Primrose and the Dreadful Duke: Garland Cousins #1

by Larkin, Emily

  Primrose drew breath as if to itemize all the ways in which he needed to be careful, but Oliver beat her to it: “I won’t go near any staircases alone—inside or outside. I won’t go walking alone. I won’t go riding alone. I won’t go shooting alone. I’ll make certain I’m never alone with Uncle Algy or Ninian. In fact, the only thing I’ll do alone is sleep—with my door locked and a chair jammed under the handle. Satisfied?”

  Primrose eyed him for a moment, and then nodded.

  * * *

  When Oliver had inherited his uncle’s dukedom, he’d inherited not only a title, a fortune, and a townhouse on Berkeley Square, but a ducal seat in Somerset, and estates in Cambridgeshire, Wiltshire, Shropshire, Leicestershire, and Kent. He hadn’t visited any of those properties yet—his secretary was planning an extended tour of inspection that would take all of July, August, and September—so he had no idea whether he would actually like any of his new homes. Although “home” was probably the wrong word. Could a residence with several hundred rooms be called a home? Could it feel homelike?

  Cheevers Court certainly didn’t feel like a home. As mansions went it was large and square and gray, and it somehow managed to be both top-heavy and bottom-heavy at the same time. If the building had been a person, he—she?—would have had huge, beetling brows and heavy jowls and a lugubrious expression on his or her face.

  Oliver stepped down from the chaise, glad to be able to stretch his legs. The carriage with their servants had arrived a few minutes before them, alerting the household to their imminent approach. Viscount Cheevers was hurrying towards them, his hand outstretched in welcome, a wide smile on his face.

  It wasn’t Cheevers’s fault that he’d inherited such a gloomy beast of a mansion, and his greeting more than made up for all that dour gray marble. The viscount was beaming with joy, apparently delighted to welcome them to his country home, and his wife seemed equally delighted, nodding and smiling, and the two feathers in her turban nodded and smiled, too. Behind her was Uncle Algernon, beaming as widely as Cheevers, shaking Oliver’s hand heartily, and behind him was Ninian. There was no way that Uncle Algy’s joy was feigned, no way that the bright friendliness in Ninian’s eyes could possibly be false—and in that moment, standing on the carriage sweep, with Primrose on one side of him and Rhodes on the other and the gray bulk of Cheevers Court looming over them all, Oliver knew that neither Uncle Algy nor Ninian had tried to kill him. And he also knew that he would prove it to Rhodes and Primrose while he was here. Prove it without a shred of doubt.

  * * *

  Oliver’s bedchamber was a large room decorated in green and gold. It looked north, over parkland and a lake. Oliver’s valet had already unpacked. A fresh change of clothes was laid out on the four-poster bed and a ewer of water sat on the washstand, steaming gently.

  Oliver was used to the services of a manservant, but a duke’s valet was far superior to an officer’s bâtman. A duke’s valet was able to shave Oliver more closely than he could shave himself, tie his neckcloth more skillfully than he could tie it himself, and choose his outfits more astutely than he could choose them himself. The man could probably wipe Oliver’s bottom better than he could wipe it himself, if Oliver gave him the opportunity—which he wasn’t going to do.

  Oliver washed, shaved, and dressed in fresh clothes, while the sun sank lower in the sky, bathing everything in warm, golden light. Then he headed downstairs to meet the other guests—except that two steps down the long staircase he remembered that he’d promised not to descend any stairs alone.

  Damn.

  A promise was a promise, so Oliver gritted his teeth and climbed up those two steps and walked back along the corridor to Rhodes’s bedroom, next to his own, and knocked.

  “Ready, old fellow?” he asked, when Rhodes opened the door.

  “Ready,” Rhodes said, with a smile, and Oliver felt guilty for being annoyed.

  They went downstairs together. The stairs were as steep as the Cunninghams’ had been and there were a lot more of them. They were the sort of stairs that could break a man’s neck if he was pushed down them—not that he was going to be pushed down them, because neither Uncle Algy nor Ninian was out to kill him—and the sooner he could prove that, the better.

  Could he prove it tomorrow? How could he prove it?

  Oliver was pondering these questions as they entered the drawing room. Quite a few people were gathered there.

