Ah. Well, she wouldn’t be the first woman he’d charmed with tales of his adventures. Chuckling lightly, he offered her a smile. “Certainly.”
Which would be the least offensive but still sound exciting to someone as inexperienced as she? The time a maharajah had him eat a live snake to prove his sincerity? The way he learned giant metal gongs were bullet-proof? The vaquero who taught him to use the bullwhip?
Ah…he knew just the one. Exciting, but inoffensive, assuming he left out the nastier bits.
“Once, I was on site in southeast Asia. There was a temple there I’d been researching, and the locals had tried to warn me away from it, claiming it was cursed.” He stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles, settling into story-telling mode and appreciating the way her eyes flashed with excitement. “I acquired a guide at great expense, and we made our way up the mountain to a small cave opening. Once inside, I was surprised to discover the temple took up much of the interior. It must have been carved over hundreds of years!”
“Oh, I’ve always adored Khmer Empire art. They were so talented.”
Surprised, although he suspected he shouldn’t be, Phin raised a brow, impressed. “Indeed! The artifact I was after, a small golden idol, was well-guarded. As it should be.” Sitting forward suddenly, he held his hands out in front of him, still remembering the way it felt to hold the idol for the first time. “It rested on a pressure plate, which I was able to determine in time. I filled a leather bag with sand from the floor of the temple, and it was a nerve-wracking few moments as I tipped the idol into my hands and replaced it with the sand, so as not to trigger the defense mechanisms!”
Instead of awe, or fright as most women reacted when he told of his adventures, Olive’s expression softened to something he didn’t recognize.
“It was an anxious time, but nothing as bad as the booby traps on the way out,” he assured her.
But instead of smiling once more, her expression turned to suspicion.
“Booby traps,” she repeated flatly, and he hurried to explain.
“My guide had triggered one of the pressure plates, and there were flying darts and giant stakes which flew out of the wall at chest height.” He demonstrated with his hands.
By now, she was frowning, and Phin scrambled to think of something to impress upon her the danger he’d endured for that artifact for the Society’s collection. “My guide wasn’t lucky enough to make it out, but I was.”
As he recalled, this was the point in the story where his enthralled female audience would blanch or sigh sympathetically. But not Olive.
Her voice was cool, her lips still tugging downward, when she said, “I suppose next you’ll tell me you triggered the mechanism which released a giant ball, which tumbled down an incline toward you as you ran for your life toward the entrance, managing to slip out of the cave before it crashed through, sealing the cave and the temple forever?”
Phineas blinked, knowing he’d never been more surprised in his life than he was now.
“Well…aye.”
A range of emotions flashed across her face: first anger, then disappointment, then sadness. Without another word to him, she settled herself back in her seat, turned to the matron on the other side of her, and struck up a conversation about the lamb being served.
Good lord, what had he done wrong? It wasn’t that he’d scared her off; she’d been interested at first. Whatever it was, he had to make it up to her.
He’d spent his time at Fangfoss Manor admiring her quiet good looks and loved how she was just at home in the library as she was tromping around the manor’s grounds. He’d had the thought, within the first week of watching her practice archery with his sister, —how did Raina manage to keep avoiding these Friday night entertainments?—that Olive L’arbre would make an excellent adventure partner.
Not just on his upcoming journey to the Mediterranean, but in the adventure of life.
But how could he convince her of that? Especially now when he’d apparently alienated her so thoroughly?
* * *
What a miserable dinner.
Olive had had such high hopes for her time with Phineas Prince, only to discover Raina’s brother was nothing but a—a—a fraud!
How dare he think he could tell her such a story? He likely expected her to be impressed or titillated by such a tale of adventure, little realizing she was one of the few in England who would recognize its origins!
