The Scholar and the Scot Page 2

  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 don’t believe that, you ninny.

  “Olive?” whispered Angeline. “You’re 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.

  “What are you reading?” Angeline stooped to grab the journal from Olive’s lap, likely in an attempt to distract her.

  Phineas Phineas Phineas Prince.

  Oh, surprise, it didn’t work.

  But dear Angeline didn’t notice. “Oh. It’s the latest edition of the Journal of the Society of Archaeology, isn’t it? This is the publication you submitted that article about rooflines to, isn’t it?”

  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 friends about—multiple times—in her letters, and had spoken about ceaselessly for the first week after her arrival at Fangfoss Manor?

  That article?

  She wanted to talk about the article, when Olive had just learned she’d be seated beside Phineas Prince?

  “What are you two whispering about over there?” Clementine called out.

  Angeline waved the journal. “It’s the Journal of the Society of Archaeology.”

  “Oh!” Clementine paused in fixing the lock of Melanie’s hair which had fallen from her coiffure. “Is your 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’re going to have to remember how to speak sometime. Be reasonable. You can’t 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’m not holding out much hope.”

  “Nonsense,” Charity declared loyally. “Of course 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 friend’s enthusiasm. “I don’t know about that,” she mumbled, dropping her gaze to her lap.

  “I do. I might not understand a word of it, but I know anything our Olive produces will be brilliant.” When Angeline squeezed her shoulder, Olive peeked up with a grateful smile at her friend’s words and accepted the return of the journal.

  “Olive wasn’t reading it in the hopes of finding her article, you know,” Melanie pointed out, as she and Angeline 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’ 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, wondering if she should drop it off in her room or leave it here.

  Clementine pursed her lips as she held the door for Olive. “Aberdeen Jones?”

  Raina answered her, saying, “The archaeologist whose stories are taking Britain by storm. Never say ye’ve no’ heard of him?” Her eyes were sparkling, and Olive didn’t have time to wonder at that before her friend continued flippantly, “It’s 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 her friend. “You are a fan of archaeological reports?”

  “I’m a fan of well-written adventures,” Raina 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, Raina’s brother, there, that wasn’t that hard. I wonder if he is a fan of Mr. Jones’ exploits.

  “Ewan! Where did you come from?”

  At Melanie’s question, five more sets of eyes rounded on the little tow-headed lad who’d appeared in their midst; his jacket missing, and his shirt smeared with dirt. Instead of answering, the four-year-old gave them all a toothy grin and opened his arms, as if offering a hug.

  Melanie rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “If I hug you, lad, I’m afraid I’ll get mud on my silk. Is that jam on your face and hands as well?”

  As the boy’s grin grew, Clementine leaned closer to Olive and muttered, “More likely, she is afraid the little scamp will filch her purse. He still has not returned Dorset’s hat, the little thief!”

  Olive’s eyes widened and she pressed her lips together to hide her smile. The boy’s freedom was enviable, and he’d become something of a nuisance to the house party guests, running into a room and pilfering loose items before the owner could react. None of the ladies had complained to Ewan’s mother though, and Olive assumed it was because they—like her—secretly loved the scamp.

  With a long-suffering sigh, barely hiding the affection in her eyes, Raina held out her hand. “Come, laddie. I’m no’ wearing a fine gown to be ruined by a wee bit of mud.” When Ewan wrapped his arms around her middle, she tousled his hair fondly. “ ’Tis a good thing I wasnae planning on joining the evening’s entertainment. I’ll walk ye to the nursery.”

  They’d reached the top of the stairs and Raina peeled away from the group, taking the youngster’s sticky hand in hers without any sign of irritation. “Have fun, ye lot.” She winked at Olive. “Especially ye.”

  And just like that, Olive’s insecurities came crashing back. She was expected to trot down those stairs and meet her host and hostess without gibbering like a monkey, and then greet Mr. Phineas Prince? She was supposed to take his 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’d best stick to that. You’ve studied the topic, after all, and Mr. Prince 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 Raina smiling broadly at her.

  “Would ye like me to take yer journal to yer room? Or were ye planning on showing it to my brother?”

  That’s when Olive realized she was still clutching the Journal of the Society of Archaeology to her chest. Flushing, she thrust it toward her friend, stammering her appreciation, only to glance down at Ewan’s mischievous smile.

  When Raina saw the reason for her hesitation, she rolled her eyes slightly. “Ewan and I will both make sure the journal returns to yer room and stays there. Right, laddie?”