  Rhodes had said that the Cheevers’s house parties catered to an older set, but it didn’t look like it to Oliver. There were several young ladies present. He spied two whom he’d met in London—Miss Warrington and Miss Carteris—and two who were unknown to him.

  Lord Cheevers made the introductions. Oliver said a polite, “How do you do?” to a middle-aged widow called Mrs. Middleton-Murray, and another “How do you do?” to her daughter. Miss Middleton-Murray was a lovely creature, with lustrous hair and flawless skin and a pair of dimples—but the moment Oliver met her eyes he made a discovery: Miss Middleton-Murray was a harpy.

  He didn’t know precisely how he knew, but he knew. Miss Middleton-Murray might have enchanting dimples, but a merciless and avaricious heart beat in her bosom.

  One young lady yet remained to be introduced. Lord Cheevers led him across to her. “My daughter, Chloé,” he said proudly.

  Oliver had a moment of epiphany. This was why Cheevers was so delighted he’d accepted the invitation.

  The Honorable Chloé Cheevers sank into a curtsy. She was a dainty little thing, dark-haired and slender.

  Oliver inclined his head politely. “How do you do?” And then, because Cheevers was clearly waiting for more, “I don’t recall seeing you in London.”

  Miss Cheevers blushed, and said something in an inaudible voice.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Measles,” Lord Cheevers said. “Most unfortunate. But she’s recovered now.”

  * * *

  Oliver was unsurprised to find himself seated next to Miss Cheevers at dinner. Lord Cheevers wasn’t an idiot. He had a captive duke and an unmarried daughter; of course he was going to seat them side by side.

  Oliver embarked on his meal and prepared to score Chloé Cheevers on her efforts, but Miss Cheevers didn’t appear to realize that this was her chance to catch a duke. She didn’t tilt her bosom at him, she didn’t send him admiring glances under her lashes, and she uttered not one single compliment.

  In fact, it was impossible to give Chloé Cheevers a score because she wasn’t playing the game.

  Miss Warrington, seated on his other side, tilted her bosom at him fifteen times during the meal, earning herself thirty points. Miss Carteris, across the table from him, fluttered her lashes every time he looked in her direction, earning a respectable eighteen points. Miss Middleton-Murray was the clear winner, though. Her gown had a modest décolletage, revealing the merest hint of her cleavage, but the locket she wore nestled enticingly low. Every time Oliver glanced in her direction she touched her locket, a seemingly innocent gesture that drew his gaze to the ripe, shadowy promise of her breasts. By the time the dinner was over, she had accrued ninety points.

  Oliver peered down the table at Primrose. He had a view of her between a silver cruet and a large epergné. She was talking with the man on her left, Lord Warrington.

  Oliver studied her for a moment.

  A casual observer might think that she looked rather like the Misses Warrington, Carteris, Middleton-Murray, and Cheevers. They were all young, all pretty, all wearing elegant gowns that exposed their pale shoulders and slender throats, all had jewelry gleaming at their earlobes and around their necks, all had smooth, soft skin and pink lips and shining hair. They almost looked interchangeable—but they weren’t, because despite the multitude of similarities, Primrose wasn’t like the others. She was different.

  Primrose looked up at that moment and caught him staring at her. She didn’t flutter her eyelashes like Miss Carteris or tilt her bosom like Miss Warrington; instead s
he cocked her head fractionally and lifted her eyebrows, a silent What?

  Oliver crossed his eyes at her.

  Primrose’s eyelids twitched. He heard her voice in his ears as clearly as if she’d spoken aloud—Idiot—then she returned her attention to Lord Warrington.

  Oliver bit back a laugh. He glanced at Miss Warrington. She tilted her bosom.

  He glanced at Miss Carteris. She fluttered her eyelashes at him.

  He glanced at Miss Middleton-Murray. She touched her locket.

  Finally, he glanced at Miss Cheevers, sitting alongside him. She colored faintly and stared down at her place setting.

  All of them painfully aware that he was a duke.

  Except for Primrose, who didn’t care.

