This Duke is Mine (13 page)

Althea opened her mouth and shut it again.

“Lady Althea,” Georgiana said, “I remember hearing that you are a great lover of languages. I’m sure we would all like to know about your prowess in that area. I think that such skill is quite important if one is to entertain beyond one’s local village, as I am sure you will.”

It took a moment or two, but she soon had Althea babbling—in English—of her skills in Italian, German, and French.

Quin watched silently, thinking about Georgiana. Apparently she had not “taken,” whatever that meant. Evangeline
had
taken, of course. He had had to fight off any number of suitors, although in reality the moment Evangeline’s father got wind of a duke, the other suitors hadn’t a prayer.

He’d always thought that her success on the market could be put down to the fact that Evangeline glowed when she was happy.

What a suitor could not know was that Evangeline did not glow when unhappy, which was a good deal of the time, as he remembered it.

Miss Georgiana was not the type to glow. She had very fair skin, almost as clear and pale as her sister’s. Her nose was quite lovely too, though again, he would probably give the advantage to Olivia, by just a shade.

The only possibly unattractive note about her was that she was rather thin, more resembling a lean boy than a grown woman. Her gown had a décolleté neckline, but it could only do so much to accentuate the diminutive features that lay beneath.

Not that it mattered, he told himself quickly. A duchess is far more than her bosom. He was not a shallow man to be brought to his knees by a twist of violet silk and a pair of luscious breasts.

“I find it very interesting that you occupy yourself with the study of mathematics,” Georgiana said, turning to him as the conversation about languages wound down. She was to his right, and Olivia on his left, since Althea had been placed beside her mother. Quin was trying not to look too often in Olivia’s direction.

A gentleman does not ogle the fiancée of a man serving his country. Especially if that man is a nobleman, who could have taken the easy route, as Quin had done.

Not for the first time he felt a pang of acute guilt. It wasn’t easy to stay a
moth of peace
, as Shakespeare had it. When he was a boy, he had dreamed of wearing scarlet and heading up a battalion.

“The study of mathematics,” he said at length. “Yes, I am very interested in the mathematical arts.”

“I have read about Leonhard Euler’s work on mathematical functions,” Miss Georgiana said, rather shyly. “I think it fascinating.”

“You—
you
read about Euler?”

A slight frown creased her brow. “As far as I know, Your Grace, there is no law that says women may not read the
London Gazette
. Euler’s work was rather extensively surveyed there a few months ago.”

“Of course,” Quin said hastily. “I apologize for sounding so skeptical.”

Miss Georgiana had beautiful manners. She gave him a clear-eyed glance and a sweet smile. “Do you work on mathematical functions as well?”

“Yes, I do,” he said, hesitating. But she smiled again, so he launched into a description of the Babylonian method of calculating square roots.

He emerged from his discourse some ten minutes later to discover that the table had gone absolutely silent, and they were all staring at him.

He looked to Georgiana to see whether she displayed the same thinly held level of disbelief. She did not: her eyes were alert and interested. “If I understand you correctly,” she said, “you are trying to emphasize that this process will not work using a negative number.”

“That is my understanding as well,” his mother said.

Even a dimwit could have interpreted his mother’s voice. Miss Georgiana had just passed the first test. Without being a bluestocking, she was clearly intelligent and interested in matters outside the household.

Olivia, on the other hand, was looking at him with distinct amusement rather than admiration, let alone awe. She was not enthralled by his mathematical lecture.

“Tedious, I know,” he said, a bit sheepishly.

“Not at
all
!” Georgiana breathed.

“Yes, it certainly was,” Olivia said at precisely the same moment. “Perhaps next time you could sell tickets beforehand.”

“
Tickets
, Miss Lytton?” the dowager asked.

“Exactly,” Olivia replied, giving her a serene smile. “I know it’s a great fault, but I find I’m so much happier if I have paid for a lecture, even if I fall asleep during it. Education should be expensive, don’t you think?”

“That is absurd,” the dowager pronounced.

“As you yourself have written, Your Grace, ‘
A lady should always be aware of the weaknesses in her character
.’ ” Then she added, “It hardly needs saying that my mother is a great admirer of
The Mirror of Compliments
.”

“I am aware of that,” the dowager said, thawing a trifle. “I have met your mother on several occasions, and she always struck me as remarkably sagacious for one of her rank.”

Anger flashed through Olivia’s eyes, and then her smile deepened. No dimple appeared. Quin mentally took a step back. Anyone who thought that smile indicated appreciation was completely deluded.

“You bring to mind another aphorism that might apply,” she said sweetly. “ ‘
Even the ghosts of one’s dead ancestors would rather sleep than listen to someone twitter like a jug-bitten parrot
.’ ” She paused. “Although now I think on it, perhaps that cannot be attributed to
The Mirror of Compliments
.”

