Chapter 2 #3
“Nonsense!” Lady Dumpkins 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 have danced with the man.”
“But—”
“One does not turn down a duke, dear. Oh, Your Grace, allow me to present one of the most accomplished of our crop of young hopefuls.”
Young hopefuls? As if every female here was ready to throw herself at a Bonafide duke.
As Lady Dumpkins made the introductions, Olive managed not to roll her eyes. Instead, she tried to surreptitiously glance around the room. Bonnie was deep in conversation with Willow, Ash was already disappearing into the game room, but 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 Cashard was really quite handsome. Tall, with blond hair styled immaculately and eyes as cold as his personality. His conversation was stilted 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 Lady Dumpkins had announced that each week he would dance with a new lady. Tonight, 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 is rude of you to point it out.” As if he did not know already. A duke can say what he wishes, I suppose. “And I suspect Lady Dumpkins 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.
Which is likely why Olive forgot all of her mother’s training to snap out, “Because most men do not 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 am 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 have 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.”
Phineas’s 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 do not forgive you!” She wanted to turn from him, nose in the air, and march over to where her sisters were chatting. She wanted to give him the cut direct, not caring if it made her rude or even if it hurt Athena’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—
Do not 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 am sure you know, Mr. Oliphant.” 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. Oliphant—”
“Phineas,” he corrected her, as he spun her about. “Please?”
“Mr. Oliphant,” she repeated firmly, trying to remind her traitorous desire he was a fraud, “we are 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 Athena 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?
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 are 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’s 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’s 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 have 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 have never read an article by a Phineas Oliphant.”
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.
Ah, problem solved.
“I am a scholar, it’s true,” he was saying, as he glanced around the room. “But I’ve also made myself some wealth through investments, which is really just applying what I know of markets. But my real passion is travel.”
Travel. The chance to see the world!
Something she only dreamed of.
Still not looking at her, he said, “I’ve been all over the world, Olive, studying cultures and having adventures.”
Frantically, Olive wracked her brain, trying to remember which of the journal’s academic contributors traveled the world. He was staring at the dancing couples, and when she glanced up, she was struck by the strength in his jaw and the determination in his brow.
All over the world…having adventures.
A suspicion began to creep over her, and Olive bit her bottom lip. Hard.
Before she could ask what name he wrote under, Phineas clasped his hands behind his back and shifted his weight, drawing her attention—accidentally—downward to his kilt.
“My father didnae approve of me gallivanting all over, no’ at first. He still thinks it’s ridiculous, so I chose a sobriquet before I began to publish my adventures.”
So he did write under a different name.
“Which name did you choose?” she all-but-hissed, praying her suspicion was wrong, while at the same time, she hoped it was right.
He glanced down at her, then again at the dancing couples, his jaw tight as he confessed. “The most common name I could think of. Jones.”
Jones.
As in…Aberdeen Jones?
“Aberdeen?” she managed to choke in disbelief.
His nod was quick, his gaze still elsewhere.
“When I was at university, I was full of myself. I told everyone how I was going to travel and go to exotic places and see exotic sights. My very first assignment—as an assistant to one of my archaeology professors—was in Aberdeen, the least exotic place I could think of. The nickname was short-lived, but when it came time to pick a sobriquet, I thought it fit.”
This man, this handsome, intelligent man, was Aberdeen Jones? Her idol?
And you just made a complete fool of yourself, accusing him of lying.
Suddenly, he turned to her in one swift movement. “Look, I can explain. Or try to, at least.” He glanced over her head, then around the room. “Have ye seen the auld earl’s private antiquities collection?”
Still sputtering over this revelation, Olive nodded. “In the library? Of course.”
His expression softened into a smile as he glanced at her once more.
“Of course,” he repeated gently, then shook his head.
“However, I meant in his study. When the countess gave me permission to—well, it does no’ matter.
But she told me I could have access to the collection whenever I’d like.
” His gaze darted around the room. “Meet me there in a quarter hour and I’ll try to explain. ”
And then he was gone, leaving her to stare at the potted palm. A very fine example of howea forsteriana if she wasn’t mistaken.
The joys of having a botanist for a father.
As part of her mind cataloged the genus and species of the plant, the rest was occupied with the realization her dinner partner—the man she’d so thoroughly snubbed—was Aberdeen Jones.
He was handsome and made her insides do interesting things when he touched her. And he lived a life she could only dream of but wanted to know more about.
But to sneak away from a dance to meet a man in private, in her host’s study no less?
It was scandalous.
It was wrong.
Clearly she was going to do it.