Chapter 1 #2
If you married a duke, you would have to be a duchess, and that would be a horrible fate. Forced to host balls and organize estates and…
Well, truthfully, Olive had little idea what being a duchess actually entailed, but she’d warrant someone like Tiffany did. Hopefully, someone else would be paired with the duke of Cashard this evening.
“Nay,” Lady Athena said sharply, standing suddenly. “For the last time, I have nae interest in dancing with any lords, dukes or otherwise.” She inhaled slowly and straightened her shoulders. “I am no’ looking for a husband.”
Olive saw Willow exchange a glance with Bonnie, and wondered if they knew why Athena was so adamant. Or why, perhaps, she didn’t participate in the full extent of activities at the house party.
“Besides…” Athena’s grin looked forced. “I will no’ be here for dinner or dancing. My father is escorting Lady Dumpkins again, my brother is content with his partner for the evening, and I am planning on spending my evening at home with a juicy book and my—my favorite person.”
And who might that be?
Before Olive could work up the courage to figure out how to ask, Tiffany stood and changed the subject. “Ooh, what kind of juicy book? Is it more interesting than whatever Olive’s reading?”
Playing along, Olive scoffed and waved the journal. “Impossible.” Nothing could be more interesting than the latest Varied and Harrowing Exploits of Aberdeen Jones…although she doubted her friends would agree. “These contents are quite scintillating.”
One by one, they began to rise. Hazel hummed, “Does your journal contain any stories about kissing? Tongues? Penises?”
As Willow scoffed and Bonnie snorted, Olive opened the journal, standing as she did so. She frantically flipped. “No, but there was a study on a fetish in the shape of a duck from ancient Mesopotamia, and I did notice the fowl’s organ was erect—”
“That foul fowl,” Tiffany giggled.
“Willow, do you remember when Cedar was regaling the family with the story of his duck-hunting experience?” Hazel began.
Laughing, Willow took up the story, slipping her arm through Olive’s as they drifted toward the door with the others. “And she informed the entire family that the male duck has a corkscrew penis!”
“And when I asked why,” Hazel explained over the laughter, she told me it was because the female duck had evolved a corkscrew vagina, except—”
“—it corkscrews the other way!” Willow finished amid the peals of laughter.
Olive rolled her eyes.
“Honestly, you will never let me live that down, will you?” she muttered. “I was thirteen, and it is only logical that they corkscrew in opposite directions.”
Bonnie swooped in from the other side to link her arm with the one in which Olive held the journal. “I think it sounds as if young Olive was a curious student, and was interested in sharing something she had recently learned.”
Yes, that had likely been exactly the situation.
Still, Olive sighed. “This is why I do not dance with lords. I know I tend to speak whatever I am thinking, and I know I tend to think about rather inappropriate things at inappropriate times.” Like duck penises and the uses for men’s tongues.
“But I do not have any intention of stopping any time soon.”
“Excellent!” called Athena, waiting for them at the door. “I told my brother that, as he has finally been granted the honor of escorting ye to dinner tonight!”
For the first time she could remember, Olive’s mind went blank.
“Do ye see her expression, Hazel?” Athena was smirking as she pulled open the door. “Just what I was hoping for.”
“I… What?” mumbled Olive.
“Phineas has been nagging me to find a way to pair the two of ye.” Athena winked. “The Countess Dumpkins was finally obliging.”
Phineas Oliphant.
Tonight she’d be sitting with Mr. Phineas Oliphant?
As in, beside him? Discussing things with him? Trying not to make a fool of herself in front of him?
Touching him?
Olive’s knees suddenly went weak, and she was glad for Willow and Bonnie’s support.
She’d been introduced to Athena’s older brother when she’d arrived, and had been willing to admit the man had been handsome. And charming. And had actually seemed interested in what she’d said.
But surely being handsome and charming was no excuse for the way the man hadn’t been far from her thoughts all these weeks? When they’d practiced archery, he was there, being helpful. When they’d ventured into the hedge maze, he’d teasingly offered a string ala Perseus and the Labyrinth.
And when they’d strolled through the Roman ruins, he’d offered interesting historical bits of information.
Granted, she’d known most of them already, but it was impossible to deny the way her heart had gone all aflutter at a man who understood the architectural importance of the invention of the dome.
Surely his architectural acumen was the reason she found herself so breathless around the man?
Even I do not believe that, you ninny.
“Olive?” whispered Willow. “You are looking a little pale.”
For someone who was normally quite clear in her thoughts, Olive was embarrassed by the murmured, “Murp?” which escaped her lips.
Tiffany, being Tiffany, didn’t seem to notice her distress. “What kind of journal includes sketches of duck penises?”
She snatched for the volume in Olive’s limp hand. That should have distracted Olive enough to protect her precious journal, but….
Phineas Phineas Phineas Oliphant.
Oh, surprise, it didn’t work.
But Tiffany didn’t notice. “Oh. It is the latest edition of the Journal of the Society of Archaeology,” she read out loud. “Is this the publication you submitted that article about rooflines to? You were telling us about that last week.”
