Primrose unlocked her bedroom door and went down to the morning room. A housemaid was clearing away the tea tray. “Would you like another pot of tea, Lady Primrose?”
“Yes, thank you, Elsie.”
Primrose crossed to the sofa, thinking how shocked the maid would be if she told her she’d just traveled to Staffordshire and back.
But of course she didn’t tell the housemaid. She couldn’t tell a soul. It was far too great a secret. And even if she did tell Elsie, the girl wouldn’t believe it.
No one would.
Primrose curled up on the sofa and returned to her reading.
Chapter Two
An evening in early June, London
Oliver had enjoyed being a soldier. Not the killing, of course, but the camaraderie, the sense of purpose, the challenges, the fun. When the letter had arrived informing him that he’d inherited his Uncle Reginald’s dukedom his first emotion had been astonishment. His second had been chagrin. He’d planned to be a colonel by the time he was forty; instead, at twenty-nine, he was a duke. Not that being a duke wasn’t without its challenges or its sense of purpose. Or its fun, for that matter.
Oliver glanced around the ballroom. His gaze passed over shimmering silks and spangled gauzes, glossy hair and rosy lips—and the bright eyes of young ladies searching for husbands.
He’d enjoyed balls when he’d been a cavalry captain in India. They’d been rare events, something to look forward to—the dancing, the flirting, the snatched kisses in shadowy corners.
Balls as a duke in London were quite a different matter. In fact, when a duke had so many caps set at him as Oliver did, he had to exercise caution else he’d get caught in the parson’s mousetrap. A prudent duke didn’t snatch kisses from respectable young ladies—not unless he wanted to end up with a wife. A prudent duke didn’t even flirt while he danced.
A prudent duke could get mightily bored if he wasn’t careful . . . but Oliver had a strategy for that.
He made his way across the ballroom, replying to the murmured greetings of Your Grace, and Duke, and Westfell, before coming to a halt in front of Miss Elliott and her mother.
“Lady Elliott.” He inclined his head in a coolly ducal nod. “Miss Elliott.”
“Your Grace.” Miss Elliott curtsied and glanced up at him through her eyelashes. She was only nineteen, but she had mastered the trick of tucking her shoulders back slightly to bring her bosom into more prominence. Lush breasts tilted up at him, snug in a nest of ribbons and silk.
Miss Elliott—like most unmarried young ladies—was on the hunt for a husband, but even if Oliver had to be prudent, it didn’t mean that he couldn’t enjoy her efforts to snare him. He awarded Miss Elliott one point for the upwards glance and two points for that enticingly displayed bosom, then he gave her his most charming smile and led her onto the dance floor.
Miss Elliott started the cotillion with three points. She increased this to six points rather rapidly—by sending him three more of those glances—and then she exercised a masterful ploy: she bit her lower lip briefly and moistened it, a move that looked bashful but most definitely wasn’t, not with the glimpse of her tongue she’d given him.
That was five points, right there, and they’d been dancing less than a minute.
Oliver gave her his most charming smile again. “Do you like horses, Miss Elliott? I must tell you about my mount, Verdun.”
He described Verdun in detail, from his ears to his hooves, while Miss Elliott tilted her enticing bosom at him. “I’m certain you’re a magnificent horseman, Your Grace,” she said, when he’d finished describing the precise length and color of Verdun’s tail.
The compliment sounded genuine. Oliver added another two points to her tally and launched into a description of the horses of every officer he’d ever served with in India. He was rather enjoying himself. This was a game: Miss Elliott’s bosom versus his ridiculous monologue.
The cotillion lasted twenty minutes, and Miss Elliott made very good use of them. When Oliver returned her to her mother, she had accrued one hundred and forty-three points.
His next partner was Lady Primrose Garland, the sister of his oldest friend, Rhodes Garland—and the only unmarried young lady in the room whom he knew didn’t want to marry him.
“Lady Prim,” he said, bowing over her hand with a flourish. “You’re a jewel that outshines all others.”
Primrose was too well-bred to roll her eyes in public, but her eyelids twitched ever so slightly, which told him she wanted to. “Still afflicted by hyperbole, I see.”
“You use such long words, Prim,” he said admiringly.
“And you use such foolish ones.”
Oliver tutted at her. “That’s not very polite, Prim.”
Primrose ignored this comment. She placed her hand on his sleeve. Together they walked onto the dance floor and took their places.
“Did I ever tell you about my uniform, Prim? The coat was dark blue, and the facing—”
“I don’t wish to hear about your uniform.”
“Manners, Prim. Manners.”
Primrose came very close to smiling. She caught herself just in time. “Shall we discuss books while we dance? Have you read Wolf’s Prolegomena ad Homerum?”
“Of course I haven’t,” Oliver said. “Dash it, Prim, I’m not an intellectual.”
The musicians played the opening bars. Primrose curtsied, Oliver bowed. “I really must tell you about my uniform. The coat was dark blue—”
Primrose ignored him. “Wolf proposes that The Iliad—”
“With a red sash at the waist—”
“And The Odyssey were in fact—”
“And silver lace at the cuffs—”
“The work of more than one poet.”
“And a crested Tarleton helmet,” Oliver finished triumphantly.
They eyed each other as they went through the steps of the dance. Oliver could tell from the glint in her eyes and the way her lips were tucked in at the corners that Primrose was trying not to laugh. He was trying not to laugh, too.
“You’re a fiddle-faddle fellow,” Primrose told him severely.
“Alliteration,” Oliver said. “Well done, Prim.”
Primrose’s lips tucked in even more tightly at the corners. If they’d been anywhere but a ballroom he was certain she’d have stamped her foot, something she’d done frequently when they were children.
“Heaven only knows why I agreed to dance with you,” she told him tartly.
“Because it increases your consequence to be seen with me. I am a duke, you know.” He puffed out his chest and danced the next few steps with a strut.
“Stop that,” she hissed under her breath.
“Stop what?” Oliver said innocently, still strutting his steps.
“Honestly, Daisy, you’re impossible.”
Oliver stopped strutting. “No one’s called me that in years.”
“Impossible? I find that hard to believe.” Her voice was dry.
“Daisy.” It had been Primrose’s childhood nickname for him, in retaliation for him calling her Lady Prim-and-Proper.