Chapter Five
I almost kissed Diana Thompson.
Oliver leaned against the bookseller’s counter and jabbed his fingers through his hair before resting his forehead in his palms. For the hundredth time, he wondered what the hell he had been thinking. Nothing, he realized. He hadn’t been thinking at all. He had just been… feeling. Feeling the way Diana fit in his arms and feeling how right that was. Feeling the softness of her hair and her skin. Feeling the arousal that ignited as she looked up at him, sending sparks and electricity arcing over his skin and down his spine.
He slid his hands to his eyes, making spots dance behind his lids. But the pressure didn’t erase the vision of Diana’s lush mouth as she smiled. Or the graceful curve of her neck, or the way her bodice strained over the swell of her breasts. He had never experienced desire of that intensity before. It sent his thoughts to dark, libidinous places, as he imagined all the things that he would like to do for her. All the ways he would have her gasping with pleasure, arching mindlessly under his touch.
Oliver cursed softly. He needed to stop feeling and start thinking again. And he would. Start thinking, that was. Just as soon as his blood returned to his brain from areas south.
He would stop this. Now. Because no good could ever come of the lust-fueled imaginings that had followed him from that morning room all the way here. He was a man of honor. Or he had been, at least.
“I’ve found it.” The bespectacled man emerged from a room behind the counter, and Oliver straightened abruptly, glad the man’s attention was on the scroll he held in his hand and not on Oliver. “Not so many people looking for local maps,” he said as he placed the long paper on the counter. “Since they built that Pavilion, everyone wants something more exotic. Unusual. Like what you brought me yesterday. Sold it already, you know. Just this morning.”
“Glad to hear,” Oliver said, not really caring. The map had been one of his old ones, and the fantastical illustrations around the edges had not made up for the lack of detail of the Indian terrain. He was interested in the Sussex terrain now. Oliver fixed his attention on the lines and illustrations unfurling before him, delineating the southern coast and countryside. He glanced back to see Diana approaching from where she had been browsing the bookseller’s shelves. And keeping her distance.
Just like she had kept a polite, careful distance in the carriage on the way here, not in space, of course, but in words, and he hated himself for that. He had, no doubt, made her horribly uncomfortable.
The bookseller set paperweights at the four corners of the map as Diana came to the counter next to Oliver. She didn’t look at him, and he didn’t really blame her.
“How accurate are these distances?” she asked the proprietor as she leaned over to view the map in more detail.
The gray-haired bookseller shrugged. “Can’t say for certain.” He gazed up at Oliver for a moment. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
“Somewhere,” Oliver corrected him. “We’ll buy the map.”
The bookseller shrugged again. “I don’t mind you just looking,” he said with a crooked smile. “You made me quite a bit of profit this morning with your map. Makes me feel a bit like I’m taking advantage.”
“Don’t apologize for good business,” Oliver said.
“Hmph. Well, maybe I can help?” the elderly man asked. “I’ve lived in this area all my life.”
Oliver pulled out Madelene’s letter with the mileage marker. “We’re looking for a place near Brighton. A place that has a church that looks like a castle and a river nearby.”
“Ah. That’s easy. You’re looking for Beddingham,” he said.
Diana’s head came up, and Oliver straightened.
“I expected to see knights on top of that old church when I was a boy,” the bookseller continued with a chuckle. “I was always a little disappointed to arrive and find that there were no great destriers tied up in front.” His gnarled finger traced a winding river from the sea inland. “That’s the River Ouse. Beddingham is just here.” His finger stopped to the northeast of Brighton, on a village that couldn’t be more than eight miles from where they stood.
Oliver met Diana’s eyes, the well of excitement overcoming whatever awkwardness lay between them. It seemed too easy, this. Or perhaps he had just been afraid to hope.
“Thank you,” Oliver said, trying to caution himself that this offered no guarantees. Madelene might not be there. They might have the location wrong, or she might have moved.
Behind them, the door opened, a gusting draft sending a handful of papers fluttering off the surface and behind the counter. The bookseller bent to collect them.
