“I’ll try to stick close to you this afternoon,” Primrose said. “But I think we need another signal, in case Ninian tries to arrange a tête-à-tête.”
“All right,” Oliver said. “What?”
Her lips tucked in enticingly as she pondered this question, and then—unfortunately—she released his arm. “How about this?” She tugged one earlobe.
“All right,” Oliver said again—and then he remembered how cleverly and stealthily Ninian had taken Rhodes out of the picture. “But if you do need to interrupt a tête-à-tête, try to bring Miss Cheevers, too. Or even Miss Middleton-Murray. The more people the better. Make it look as if it’s not your idea.”
Primrose nodded.
Oliver returned his gaze to the rose gardens. His mood was odd. On one level, he was happy that Primrose was standing beside him right now, but on another level . . . he felt less happy than he had in years.
“Ninian will be champing at the bit by this evening,” Primrose observed.
“Yes.” Why did that give him no satisfaction?
Because he dreaded the upcoming confrontation with Ninian. Because he wished it wasn’t necessary.
It was one thing to have strangers try to kill you in the pursuit of warfare; quite another to have one’s sole surviving cousin attempt to do it.
Oliver sighed, and only realized he’d done it when Primrose tucked her hand into the crook of his arm again.
“It’ll be over soon,” she said.
He turned his head and smiled down at her. “Yes.” And once it was over, he’d ask her to marry him.
A few kisses between now and then would be beneficial, though, because the more often he kissed her and the more often she liked it, the more likely she was to agree to marry him. Right?
He dipped his head and touched his lips to hers—and they were soft and sweet and yielding—and then he deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into her mouth—and she drew back.
“It’s luncheon in a few minutes, Oliver.”
“So?”
“So, I can’t go into that room looking as if I’ve just been kissed.”
“No one will notice,” he said, making another attempt on her mouth.
“Miss Middleton-Murray might.”
A shiver went up his spine. “We don’t want that.”
“No.”
“A postponement, then,” he said, reaching out to touch one fingertip lightly to her lips. “Until after luncheon.”
* * *
But after luncheon, Ninian asked to speak privately with him again. “Absolutely,” Oliver said, glancing at Primrose, who sat opposite him. He tugged on his earlobe. “Shall we have a game of billiards?”
“Yes,” Ninian said, with a relieved smile.
They adjourned to the billiard room, and less than a minute later Primrose, Miss Cheevers, and Miss Middleton-Murray joined them. Oliver gave Ninian an apologetic grimace, and Primrose a covert wink.
He spent the next hour instructing the ladies in the art of playing billiards, then glanced at his pocket watch and said, “Goodness, is that the time? I promised to play chess with Thayne. Excuse me, will you?”
He met his uncle in the vestibule.
“How about a walk?” Uncle Algy said. “Glorious day.”
“I’d love to,” Oliver said, and it was the perfect truth. “But I’m promised to Thayne right now. Perhaps later?”
He and Rhodes didn’t play chess; they talked, firming up tonight’s plan. Rhodes looked quite his normal self. The whites of his eyes were just that: white.
After an hour, Oliver slipped downstairs again. He found everyone in the yellow salon, drinking tea.
Ninian brightened when he saw Oliver. “I say—”
“Would you like some tea, Westfell?” Primrose asked.
“Yes, please.”
Lady Cheevers did the honors, pouring him a cup.
Oliver sat on a sofa and sipped it very, very slowly, aware of Ninian hovering on the edge of his vision.
After Oliver’s eighth tiny sip, Ninian made his approach. He lowered his voice. “Cousin . . .”
“Yes, we must talk.” Oliver made himself smile at Ninian. “Just as soon as I’ve finished this tea.”
Relief lit Ninian’s face—and then he almost immediately sobered. “Thank you.”
Oliver took his ninth tiny sip, and upended the cup on his lap. “Dash it,” he said, standing quickly, brushing at the spreading dampness on his breeches. “Excuse me.”
He winked at Primrose as he left the room.
