This Duke is Mine (12 page)

Quin froze in mid-bow at the word “betrothed,” then his lips touched Olivia’s glove. He felt her fingers trembled in his hand; perhaps it was his hand that trembled around her fingers. He straightened.

“Indeed,” he said. “Best wishes on your betrothal, Miss Lytton. I’m afraid that I have not had the pleasure of meeting the marquess.”

She smiled at him. She had dimples. No, only one dimple, in her right cheek.

“Rupert is heading a company against the French,” she said. “He is quite patriotic.”

“He must be so,” Quin said, pulling himself together and giving a silent nod to the absent marquess. He himself had thought of serving in the war against France but had deemed it impossible. Given that his father was dead and he had no brothers, he was responsible for an enormous estate that stretched across three English counties, not to mention the land in Scotland. He simply could not leave. “I have the greatest respect for those men who are defending our country against the incursions of Napoleon.”

“May I present Lady Althea Renwitt and her mother, Lady Sibblethorp,” the dowager said, ignoring the question of Napoleon. She didn’t approve of the war; the French had been most objectionable when they slew their nobility, but she couldn’t see why England should risk English lives on that account. Quin had given up trying to explain it to her. “Lady Althea, Lady Renwitt, my son, the Duke of Sconce.”

Lady Althea was quite small, and had two dimples to Olivia’s one. She smiled in such a way that both dimples and a great expanse of teeth were in evidence, and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.” Then she giggled.

“My sister, Lady Cecily, will be unable to join us, as she injured her ankle in last night’s debacle,” his mother said. “I don’t doubt but that Cleese will wish to begin luncheon now. We are hopelessly uneven, of course. And there is no sign of Lord Justin.” She turned to Lady Sibblethorp. “My brother’s son. His mother was French, and I expect he inherited the propensity to be late from that side of the family. Sometimes he does not join us until the second remove.”

Quin thought that the more likely explanation was that Justin took longer to dress than a woman. But still, he felt a little better remembering that his cousin would be at luncheon as well. While Justin couldn’t precisely be said to have achieved manhood at age sixteen, half a man was better than none.

At that very moment he heard the click of heels. They all turned, to find Lord Justin Fiebvre making his characteristic flamboyant entry. He paused for a moment in the doorway, threw back the lock of hair that constantly—and, one had to believe, deliberately—obscured his eyes, and cried, “Such beauty! I feel as though I am entering the garden of the Hesperides.”

Lucy was tucked under his arm, her long snout nuzzling the shot silk of a quite extraordinary pearl-colored silk coat, embroidered with silver arabesques and pale blue beads.

The dowager straightened her shoulders, a sign of irritation. She allowed Justin to vex her, which was foolish, to Quin’s mind. Justin was not entirely English nor entirely adult, but under all the frills he was a decent fellow.

“Lord Justin,” she stated. “May I inquire as to why you are carrying that—that animal under your arm?”

“I found this little sweetheart in the library,” he replied, grinning. “I couldn’t leave a lonely girl all on her own.”

From the way she was eyeing him, the dowager considered the coat inappropriate for a country luncheon—though it was difficult to distinguish her sartorial disapproval from her patent dislike of dogs.

But Justin had a charming habit of ignoring his aunt’s displeasure. He had a sunny disposition and preferred, as he often said, “to see happiness.”

“Now who is the mistress of this charmer?” he asked, looking from person to person as he stroked Lucy’s head.

“She is mine,” Olivia said, moving forward. “I left her in the library because she seemed to be so afraid to come into the sunlight. I’m afraid that Lucy is not a deeply courageous dog.”

“We don’t all need to be brave,” Justin said. “I, for one, count myself among the cowardly yet respectable majority. Your Lucy is utterly charming.”

“
If
you would be so kind as to join us, Lord Justin,” the dowager cut in, “I will introduce you to our houseguests.”

“A keen pleasure awaits me!” Justin put Lucy down at his feet, and she scurried over to Olivia and hid behind her. The dowager drew aside her skirts with a barely suppressed squeak.

Justin bowed low over each lady’s hand, brushing kisses and breathing compliments. He
adored
Miss Lytton’s gown (so did Quin), Miss Georgiana’s ring, Lady Althea’s ribbons . . .