  The boy hesit
ated, then shrugged good-naturedly and nodded.

  Reassured, Olive handed her friend the journal, who was still smirking, then took a deep breath.

  “Good luck,” murmured Raina, as if she were aware of Olive’s secret obsession with her brother.

  The thought wasn’t helpful, so Olive pushed it from her mind. Straightening her shoulders, she turned to the stairs and grasped the banister.

  Right.

  An evening in Mr. Phineas Prince’s exclusive company.

  She could do this.

  She would do this.

  Chapter 2

  Damn, she was even prettier up close, wasn’t she?

  Smiling, and trying to pretend as if he hadn’t been waiting at the bottom of the stairs for Olive L’arbre to descend, Phineas stepped forward to greet her and her friends. He had to admit, he liked the way her eyes widened behind her spectacles when she saw him wearing his formal kilt—thank Zeus his brother Roland had talked him into bringing it—and if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a glint of appreciation in those dark orbs as well.

  She wore a simple gown of blue silk, which clung to her shoulders as if prepared to fall off at any moment, and his fingers itched to help it along. Her dark hair was arranged into a simple bun, unlike the coiffures Raina managed.

  His sister was absent again tonight, which was no surprise.

  “Miss L’arbre.” When he greeted Olive, she flushed in the most adorable way, then offered a slight curtsey for him. Dare he hope she’d been looking forward to spending time with him as much as he’d been with her?

  Since their introduction, he’d been hoping for the chance to get to know her better. He hadn’t come to this house party looking for a female companion, but it seemed to be the theme thus far. And since Raina had made it clear she wouldn’t be marrying—and was only in York to visit with her dearest friends—Phineas had settled into a schedule of cards, billiards, long walks around the old ruins, and of course, research.

  But through it all, he’d watched Miss Olive L’arbre, a surprising bright spot in the festivities. She was clearly shy, but when they’d spoken, he’d seen the intelligence in her eyes, and had heard it in her words.

  She intrigued him.

  And now, when she placed her hand on his arm so he could lead her into dinner, he felt her body’s heat inside her gloves through the fine tailoring of his coat.

  He definitely wanted to know more about this woman.

  Small talk was discussions about the weather—expected to be damp in the coming week—and the dancing for the evening. He secured her promise of a dance, and when she blushed again and nibbled on her lower lip, he was glad his heavy sporran hid his body’s response.

  As he held her chair for her to sit, Olive’s shoulder brushed against the back of his hand, and he could swear he saw her shiver. She tamped it down and turned to the older lady on her left, making small talk as he slid into his seat, unable to hide his smile.

  As per Society’s regulations, Phin did his best to keep their conversations along acceptable topics, asking about her brother—sitting at the other end of the table—whom he’d met the week before at the card table.

  “And Ash will be back in the game room this evening, I have no doubt. I do hope you didn’t lose too much to him.”

  Phin’s eyebrow twitched. “Ye assume he won?”

  “Oh, Ash never loses at cards. It’s one of his annoying traits.”

  Surely she wasn’t saying…?

  As if she could hear Phin’s unspoken thought, her eyes suddenly widened behind her spectacles, and she shook her head frantically. “He wouldn’t cheat if that’s what you’re wondering. Ash doesn’t need to cheat. He is just very good at math and knows where each card is. He’s made quite a lot of money that way, and I’m certain it’s the only reason he agreed to attend this house party as my chaperone.” Her lips curled up beguilingly as she glanced down at her soup. “I’m just pleased because it means he leaves me to my own devices most days.”

  Well, Phin liked the sound of that too. There were all sorts of things he wanted to experience with her—starting with another tour of the ruins and working up from there—and now he knew she had the freedom to make that happen if he could convince her to.

  “I can understand the appeal. My oldest brother is content to leave us to our own devices as well, although now he’s re-married, he and his wife are quite content running her printing empire.”

  When Olive expressed interest—and why wouldn’t she, since she seemed to enjoy books as much as he did—Phin was happy to tell her about his family. Lyon, who some still called the Beast of the Oliphants, although not to his face, was madly in love with Bonnie, whose dream to own a publishing house had brought them together and had dragged Lyon from his life as a burned shell of a recluse.

  And then there was Roland, Phin’s middle brother, but the oldest who shared a mother with him. Lyon was their father’s heir and would one day be Laird Oliphant, but Roland had inherited their grandfather’s viscountcy. Roland, who cared more about fashion than Phin ever would, had married Bonnie’s sister Vanessa, who could be a little self-absorbed, but was a loving mother.