It didn’t take long to change a pair of breeches, but Oliver managed to draw the process out. He chatted with Rhodes, he tied a fresh neckcloth, he combed his hair, he even took a moment to buff his boots with the discarded breeches—which would have made his valet wince if he’d seen him do it.
“Be careful,” Rhodes said, when Oliver finally left the bedchamber.
“I’m always careful,” Oliver said.
He walked down the corridor and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, all thirty-six of them. Thank God the Cunninghams’ stairs hadn’t been this numerous. He might not have survived that fall.
Oliver grimaced, and fished out his pocket watch. It was later than he’d thought. Only a few more hours of avoiding Ninian and there would be an end to this.
Although not a happy ending. Not for Ninian. And not for Uncle Algy, either.
Oliver sighed. God, he dreaded that conversation—telling Uncle Algy that his son had tried to commit murder.
He tucked the watch back into his pocket—and as he did so the hairs on the nape of his neck sprang upright.
Had someone just breathed behind him?
Before he could turn his head, a hand shoved him violently between the shoulder blades.
Chapter Twenty-One
Primrose was in conversation with Miss Middleton-Murray when the door to the yellow salon opened. Miss Middleton-Murray had asked Primrose which were her favorite authors and was listening with flattering attention to her reply, but Primrose wasn’t fooled; Miss Middleton-Murray had as much interest in books as Primrose had in embroidery, which was to say, none.
She’s buttering me up.
The question was: Why?
Primrose was pondering this—while at the same time explaining why Pliny’s letters made such fascinating reading—when the door opened and Oliver poked his head into the room. He conducted a quick scan of the occupants, saw her, rubbed his nose, and withdrew.
Primrose lost her train of thought. Oliver had looked a little odd, not quite like his usual self.
It took her a moment to pinpoint the difference: his hair had been disheveled, as if he’d been brawling with someone.
She conducted her own scan of the salon’s occupants. When had Ninian Dasenby left the room? Surely he’d been there the last time she’d looked?
“Lady Primrose?”
Primrose blinked, and discovered that Miss Middleton-Murray was looking at her very intently.
“You were saying . . . ?”
What had she been saying? “Oh, I, uh, . . . I think Pliny’s description of the eruption of Vesuvius is fascinating. An eyewitness account, you know.” She glanced at the door. “Do excuse me. I think it’s time I looked in on my brother.”
Primrose made her way quickly to the State reception room, checked that no one was within sight, and slipped inside. The instant the door had closed, she wished herself behind the screen in the dressing room. It saved a few seconds only, but she found herself unaccountably anxious to see Oliver.
Oliver was waiting for her. He didn’t screech and pretend to faint, just stood quietly—and she knew in that moment that something was very, very wrong.
“What is it?” she asked.
Oliver grimaced. He turned away and limped towards the bedroom.
Primrose followed, anxiously. “What, Oliver?”
Oliver didn’t fling himself down on the State bed; he cautiously lowered himself.
“You’re hurt,” Primrose said, stating the obvious.
Oliver lay back, moving as gingerly as an old man.
“Oliver.” She was afraid and impatient at the same time, wanting to shake him but not daring to. “What’s happened?”
“Ninian pushed me down the main staircase.”
Primrose stared at him, aghast. “How far did you fall?”
“All the way to the bottom.”
Primrose pictured the long flight of stairs, and the hard marble floor at the bottom. “But . . . how on earth are you still alive?”
Oliver grunted a laugh. “Practice.”
Primrose climbed up onto the bed and knelt beside him. “You need to see a doctor. You must have broken bones!”
“I don’t need a doctor, Prim. I’m fine. Just a bit bruised, is all.” He held out one hand to her.
Primrose took it in both of hers. “You’re not fine. My God, there must be thirty steps at the very least!”
“Thirty-six steps,” Oliver said. “But I haven’t broken anything.”
“But—”
“Do you know what the other fellows in my regiment used to call me?”
Primrose shook her head.