“I need to go to Beddingham,” Oliver said to Diana in a low voice. “Right now.”
Diana put a hand on his arm. He kept his own hands where they were, remembering what had happened last time he touched her.
“It’ll be nearly dark by the time you get there.”
“So? I’ll wake everyone up if I have to. Knock on every door. Someone will know where she is.”
“That will go over well, I’m sure,” Diana said wryly. “People are usually very forthcoming when they bolt from their beds, certain their homes are being broken into by strange men. Besides, you don’t even know if Madelene lives in town. She might live in the surrounding area.”
If she even lived there at all, Oliver added in silent frustration. He chafed at the delay, but Diana was right.
“We can leave first thing on the morrow,” she said. “We’ll start at the church. Because she’s described it in such detail, it’s likely that she’s attended. Someone in the clergy might know her.”
“You’ll come with me?”
“I’m far less threatening than a strange man stomping about town demanding answers to the whereabouts of a young woman,” she teased. “Of course I’ll go with you.”
“Going somewhere, Mrs. Thompson?” a familiar voice inquired from behind them.
Oliver froze. Not again.
Diana’s face instantly shuttered, and he turned to find the Duke of Riddington standing between the counter and the door, smoothing the front of his embroidered waistcoat with a gloved hand. A slighter man, dressed in dark, nondescript clothes, was standing behind him with what looked like a journal tucked under his arm.
“Riddington,” Oliver said.
“Mr. Graham,” the duke replied with a curl to his lip. “And darling Mrs. Thompson. I thought it was you I saw through the window. I couldn’t pass by without offering my salutations and complimenting you on your appearance. You look positively fetching today.”
Diana mumbled something that Oliver couldn’t hear.
“Your Grace.” The bookseller tossed his own greeting into the fray. “I was going to have your map delivered when it was ready.” He sounded worried. “The frame is not quite finished.”
“Yes, yes.” The duke gave a dismissive wave. “You’ll be envious to see what I picked up for a song this morning, Graham,” he said to Oliver. “An Indian map of the future, illustrated in fine detail. Mark me, only the best will do.”
“The future?” Oliver asked, wondering at the duke’s sudden interest in a place he had referred to as barbaric and backward only last night.
“The world is shrinking, Mr. Graham. Beyond our borders lies a world of culture and knowledge. The future and the control of it lies there, for men with the courage to face the risks that come with such great rewards.” Riddington sniffed and turned slightly to the man behind him. “Did you get that, Mr. Rhodes?” he asked. “I wish to be quoted directly. So many of the peerage remain sheltered from the beauty to be found in such places.”
Diana made a funny sound in her throat, and Oliver willed his face to remain impassive.
The man seemed to sigh and pulled out his journal. From somewhere in his coat, he produced a pencil stub and dutifully jotted something down.
“And you will be one of these men?” Oliver asked.
The duke preened. “Of course I will.”
The journalist finished writing and closed his book.
“Mr. Rhodes writes for the Herald,” the duke said. “He covers all the important people and their contributions to this empire. People like me.”
“Really?” Diana’s silky-smooth tone had a decidedly brittle edge. “Did he write about you last night?” She shot the journalist a hostile stare.
“Ah. You saw the social pages this morning. The mention of our… affair.” The duke smirked.
Actually, truly smirked before he rearranged his expression into what Oliver suspected was supposed to be grave concern. Oliver’s fingers curled into fists, and for the second time in as many days, he resisted his baser urges to simply knock the man’s teeth out.
“That bit was not from the Herald. That was the Gazette,” Riddington continued with a shrug. “Though I understand it came from a credible… source.”
“A credible source?” Diana said, her color high. “You?”
The duke waved his hand. “You know just as well as I that these papers must pander to their audience. An audience that delights in the details of the lives of their betters.” He patted his artfully styled hair. “And my name sells papers.”
“What they suggested was not only false, but utterly implausible.” Diana’s words were tight.
“Implausible? You wound me, Mrs. Thompson.” Riddington put a hand to his chest, annoyance flickering over his features. “You know, perhaps it is only you who does not see how well suited we are. You are too beautiful to be wasted on anyone else.”
