedding.”
“Seems rather fast,” his brother said, in an extremely neutral voice. His expression was extremely neutral, too. He looked as if he was trying very hard not to frown.
“It is a little fast,” Octavius admitted. “But we’re well-matched.”
Three pairs of eyes stared dubiously at him. There was a long beat of silence, and then Sextus said, “So who is she, this governess?”
“Her name’s Miss Toogood. Her father was a vicar.”
“What’s she like?” Ned asked.
“She’s a ca
pital girl. Full of pluck. Devilish smart, too; it was her idea that I become Amelia Rumpole’s ghost.”
“Amelia Rumpole’s ghost?” Sextus said, his brow wrinkling.
“And she can punch like a Trojan,” Octavius said, warming to his theme. “And climb trees and fly kites. Got a damned good head on her shoulders. Didn’t have hysterics when she found out about my magic.”
“Can we go back to the ghost?” Sextus asked.
Octavius drank a mouthful of claret, leaned against the sideboard, and explained about his multiple attempts to teach Baron Rumpole a lesson and the plan that he, Dex, and Miss Toogood had finally come up with.
“It is a good plan,” Quintus admitted, when he’d finished.
“It’s a brilliant plan,” Octavius said, pouring himself another glass of claret. “And Mother had a good idea, too. Amelia’s ghost is going to make Rumpole give his daughters to Newingham.”
This statement prompted a rather long moment of silence. “I take it that’s a good thing?” Quintus said, finally.
“It is. Rumpole’s not someone who should have charge of children.”
“Is Newingham?” Ned asked, putting his boots on the rosewood sofa table again.
“He is,” Octavius said. He went back to the sofa—and kicked Ned’s feet off the table. “You should see him with the girls. He’s quite paternal.”
“Bunny? Paternal?” Ned said, putting his boots back on the table.
Octavius kicked them off again. “Paternal.”
They eyed each other narrowly.
“So, this wedding . . .” Sextus said. “Within the month?”
“Within the month,” Octavius confirmed.
“Then I guess we’d better head up to Gloucestershire,” Quintus said, in that very neutral tone again.
It was clear that his brother thought he was making a mistake, that they all thought he was making a mistake—but once they met Miss Toogood they’d realize that the mistake would be to not marry her. “Tell me what’s new in London,” Octavius said, to change the subject.
Ned shrugged. “Not a lot.”
“Vigor,” Sextus said cryptically.