“Cropper,” Oliver said. “Cropper Dasenby. Because I fell off my horse so often.” He smiled crookedly at her. “‘Come a cropper.’ You know?”
Primrose nodded.
“So I know how broken bones feel.”
“Yes, but, you really do need to see a doctor. Just to be certain.”
“I’ve broken my arm before—twice—and some fingers and my collarbone, and a couple of ribs. I know how it feels, Prim.”
Primrose bit her lip. She interlaced her fingers with his. “You must have fallen off your horse a lot.”
Oliver’s smile became a grin. “I did.” He shifted on the bed, winced, and then said, “He loved to unseat me when we were on parade. I swear to God he laughed every time he did it.”
“Why didn’t you get a different horse?”
“Because I liked him. Only horse I’ve ever had with a sense of humor. And he was rock steady on the battlefield.”
Primrose looked down at his hand clasped in hers, studied it, and found a faint, bloodless graze across his knuckles. She stroked it gently with her thumb. “Thirty-six steps, Oliver. That’s a lot higher than a horse.”
“There’s a trick to falling. You’ve got to relax, go with it.”
“And yet you broke bones when you fell off your horse.”
“Not once I figured out the trick.” He squeezed her fingers. “Trust me, Prim; I’m fine. I rolled down those stairs like a rag doll.”
Primrose pictured the staircase again. Thirty-six steps. She repressed a shudder. “Did you see him? Ninian?”
Oliver shook his head. “Came up behind me as silently as a cat, pushed me, and didn’t wait around to see what happened. Mind you, it took me a good minute to find my feet again. He had plenty of time to hide.”
She clutched his hand a little tighter. “We’ll get him tonight.”
“We most definitely will,” Oliver said grimly. “I’m looking forward to it.” His tone seemed to promise the blood that he’d warned her of earlier . . . which was no less than Ninian deserved. In fact, if Rhodes and Oliver failed to punch Ninian, she would punch him herself.
Primrose discovered that her fingers were clenched rather tightly around Oliver’s. She loosened her grip and rubbed her thumb across his knuckles again. “You should go upstairs, lie down until dinner.”
“I’m lying on the best bed in the house,” Oliver said. “Fit for a king.” He slanted her a smile. “And besides . . . this bed has you on it.”
Primrose felt herself blush.
“Half an hour. Then I’ll go upstairs. Promise.” He closed his eyes.
Primrose studied his face. He looked weary and a little rough around the edges, his hair sticking up messily, his neckcloth askew.
Oliver might not have broken any bones, but he must be black and blue beneath his clothing.
His eyelids lifted. “Lie down, Prim. It’s comfy.”
“Lie down?” she said, shocked. “I couldn’t possibly!”
“Because it’s a State bed? You’re already sitting on it, you goose.”
“I can’t lie down because you’re lying down. It wouldn’t be at all proper!”
An emotion flickered across his face. She recognized it as disappointment. “Lady Prim-and-Proper,” he said, and closed his eyes again.
Primrose huffed out a breath. The nickname stung. Was she being too prim and proper, too prudish?
Live each day as if it were your last, Marcus Aurelius had said, and if today were her last day, which would she regret more? Lying down beside Oliver, or not lying down beside him?
Primrose released Oliver’s hand and cautiously lay down alongside him.
He turned his head and smiled at her. “See? Comfy.”
Primrose couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
Oliver reached out one arm and pulled her closer, tucking her against him so that her head rested on his shoulder.
Primrose’s heartbeat sped up. She tried not to stiffen. “Doesn’t that hurt you?”
“No.” Oliver exhaled a long, sighing breath. It was hard to see his face from this angle, but she thought that his eyes were closed again.
Gradually, she relaxed. Oliver was right: it was comfortable lying like this. Extraordinarily comfortable. His body was warm, and his arm around her made her feel safe in a way that she’d never experienced before. His scent came to her faintly: sandalwood and clean linen. She heard his breathing, was aware of the rise and fall of his chest, could almost feel his heartbeat.