Swallowing down her irritation and the bone-deep disappointment that such an intriguing man had turned out to be a liar, Olive spent the remainder of the meal pretending interest in the opinions of the older woman beside her. It was nearly impossible to care about, “styles girls these days are wearing,” when Phineas—and his kilt—were sitting near enough on her other side that the man’s bare leg occasionally brushed against her skirts.
The fact he kept trying to gain her attention again with conversational sallies or offers of more food—when her appetite had completely disappeared—didn’t help.
It was agony to wait until their hostess signaled the end of the meal, but Olive somehow managed. Instead of taking Phineas’s arm and allowing him to escort her to the informal dancing the countess had arranged for the evening’s entertainment, Olive snubbed him—terribly rudely too—and hurried out of the room. When her brother caught her eye, she gestured upward, and he nodded, obviously thinking she was going to her room to repair her gown before the dancing or some such excuse.
In reality, she had every intention of hiding there with her journal for the remainder of the night.
The remainder of the summer.
Drat the man for getting her hopes up.
He’d seemed so interesting, and interested in her and what she had to say, which rarely happened outside of her close friends and parents. He had shared opinions and asked for her own on topics she enjoyed speaking about, and when he’d claimed to have traveled, her heart had skipped a beat.
A young handsome man, who adventured and was interested in the same things she was? Be still, my heart.
And then…he’d lied. He’d looked her right in the eyes and had lied to her.
Muttering quietly to herself, Olive gathered her skirts in her hands and prepared to stomp her way upstairs where she could spend the rest of the evening ensconced in something much more comfortable while reading her journal.
Reading the real adventures of Aberdeen Jones, by Zeus!
But her name was called, and she swallowed down her irritation and slapped a false smile on her lips just as Miss Julia latched onto her elbow. “There you are, Olive, dear! I was just speaking your praises to the duke—the Duke of Cashingham. You know, my honored guest?” The older woman’s voice grew sharper. “He’s expecting to share the first dance with you.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Julia—”
“Lady Fangfoss, dear,” her old teacher corrected sharply.
“Indeed. Forgive me, Countess.” Olive made a show of rubbing her forehead. “I fear I’m not quite feeling well and—”
“Nonsense!” Miss Julia was already tugging her toward the ballroom where the dancing would take place. “The duke is waiting. A duke, Olive. You can hide in your room after you’ve danced with the man.”
“But—”
“One doesn’t turn down a duke, dear. Oh, Your Grace, allow me to present one of my most accomplished former students.”
As Miss Julia made the introductions, Olive tried to surreptitiously glance around the room. She spotted Clementine preparing to dance with her fiancé; the two of them looking so in love it was a little sickening. Ash was already disappearing into the game room, and Phineas…
Well, not that she’d admit looking for the man, but Olive didn’t see a kilt anywhere. Which made it a little easier to allow her not-quite-wanted partner to lead her into position.
The Duke of Cashingham was really quite handsome. Tall, with blond hair styled immaculately and eyes as cold as his personality. His conversation was st
ilted enough to make a lady feel unwanted, but of course, he was rumored to be richer than Midas.
Olive had met him during the first Friday evening entertainment, when Clementine had been pushed at him, and now, apparently, it was her turn.
“Dancing does not appear to be one of your accomplishments, Miss L’arbre.”
The insult, delivered in a mild tone, had Olive glancing sharply at the duke…and losing all concentration on what her feet were doing. “I beg your pardon?”
“The countess claimed you were accomplished. I was merely pointing out dancing was not one of those accomplishments.”
Huffing, Olive attempted to concentrate on the steps. “No it is not, although it’s rude of you to point it out.” As if he didn’t know already. A duke can say what he wishes, I suppose. “And I suspect Miss Julia—Lady Fangfoss—was exaggerating my accomplishments.”
“Lying, you mean.” Effortlessly, the duke swept her through another turn, his expression blank.
Olive frowned. “Well…yes, I suppose.”
“Why do you think she did that?”