  “And of course ye ken Raina, the youngest. Father dotes on her.”

  “Your father is the laird of the clan?”

  “Correct.” He gestured with his fork before spearing a piece of potato. “Our surname is Prince, thanks to some new blood a few generations back, but we’re Oliphants, and Da is Laird Oliphant. He’s also an earl, but there’s so many bloody earls up there—pardon my language—that it’s impossible to keep track of which one is which.”

  “Earl Somebody-or-Other,” Olive offered with a shy smile. “I can see why ‘Laird’ is a more convenient title. My father is a mere baronet, granted by the Queen after he impressed her with a rose he named after Princess Beatrice.”

  “A botanist named L’arbre…” Phin frowned thoughtfully as he reached for his wineglass. “Yer surname means ‘tree’, does it no’?”

  To his surprise, her lips pinched together in displeasure moments before she snapped, “Huzzah for you; you speak French!”

  He blinked, and she winced. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she offered a quick apology. “I’m sorry, Mr. Prince. That was rude of me. I’m just used to being defensive when it comes to my name.”

  He liked she owned her mistakes. “Why?”

  “You would be too if your father had a terrible sense of humor and your mother indulged him,” she said with a rueful smile. “My brothers are Rowan, Ash and Cedar, and my sisters are Willow and Hazel.”

  Ah. He was beginning to understand. “And Olive. Ye’re all trees then?”

  “My father, the lucky blighter, is a William.” She sighed. “I’ve always disliked my name. Willows are—well, willowy—and hazels are strong. Olives are…what?”

  Without thinking, he answered with a grin. “Delicious.”

  By Zeus, but he was coming to love the way her eyes—a warm dark brown a man could get lost in—widened whenever he said something mildly shocking. She was a delight to gently tease, and each time she sucked on that bottom lip, his cock stirred.

  “Mr. Prince, I…”

  He wanted to tell her to call him Phin, but he also wanted to set her at ease, so he shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “I love to travel, Miss L’arbre. Some of my favorite cuisines of the Mediterranean involve olives, so ye’ll forgive me if I disagree with ye. Olive trees are among my favorites.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, looking at him with something akin to wonder, and he wasn’t certain if it was thanks to his compliment or some other reason.

  “Well,” he said briskly, toasting her with his wine glass, “we’ve exhausted our families and the weather. What should we speak about next?”

  “Roman architecture,” she declared promptly.

  “I— What?”

  “Earlier, I was trying to decide what would be the best topics of conversation, and I made a mental note of Roman archi
tecture. Since you seemed to know something of— Oh dear. Am I blabbering?”

  This last was said in response to the expression on his face, which Phin was certain was one of incredulousness. What a remarkable young woman. She thought things through so thoroughly and even made mental lists of things as simple as topics of conversation.

  How rather like him.

  “Not at all, Miss L’arbre,” he assured her; his voice a little hoarse, until he swallowed a bit more wine. “I find myself intrigued. I am fond of Roman architecture and would love to hear your opinions as well.”

  It wasn’t a lie, and when he asked her thoughts on the ruins on the Fangfoss estate, he was utterly charmed at how animated she became. No longer the blushing young wallflower; Olive was a veritable scholar of Roman antiquities and wasn’t shy about sharing her knowledge.

  I think I’m in love.

  As the conversation continued on, Phin realized he’d completely monopolized her thus far during the meal, and although Roland would be shocked, he decided he just didn’t care. The guests around them seemed content in their own conversations, and Phin was enjoying himself too much to relinquish her attention to someone else.

  “Ye ken, I’m something of a collector of antiquities.”

  “Oh, really?” Her eyes were shining with interest. “Do you buy them from catalogs?”

  “Nay. I prefer to get them from the sites themselves.” This much was true, although not the complete story.

  Still, it was the correct thing to say, judging by her reaction. Her fork hung, suspended, as she stared at him.

  “You’ve…traveled you said?” Her voice sounded strained as she slowly replaced her fork and shifted.

  He realized she’d shifted closer to him, nearer to the edge of her seat. When he slowly nodded, she gave a little bounce—of excitement he thought—and nibbled on her lower lip.

  Steady, laddie. Ye havenae been out of polite company long enough to forget cockstands at the dinner table are still considered rude.

  “Will you—” Her voice was breathless. “Will you tell me about your travels? Tell me about some of the pieces you’ve collected?”