Diana looked away.
“Come now, Mrs. Thompson. Don’t be like that. It’s not my fault that every paper from London to Brighton wishes to write about me and my ambitions, personal or otherwise.” He paused, his expression becoming patronizing. “I will, of course, speak to the editor on your behalf if such idle gossip unduly distressed you.”
“It’s too late. The damage can’t be undone.”
“Damage?” the duke repeated archly. “I am a duke, if you’ve forgotten. Having your name linked with mine in any sort of fashion can only improve your own popularity and prestige. It is futile to resist me. I have the power to open doors for those who please me. Or close doors for those who do not. You would do well to remember that.”
Oliver stared at Riddington, considering the damage he would do in this bookshop if he hurled the duke through the window.
“Mr. Graham?” the journalist asked. “Oliver Graham? You aren’t, by any chance, recently returned from India yourself?”
“Indeed, he is,” Diana replied before he could answer. “Further, Mr. Graham will be assuming a position at the East India Company’s college, teaching science and natural philosophy.”
The journalist perked up at this. He opened his notebook again. “You don’t say? My editor would love a piece about someone with firsthand knowledge, and I would very much like to—”
“Mr. Rhodes will be far too busy covering important matters this week to waste his time on such drivel,” Riddington interrupted. “Though, perhaps, Mr. Rhodes, if you’re looking for a deliciously scandalous tidbit that will put you and your paper ahead of the Gazette, you might want to ask Mrs. Thompson here about the Double Duchess. They are very close. Staying together here in Brighton, in fact.”
Diana stiffened. Oliver frowned, having no idea what that meant. Who, or what, was the Double Duchess?
Rhodes said nothing, only glanced at the duke from the corner of his eye, looking faintly annoyed.
“Mr. Rhodes, I’m giving you an inside track,” Riddington said sharply. “I would expect you to be grateful for the advantage.”
The journalist seemed to sigh. His pencil was still poised above the pages. “Of course, Your Grace,” he said, not sounding very enthusiastic. Or remotely grateful. “Can you get me an interview with the Double Duchess, Mrs. Thompson?”
“No.” Beside him, Diana’s fists were clenched in her skirts, her mouth set in a hard line.
The reporter sighed again. “Do you have a comment on your own—”
“Mrs. Thompson has no comments,” Oliver said. “About anything.” He wasn’t familiar with all the nuances of this conversation, but he knew Diana did not deserve to be subjected to another moment of this. “I see that your driver waits outside, Mrs. Thompson. Do enjoy your evening. I will send a message to Ainsworth House regarding the matter that we spoke of?”
Diana shot him a grateful look. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Graham. That will be suitable.” She picked up her skirts and nodded curtly. “Your Grace, gentlemen. Good day.”
The reporter merely closed his notebook and stepped to the side as she swept past him. Oliver watched her disappear through the door before turning back to Riddington. “Petty gossip is a little beneath you, don’t you think, Your Grace? It wasn’t amusing at Oxford, and it is certainly not amusing now.”
“Watch yourself, Graham,” the duke said.
“Or what? You’ll spread rumors that you and I are involved in a scandalous affair?”
“You do not want me for an enemy. You are a nobody, while I am a very powerful man.”
“Yes, you keep saying that.”
“It would be a shame if your appointment to the East India College were revoked,” Riddington sniffed. “A well-placed word from me could become quite troublesome for you.”
“Is that a threat, Your Grace?” His voice was deceptively soft.
“You’re not a foolish man, Graham.”
“No,” Oliver agreed. “Nor am I afraid of you.” He’d faced far more intimidating men in his life than this poor excuse for a duke. Emperors. Sea captains. Chieftains. Soldiers. Faced them and learned that real power was born not from a title but from cleverness and confidence and courage.
“Mrs. Thompson doesn’t belong to you,” Riddington spat, his face flushing a mottled red.
Oliver smiled, a slow, pitying smile. “No, she most certainly does not.” He met the duke’s eyes without flinching. “And it would serve you well to remember that she doesn’t belong to you either.”