The article? The article she’d submitted? The article which had taken her a better part of a year to write? The article she’d told all her family about a million times, and had spoken about ceaselessly for the first week after her arrival at Dumpkins Manor?
That article?
They wanted to talk about the article, when Olive had just learned she’d be seated beside Phineas Oliphant?
“What is Olive reading?” Hazel and Athena had paused at the door.
Tiffany waved the journal. “It is the Journal of the Society of Arbitology.”
“Archaeology,” murmured Bonnie helpfully.
Athena suddenly beamed. “Is yer article in there, Olive?”
Mutely, Olive shook her head, trying to form words from the big pink blur of fog her brain had somehow just turned into. “I, um…”
Look, you are going to have to remember how to speak sometime. Be reasonable. You cannot go through life turning into a burbling fool whenever Phi—whenever Phin—whenever his name is mentioned.
Swallowing thickly, Olive straightened her shoulders. “No. Not this edition.” There. That wasn’t so hard, was it? “If my article is accepted, it will be published in a future edition, but I am not holding out much hope.”
“Nonsense,” Willow declared loyally. “Of course it shall be accepted. I, personally, cannot wait for the chance to read about the complexities of Roman roof thingies in a few months. I shall buy every copy I can find.”
It was a subscription, but Olive wasn’t going to diminish her sister’s support. “I do not know about that,” she mumbled, dropping her gaze.
“I do. I might not understand a word of it, but I know anything our Olive produces will be brilliant.” When Bonnie squeezed her shoulder, Olive peeked up with a grateful smile at her friend’s words and accepted the return of the journal from Tiffany.”
“Olive wasn’t reading it in the hopes of finding her article, you know,” Hazel pointed out, as she and Athena drifted toward the door.
“She was enthralled with the escapades of Aberdeen Jones. I borrowed her last edition when we arrived and read that one. Will you lend me this one when you’re through? ” she asked Olive.
“Of course.” Although it would be several days, because Olive had every intention of re-reading Mr. Jones’s recent adventure four or five times before she let the journal out of her sight. And to think she’d have to wait until this evening to finish reading this edition!
She stood, pressing her journal to her chest as her friends filed out the door, and wondered if she should drop it off in her room or leave it here.
Tiffany pursed her lips as she held the door for Olive. “Aberdeen Jones?”
Athena answered her, saying, “The archaeologist whose stories are taking Britain by storm. Never say ye have no’ heard of him?
” Her eyes were sparkling, and Olive didn’t have time to wonder at that before her friend continued flippantly, “It is a sobriquet of course, and I dinnae believe everything the man writes can be true, but it is amusing to read at least.”
Still clutching the journal to her chest, Olive stepped into the hall and gaped at the redheaded lady who wouldn’t be joining them for dinner. “You are a fan of archaeological reports?”
“I am a fan of well-written adventures,” Athena replied drily, as they drifted down the hall, “but the man himself must be quite boring at family dinners.”
Olive wanted to object. Anyone who’d lived half the adventures of Aberdeen Jones must be riveting to listen to in person. His adventures certainly made for some fascinating topics of conversation.
I wonder if Phi—Phinea—Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Athena’s brother, there, that wasn’t that hard. I wonder if he is a fan of Mr. Jones’s exploits.
When they stepped from the sitting room, Athena gave them a cheery wave. “Have fun tonight.” She winked at Olive. “Especially ye.” She turned and strode—yes, strode, as if she didn’t care about taking the dainty steps Grandmama had always preached about—toward the back entrance.
Meanwhile, a pit had opened in Olive’s stomach, and promptly been inhabited by butterflies. Or moths. Something with more legs than proper, that was for certain.
She was expected to blithely float toward the dining room and greet her hostess without gibbering like a monkey.
Then she was supposed to take Phineas Oliphant’s arm, sit beside him, without making a fool of herself, speaking of avian copulatory organs or ancient South American sacrificial customs, or Roman architectural details or—
Actually, perhaps we should best stick to that. You have studied the topic, after all, and Mr. Oliphant proved interested when we toured the ruins.
There. That was simple. She’d speak of Roman architecture, and as long as she remembered not to get too excited and dribble wine down her gown or something, she’d be able to make it through the dinner and perhaps even the obligatory dance afterward.
Dancing.
Oh dear. That was even harder than making conversation with an attractive man, wasn’t it?
The rest of her friends had already started down the stairs, chattering happily together. Trying to tamp down the panic once more, Olive turned to find Willow smiling broadly at her.
“Would you like me to take your journal to your room? I need to stop by mine before dinner.”
That was when Olive realized she was still clutching the Journal of the Society of Archaeology to her chest. Flushing, she thrust it toward her sister, stammering her appreciation.
Straightening her shoulders, she turned to the stairs and grasped the banister.
Right.
An evening in Mr. Phineas Oliphant’s exclusive company.
She could do this.
She would do this.