  * * *

  The ladies withdrew, leaving the men in possession of the dining room. The port and brandy were passed around. Oliver leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, and listened idly to the conversation. He learned that Lady Warrington and Lady Cheevers were sisters, that Mrs. Carteris and Lord Cheevers were cousins, and that Miss Middleton-Murray was Lord Cheevers’s goddaughter. He also learned that Uncle Algy and Lord Cheevers were quite as close friends as he and Rhodes were.

  He glanced down the table at Rhodes.

  Rhodes was leaning back in his chair, too, sipping his port and studying Ninian, his gaze narrow-eyed and thoughtful. As Oliver watched, Rhodes turned his head slightly and subjected Uncle Algy to an equally assessing stare.

  Oliver found himself indignant on his relatives’ behalves. If Rhodes had been nearer he would have given him a sharp nudge in the ribs. Uncle Algy wasn’t a killer, and neither was Ninian.

  In fact, the only killer in this room was himself: Captain Dasenby, slayer of insurgents and rebel soldiers.

  Oliver grimaced into his port. For the first time since he’d received that astonishing letter from England eight months ago he found himself thinking that perhaps it was better to be a duke than a dragoon.

  No more blood on his hands. No more madness of battle. No more strangers trying to skewer him with swords or blow holes in him with musket balls. No more kill-or-be-killed.

  Except that someone was still trying to kill him.

  Chapter Seven

  Primrose preferred to read in the evenings, but when one was a guest in someone else’s house, one couldn’t curl up in an armchair and bury one’s nose in a book. One had to be polite, and sip tea, and converse with one’s hostess.

  Primrose did just that—sip tea and make polite conversation with Lady Cheevers. The viscountess had settled comfortably into matronhood. She talked fondly of her offspring—of whom Chloé was the eldest, told Primrose all about the family’s recent bout of measles, and then fell into deep discussion with Lady Warrington about turbans, a fashion that both ladies favored.

  Primrose had no interest in turbans. She removed herself to a sofa further from the fireplace and amused herself by watching the younger ladies prepare themselves for Oliver’s arrival. Miss Carteris discreetly pinched her cheeks to give them more color, Miss Warrington shifted in her seat half a dozen times, finally settling on the position that was most flattering to her figure, and Miss Middleton-Murray nibbled on her lips until they were particularly full and rosy.

  Even Miss Cheevers patted her hair.

  At last, the door opened. The atmosphere in the drawing room altered in the blink of an eyelid. Spines straightened, bosoms swelled, and eyes became brighter. Miss Carteris tossed her ringlets. Miss Middleton-Murray bit her lips one more time.

  Primrose watched the would-be duchesses as the men entered the room. The young ladies’ eyes flicked rapidly from face to face, like gamblers assessing a hand of cards, deciding which ones to discard and which to keep.

  Lords Cheevers and Warrington were quickly rejected. So, too, was Mr. Carteris.

  Gazes lingered on Rhodes for a moment. He was handsome, wealthy, and heir to a dukedom, but he did also have three young children—so Primrose wasn’t surprised when Miss Carteris, Miss Warrington, and Miss Middleton-Murray all settled on Oliver.

  However, she was surprised when Miss Cheevers chose Ninian Dasenby.

  That was interesting.

  Even more interesting was that Ninian glanced around the room, clearly looking for one person in particular—and when his gaze lighted on Miss Cheevers he smiled involuntarily.

  A romance, Primrose thought, watching the color rise in Miss Cheevers’s cheeks, watching her shyly return Ninian’s smile.

  Equally interesting—but far more amusing—was the way in which Miss Warrington, Miss Carteris, and Miss Middleton-Murray were all sitting in their poses, trying to catch Oliver’s eye without appearing as if that was what they were doing. Miss Carteris tossed her ringlets again and fluttered her eyelashes. Miss Middleton-Murray fingered her locket. Miss Warrington arched her back to bring her bosom into greater prominence.

  Primrose watched Oliver, curious as to who he’d choose. His gaze flicked over one would-be duchess after another, and then found her. He smiled.

  Primrose’s heart gave a stupid thump in her chest.

  Oliver took a step towards her—and halted, turning politely as Mrs. Carteris addressed him.

  Mrs. Carteris said something that Primrose couldn’t hear, but she recognized the tone: gay, laughing. Oliver listened for a moment, and then yielded to Mrs. Carteris’s playful raillery, crossing to the sofa where Miss Carteris sat, desperately eager to be a duchess. Oliver seated himself alongside her—and glanced at Primrose briefly. He didn’t grimace, but he did—for a fleeting second—cross his eyes.