Quin was rather interested to see that while Lady Althea fell into a perfect frenzy of dimpling, Olivia and her sister seemed more amused than admiring.

He took a deep breath and willed himself to calmness.

For a man who prided himself on not experiencing emotion, Quin had reacted to the news of Miss Olivia Lytton’s betrothal to the Marquess of Montsurrey with a jolt of something so primitive that he had hardly recognized it.

He had to stop himself from sweeping her off her feet, carrying her to the library, and slamming the door behind them—after which, he would make damn sure that she broke off her betrothal.

But he never slammed doors. That was for . . . that was for other men. The emotional kind.

He wasn’t emotional. It was a good thing he reminded himself of that, because he was in some danger of surprising himself.

Could he be experiencing some sort of temporary insanity? Perhaps there was a medical syndrome that encompassed kissing the vicar’s wife, and given that no such matron was within ready grasp, kissing a stranger who appears on one’s doorstep in the middle of the night in a rainstorm.

Of course, Olivia probably had every lecherous man in London panting after her, given her voluptuous figure. That gown she wore was made up of different panels that somehow swept around and under, and there was just a touch of lace over her breasts . . . perhaps they could call it the Olivia Syndrome.

The question was . . . what was the question? It was unusual for Quin to feel as if he were floundering between incoherent thoughts.

“As we have unequal numbers,” his mother stated, “I regret that some ladies must necessarily remain unescorted. Tarquin, you may escort Miss Georgiana and Lady Althea to luncheon. Lord Justin, you may escort Miss Lytton. Lady Sibblethorp, we shall progress together.” She paused for a moment.

“Miss Lytton, I would ask you to return that canine to the house before you join us. Animals are not tolerable in the vicinity of the dining table. In fact, I would prefer that the creature remain in the stables at all times.”

“I do assure you, Your Grace, that if it were within my capacity to put Lucy in the stables, I would do so. But my fiancé, the Marquess of Montsurrey, begged me to keep her with me at all times before he left for the wars. I could not deny a request from a man engaged in the defense of our country.”

“I am certain that he did not mean it literally,” the dowager replied acidly.

“I’m afraid Rupert is always literal in his requests.”

“Indeed.” The dowager narrowed her eyes. “I had heard something of the sort.”

Quin tensed at this, but Olivia merely said, “In fact, Lucy seems to have taken quite a liking to you, Your Grace.”

As one, the entire company looked down to find that Olivia’s dog was now sitting at the edge of the dowager’s skirts, one tiny paw resting gently on the tip of her slipper.

She made a strangled sound. “Off!”

Lucy seemed unmoved by this command. She simply raised her long nose and gave a small
woof
, leaving her paw where it was.

“Tarquin!” the dowager said, staring down with the same horror with which one might greet the sudden appearance of a squid in one’s bathwater.

Before Quin could come to the rescue, Olivia scooped up her dog. “I am so sorry,” she exclaimed. “I had no idea that you were frightened by dogs, Your Grace.”

The dowager regained her composure instantly. “Of course I am not frightened by canines. I merely find them to be unnervingly dirty. Given what I have heard of your fiancé, Miss Lytton, I think we can both agree that you may overrule his request. Put the dog in the stables. Begin, in short, as you mean to carry on.”

It was Olivia’s turn to stiffen. “I am quite sure you did not mean to speak of the Marquess of Montsurrey in such a manner, Your Grace.” And then, as the dowager opened her mouth, Olivia added, “I myself would be reluctant to incur the censure of disloyalty, but I consider this of no account, since I am certain that you had no intention of making a suggestion that would be a wound to your credit, and give blemish to your courtesy.”

Quin didn’t even bother to untangle that; he could see that a gauntlet had just been tossed onto the flagstones at their feet. His mother held herself as rigidly as a soldier on parade, as did Olivia. They were of approximate heights and seemed to be displaying equal strength of will. And even more unnerving, each lady had a slight smile on her face.

“While Lucy will remain in my presence except at meals, as requested by my fiancé,” Olivia continued, “I will do my best to keep her from your sight, Your Grace.”

There was a terrible moment of silence, and then the dowager said, “That shall have to do.”