His lack of emotion—interest or irritation or anything—was becoming grating. “Because most men don’t like to be told the woman they are dancing with has no talents when it comes to household skills or softer arts such as dancing or fashion or—or—flower arranging!”
The duke’s only acknowledgment of her outburst, which had been beyond the pale in terms of politeness, was a single nod. Finally, he hummed. “Your skills at flower arranging do not interest me. And I do not see it as rude to point out the truth.” Before she could reply—likely to apologize, although he owed one to her as well—he asked, “What are your accomplishments?”
Surprised, she blurted, “I’m a scholar.” When he merely glanced down at her as he swept her about and raised a brow, as if urging her to continue, she frowned. “My parents have encouraged me, and I am really quite happy to be surrounded by books.” When he still didn’t respond, she ventured, “My favorites are about history and architecture, and even archaeology.”
He was watching her, his light eyes still cold. Olive glanced away, trying not to feel like a particularly interesting specimen of butterfly being examined by a biologist.
Or if she was a butterfly, perhaps attempting to be one not so interesting so as to remain unpinned to the board.
A moth, perhaps. A drab, brown moth.
“Miss L’arbre, you are content to spend the rest of your life hidden away in a library, reading?”
That was a surprising question. “Well…no,” she answered before she thought better of it. “If I could, I would want to travel. I want to see the places I’ve read about.”
He nodded solemnly as the music came to an end. “You want to adventure,” he declared, even as he set her apart from him.
Stunned, she could only nod as he offered his arm to escort her off the dance floor.
“I am sorry, Miss L’arbre, but I fear we will not suit.” His tone was perfunctory. “Thank you for the dance and for allowing me to learn about you.”
It was cold. It was blunt. It was the oddest thing for a duke to say—Dukes can say whatever they wish remember—but Olive was strangely comforted by his honesty. Bowing her head, she murmured a relieved, “Thank you, Your Grace,” as he took his leave of her.
Bemused, she turned, and almost ran into a wall of well-built Scotsman.
Stop admiring his chest, you ninny!
“I was promised a dance, Olive.”
His low brogue rolled over her, making her shiver, despite her determination to be angry at him. She should take him to task for using her name so familiarly, but instead, she found herself placing her hand on his forearm, marveling at the strength and warmth under her fingers.
Drat.
She wanted to snap, “I don’t forgive you!” She wanted to turn from him, nose in the air, and march over to where Melanie was chatting with Charity. She wanted to give him the cut direct, not caring if it made her rude or even if it hurt Raina’s feelings.
Instead, he was leading her to the dance floor.
Double drat.
The music began, and she huffed in irritation when she realized it was a waltz. Of course it was a waltz, just when she was hoping to remain as far as possible from him.
As far as she could get from his warm hazel eyes which peered at her with concern, or the lock of light brown hair which fell over his forehead in wonderfully effortless charm. As far as possible from the feel of his forearm, muscles bunched under his jacket, which even now made her shiver—again, blast it—despite the fact she was wearing gloves.
What would it feel like to touch him without her gloves and feel his skin against hers? His nude skin, glistening with—
Don’t think that word in the same sentence as him, you ninny. Not when the man’s legs are…bare.
The man’s wearing a dress.
A kilt. A kilt which showed off his knees, and occasionally, she’d noticed, his thighs. His bare thighs, nude…
Oh dear.
His hand was on her back in a completely acceptable position, so why did it feel as if her entire being were centered there, slightly below her shoulder blades, the warmth of his touch—
Oh! Now he had her hand.
And then they were dancing, and she was trying to make her brain shut up.
Impossible.
“Olive, I’d like to apologize for offending ye.” His voice was low, intimate. Gentle. “It’d be easier if I kenned what I’d done wrong.”
Well, that was reasonable, she supposed.
Luckily, the waltz was the only dance she knew effortlessly—really, it was simple enough a trained hedgehog could do it—so she didn’t have to concentrate on her steps.
No, you can concentrate on what it feels like to be held by him.