  Primrose bit her lip against inappropriate laughter, and looked away.

  Someone loomed over her. Rhodes. He sat, making the sofa creak slightly. “Ollie’s been captured by the Carterises.”

  “I saw.” Primrose glanced around the room. Ninian and Miss Cheevers were seated side by side, heads bent together, talking in low voices. Lord Cheevers didn’t look particularly pleased by this development, but Lady Cheevers was smiling upon the pair with benign goodwill.

  Miss Middleton-Murray was eyeing Rhodes speculatively.

  So, too, was Miss Warrington.

  Primrose could have told them it was a vain hope. Rhodes wasn’t ready to marry again. He probably never would be. If you’d had the perfect marriage with the perfect wife, how could you settle for anything less?

  She glanced back at Oliver, trapped on a sofa with Miss Carteris on one side and Mrs. Carteris on the other. Poor Oliver. And then she looked more closely at him.

  Oliver was pontificating, his chest slightly puffed out, a faint look of “cockerel” about him. He had a glint in his eyes that would have alarmed anyone who knew him well. When Oliver had that particular glint, he was up to mischief of some sort.

  Primrose realized that it was Miss Carteris she should feel sorry for.

  Miss Carteris didn’t seem to feel sorry for herself, though. She was listening to Oliver with an expression of rapt and adoring attention.

  Primrose shook her head, and turned her own attention to Rhodes. “What do you think of the Dasenbys?” she asked, very quietly. “Have you had a chance to observe them?”

  Rhodes glanced at Lord Algernon, standing at the fireplace with their host, and then at Ninian, ensconced on a sofa with Chloé Cheevers. “I have.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve seen nothing that indicates they wish Ollie harm.”

  “But you think one or the other of them does?”

  Rhodes was silent for a moment, his gaze on Ninian Dasenby. “It’s the most logical possibility.”

  Primrose didn’t disagree.

  She watched Ninian Dasenby for several minutes, and then transferred her attention to Lord Algernon—and like Rhodes, she saw nothing alarming. Neither of them was gazing at Oliver with malevolence. In fact, neither of them was looking at him at all. Ninian was wholly focused on Chloé Cheevers, and Algernon was deep in conversation with Lord Cheevers. They both seemed utterly
oblivious to Oliver.

  But not so Miss Warrington and Miss Middleton-Murray, who were both trying to look as if they didn’t mind at all that Oliver had been talking to Miss Carteris for nearly fifteen minutes—but whose tight smiles and darting glances in his direction clearly conveyed that they did, in fact, mind very much indeed.

  Lady Warrington suggested that the young ladies play the pianoforte for everyone’s entertainment. She volunteered Miss Carteris as the first performer.

  Primrose spent the next forty minutes listening to the Misses Carteris, Warrington, Middleton-Murray, and Cheevers play the pianoforte. She had nothing against music—she rather liked music—but she wished she could have fetched her book and read it while she listened. Alas, that would have been rude, so she occupied herself by observing the others in the drawing room. Oliver was as bored as she was; she could tell by his smile, which was bland and courteous and very un-Oliver-like. Lord Algernon looked as if he was hugely enjoying himself, nodding his head in time to the music, and his son gazed at Miss Cheevers as if her performance was the most wonderful thing he’d ever witnessed.

  He’s besotted, Primrose thought. Utterly besotted.

  She glanced at Rhodes. He wasn’t listening to the music; he was thinking about Evelyn—she could tell by his face, by the way he was sitting—that sad, inward-looking expression, the stillness of his body.

  She reached over and touched the back of his hand with light fingertips.

  Rhodes jolted slightly, blinked, and looked at her, lifting his eyebrows in inquiry.

  At that moment, Miss Cheevers’s performance ended. Everyone clapped. Belatedly, Primrose did, too.

  “Lady Primrose,” Lord Cheevers said jovially. “Would you care to play for us?”

  “Thank you, but I don’t play the pianoforte.”

  “The harp, then, perhaps?” Lady Cheevers suggested. “We have a harp.”