Olivia sank into a curtsy, still holding Lucy under her arm. “I trust that you are not offended, Your Grace. I am heartened by memory of your own words: ‘
A true lady prefers gentle reproof to extravagant compliment
.’ ”

There was a soft gasp from the direction of Lady Sibblethorp, and Quin judged it time to separate the contestants before his mother forgot some of the precepts she held so dear; for her part, Olivia seemed to regard them as little more than weapons.

“Miss Georgiana and Lady Althea,” he interjected. “May I have the honor of escorting you both to luncheon?”

“Miss Lytton,” Justin chimed in. “May I give Lucy to a footman?”

But the dowager, chin high, ignored both of them. “I gather that I have underestimated your attachment to the marquess, Miss Lytton.”

“My fiancé does not carry his accomplishments on his sleeve, but I assure you that the sweetness of his disposition inspires loyalty.”

The dowager nodded. Rather to Quin’s surprise, there was a grudging respect in her eyes. “I would desire your forgiveness for the indignity of my suggestion.”

Olivia’s smile was very charming. “Your Grace,” she said, “I heartily repent any untoward words of my own.”

“For goodness’ sake,” Justin moaned, not quite under his breath, “I feel as if I am watching an elocution lesson.”

Neither lady paid him the slightest heed.

“The Marquess of Montsurrey is very lucky,” the dowager pronounced. “I shall write to his father immediately and inform him that his selection of a wife for his son does the family great credit.”

Olivia bowed her head and dropped into yet another deep curtsy.

Quin, who had been momentarily distracted from the matter of Olivia’s betrothal, just stopped himself from growling.

Lucky? If he understood correctly, Montsurrey’s father had chosen Olivia, much in the same way that he himself was allowing his mother to pick a wife.

He suddenly realized that Georgiana was smiling expectantly at him. He bowed, as stiffly as a marionette. “Miss Georgiana.”

She wrapped her hand under his arm. “Your Grace.”

It wasn’t leftovers.

It wasn’t.

Ten

One Should Never Underestimate the Power of a Twist of Silk

G
eorgiana appeared to be both admiring and rather awed. At the same time, she had composure and clear self-respect. This was how a lady should look at a duke. And she hadn’t giggled once.

Lady Althea, on the other hand, giggled the moment he held out his arm.

“I hope that my mother’s invitation did not draw either of you from London at an unwelcome time,” Quin said, leading Georgiana and Althea across the terrace, one lady on either side. Cleese had set up a table at the far end, under the shade of the blooming clematis.

“Not at all,” Georgiana answered. “I must confess that I was finding the season slightly tedious.”

“You have been out a number of years, haven’t you?” Lady Althea asked. Then she added with a charmingly flustered air, “I do hope that I haven’t embarrassed you with that observation, Miss Georgiana. You look so young that one quite forgets how time passes.”

Quin glanced down at the pretty bundle of femininity clinging to his left arm. Althea had apparently realized that she was falling behind in the ducal sweeps, and was making a stab at cutting her opposition out of the pack.

“I did indeed make my debut a number of years ago,” Georgiana said, smiling at Althea as she sat down. Quin handed Althea into a chair beside her mother. Georgiana didn’t seem to have turned a hair over Althea’s jab.

“I have never thought that youth was a particularly good indicator of marriageability,” Olivia remarked, as Justin ushered her into a seat to Quin’s left. “There are so many more important factors.”

Having been schooled by his mother in the fine points of etiquette, Quin noted that Miss Lytton should not have intervened in a conversation to which she was not a part. But obviously the rule was malleable: the dowager was likewise unable to resist.

“A lady’s virtues,” she pronounced, “are her dearest possession.” She then added, “I consider age to be a negligible consideration.”

“I quite agree,” Olivia agreed, “though I would add that it depends on the virtues in question. All too often young ladies have all the virtues I most dislike, and none of the vices I rather admire.”

“No one could dislike virtue!” Althea exclaimed.

“But I gather that you believe inexperience is a virtue, at least on the marriage market?”

“I suppose,” Althea said, rather uncertainly. She had lost control of the exchange, and she knew it.

“And yet it can be so crushingly boring.” With a brilliant smile, Olivia turned to Justin and asked him what the grouse season was like around Littlebourne Manor.