“You are a charming and handsome man, as I’m sure you know, Mr. Prince.” She attempted to keep her tone blunt, cool. “But you would do better with the truth.”
When he frowned, she saw the confusion in his hazel eyes. “I dinnae lie to ladies.”
“Mr. Prince—”
“Phineas,” he corrected her, as he spun her about. “Please?”
“Mr. Prince,” she repeated firmly, trying to remind her traitorous desire he was a fraud, “we’re not all fluffer-headed idiots who will pretend to be impressed.”
“Olive, I’ve never lied to a lady.” He paused, pressed his lips together, then shrugged. “Except to Raina when she was sixteen and I told her orange was a marvelous color for her complexion.”
Oh, her heart. He teased his little sister about something so innocuous? Raina did look horrid in orange.
What are you doing? You’re angry at him, remember?
“You are lying even now,” she gently coaxed, trying to get him to confess. “I know you lied about your exploits at dinner. Your sister has told me you’re a bit of a scholar, which I admire and would impress me as is.”
There, that was simple enough. She’d let him know he’d had his chance to impress her but had squandered it with lies.
He was quiet as he spun her through another turn, his hand strong on her back, keeping her safe and close. Perhaps it wasn’t the fact she knew the dance, but his leadership, which made this feel so effortless?
Finally, he asked quietly, “Ye think I lied about my adventures? Ye dinnae think I’ve been to southeast Asia?”
It was the wounded air to his question which had her sniffing in defense. “Perhaps you have, sir, but the tale you told me was straight from episode twelve of Aberdeen Jones’ Adventures.”
The man stumbled, likely in shock.
She gentled her tone. “You see, sadly for you at least, I am an admirer of Aberdeen Jones as well. I would have much rather discussed our mutual admiration for the man’s exploits than have you lie to me.”
Instead of answering, Phineas swung her out of the crush of dancing couples, into the lee of a potted palm. It didn’t offer privacy from the rest
of the room, but at least she could peer up at him without all that twirling around.
Instead of releasing her, he took both her hands in his and stood before her with his head bowed, as if studying their clasped hands. As if working out what he wanted to say.
Finally, without looking up, he asked quietly. “Ye’ve read Aberdeen Jones’ Adventures?”
Hadn’t she just said that? He was likely in shock his scheme had been discovered.
“Yes. Every episode.” She tried to tug her hands away, but his hold tightened. “I subscribe to the Journal of the Society of Archaeology.” She tugged again, but still he didn’t release her. Beginning to panic, she blurted, “I’ve even submitted an article.”
That worked. He looked up at her and loosened his hold. But the admiration she saw in his expression—not guilt or irritation—distracted her enough that she forgot to pull her hands from his.
“What was your article about, Olive?”
My, his hands were warm, weren’t they? And somehow, she felt safe here with him. “Roman roofs and eaves, with a section on ridgelines,” she said shyly, ducking her chin.
But she kept her gaze on him and saw the moment his admiration turned to a direct smile. “Ye are a remarkable woman, are ye no’?”
How was she supposed to respond to that? He thought she was remarkable?
Oh.
Suddenly, Phineas nodded firmly. “Ye are correct. I am a subscriber to the Journal of the Society of Archaeology as well and have had many articles published.”
Now it was her turn to be surprised. “Really? I’ve never read an article by a Phineas Prince.”
His smile was lopsided as he shrugged, releasing one of her hands. She felt strangely bereft and not sure what to do with her free hand now. She tried placing it on her hip, but that felt awkward, so she left it to dangle.
“I write under a different name,” he said, and she’d been so distracted by the issue of the awkward flapping hand, it took her a moment to go back through their recent conversation.
“A different name,” she repeated, noticing some heads were turned their way.
People would talk about this little tête-à-tête, wouldn’t they? She jerked her hand from his, which at least allowed her to fold her hands in front of her demurely.
The Scholar and the Scot Page 3