“I’m glad you’re all right,” she whispered.
“So am I. When he pushed me . . . for a moment I thought . . .”
She could finish that sentence for him: For a moment Oliver had thought he was going to die.
She felt him shiver, and then he said, “Thank God for Verdun.”
“Verdun?”
“My horse.”
Primrose echoed his statement: “Thank God for Verdun.”
Oliver’s arm tightened a little around her. They lay silently. After a moment, Primrose closed her eyes. Every fiber of her body was rejoicing in Oliver’s aliveness—her skin delighting in soaking up his warmth, her ears delighting in the sound of his breathing, her nose delighting in his scent. Her heart was beating two words: He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive.
Oliver gave a tiny, convulsive start. “Lord, I just about fell asleep. Talk to me, Prim.”
Primrose opened her eyes and gazed at the State bedhangings. “What about?”
“I don’t know.” He yawned. “What wishes did your sisters choose?”
“Well, Violet chose to be able to fly, and—”
“Fly? Violet can fly?”
“Yes.”
“What, does she grow wings?”
“No, of course not. It’s more like levitation.”
“Huh.” Oliver thought about this for a moment, and then said, “What about Aster?”
“She chose invisibility.”
“Invisibility?” Primrose heard surprise in his voice.
“Yes. One of my cousins chose that, too.”
“Who? No—wait—let me guess. . . . Clematis?”
“Daphne.”
“Daphne,” he repeated, and then fell silent for several seconds. “I have to say, Prim, this is all rather . . .”
She wondered what word he’d choose. Overwhelming? Disturbing?
“My mind is boggled,” he said, in typical Oliver fashion.
Primrose choked on a laugh.
“Do you think Vi would let me watch her fly?”
“Probably.” She turned her head to look at him. “Is that what you’d have chosen if you had a wish? Flying?”
“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “Possibly. What are the other choices?”
“There are dozens. And you can make up new o
nes, you know. My great-great-grandmother did that. She asked Baletongue to put a wish on a charm bracelet, so that whoever wore one of the charms wouldn’t get pregnant.”
“What?” He turned his head and stared at her. “You’re joking, right?”
“About what?”
“About the charms.”
“No. My great-great-grandmother was only twenty-three, but she already had six children. She wanted to control when she had more. If she had more.”
“That’s . . . an interesting choice.”
“It’s a sensible choice,” Primrose said. “Women die in childbirth.”
“I know.” His arm tightened around her shoulders. “Your great-great-grandmother sounds like a very intelligent person.”
“She was.” Primrose touched the acorn pendant at her throat. “Mother and my aunts have charms from that bracelet, and so do all of us girls.”
“What?” Oliver said again. “This time you are joking, right?”
“No.”
Oliver was silent for almost a minute. “My mind is even more boggled, now,” he said finally, and then: “Not that acorn you’re wearing?”
“Yes.”
He removed his arm from around her and rolled onto his side to face her, wincing as he did so. “May I see it?”
Primrose pushed up on her elbow and fished the pendant from her neckline. She held it out. It was small and smooth and warm in her fingers.
Oliver leaned closer and took the little golden acorn. Their faces almost touched. “A magic charm from your great-great-grandmother.” His tone was bemused.
“Yes.”
Oliver shook his head and laughed, then tucked the pendant back inside her neckline. “Now I’m boggled and discombobulated.”
Primrose suddenly felt a little boggled and discombobulated, too. There had been nothing lascivious about the brief touch of his fingers against her skin—it had been friendly, if intimate, and not in the least bit seductive—but her heart began thumping hard and her skin seemed to prickle all over and part of her was disappointed that his touch hadn’t been seductive.
Oliver gave her a small, mischievous grin. “Have you put that acorn to the test, Prim?”
“Of course not!”
His grin widened. “Didn’t think so.” He leaned closer and kissed her, cupping the back of her head with one hand—and then broke the kiss with a wince. “Ouch.”
Primrose and the Dreadful Duke: Garland Cousins #1 Page 17