“You have a lively sense of humor, Miss Lytton,” the dowager remarked. It was not a compliment.

“I’m curious about the ghosts of my
living
ancestors, not the dead ones,” Justin said, his eyes full of mischief. “What do they do when Quin launches into mathematical conniptions?”

Quin intervened. “Miss Lytton.”

“Your Grace?”

“I promise not to inform you about square roots again without issuing tickets first.”

“I, for one, would enjoy receiving one of those tickets,” Georgiana said, giving him a warm smile. “And I apologize for my sister’s irreverence. I’m afraid that we are used to funning between ourselves.”

She was perfect for him in every way.

“I no longer have the moral fortitude to endure lectures in mathematics,” Justin put in. “So, if you’ll forgive me, Coz, I won’t be buying a ticket to lectures on the complexities of square roots.”

“Miss Georgiana,” his mother said, “I should like to ask your opinion of stone window casements in the Gothic style.”

“Your comment implies you once
had
the moral fortitude to endure mathematical lectures,” Olivia said to Justin. Her eyes had a way of smiling when she was speaking—as if she were thinking naughty thoughts—that Quin found he quite appreciated.

“No, no, I’ve never had it,” Justin replied, leaning slightly forward. “At least, not when it comes to mathematics. Now if you were talking about something truly interesting . . .”

“Fashion?” she guessed.

“I adore it!” Justin exclaimed, adding, “Life is nothing without the embellishment offered by the proper attire. But my true passion is writing poetry and ballads.”

“Justin has written one hundred and thirty-eight sonnets, all for the same woman,” Quin said, inserting himself into the conversation, though by all rights he should talk with Georgiana. Still, he had nothing to say about casements, a fact his mother had to appreciate.

“Really!” Olivia said, sounding quite impressed.

“It’s called a sonnet cycle,” Justin informed her.

“That is a great many sonnets, and even more rhymes. When you’re writing such a cycle, are you allowed to repeat a few rhymes along the way? Say
love
and
dove
?”

“Not doves,” Justin said with a wave of his hand. “Doves are for chimneys and the elderly. And
love
is harder to rhyme than you might think. How often can one write about
gloves
, for instance? After you’ve longed to be the glove on your lady’s hand, what else is there to say?”

“Why would anyone want to be a glove on a lady’s hand?” Quin inquired.

Justin rolled his eyes, something he was prone to do whenever Quin participated in a conversation. “Because that glove touches her cheek, of
course
.”

“Other places, too,” Olivia said thoughtfully.

Quin surprised himself by almost laughing.

“Such as her nose,” she added.

“That is not very romantic,” Justin said, shaking his head at her.

“I’m afraid that I don’t have a romantic soul,” Olivia said apologetically.

“I should hope not,” the dowager said, intervening. “You are to be a duchess, Miss Lytton, and I assure you that a romantic soul is a marked detriment in a woman of our rank.” She gave Quin a significant glance. “I’m sure we would all prefer to speak of something more elevating than Lord Justin’s paltry attempts at verse. Lady Sibblethorp, how are your charitable endeavors with wayward youth progressing?”

As it happened, Lady Sibblethorp was more than happy to detail the blue shirts and sturdy shoes that her organization was handing out to blighted lads. Or youths from blighted backgrounds: the two categories seemed to overlap.

“How interesting,” Georgiana said, managing to sound genuinely interested. “How did you decide on shirts and shoes, Lady Sibblethorp?” It seemed that she was both intelligent and charitable. Wonderful.

The lady in question swelled with pride and settled into a thrilling discussion of neckcloths, stockings, shirts, and coats.

Quin listened for just as long as he felt it absolutely necessary, and then turned back to Justin and Olivia. They had blithely ignored the dowager’s instructions: Justin was reciting bits of his poetry and Olivia was making fun of them. They were obviously enjoying each other enormously.

“
I was born under a star
,” Justin was reciting, “
so the moon is within my grasp
.”

“What on earth do you mean by saying that you were born under a star? I was born at night, so surely I qualify. Does that mean the moon might drop into my hand?”

“It’s a tribute,” Justin explained. “I often compare my beloved to the Moon Goddess, Cynthia. She falls within my grasp because I am star-born.” He paused. “Star-born. I like that. I have to remember to tell my tutor; he’ll applaud, I’m sure.”

“I thought Mr. Usher was supposed to be preparing you for the upcoming term at Oxford, rather than feeding your passion for poetry,” Quin remarked.

“He has taught me no end of important things about mathematics,” Justin said with a patent lack of veracity.

Quin frowned. “Just who is your beloved? You’ve read me a number of poems, but I believe I never asked for that salient bit of information. Perhaps a young lady you met while at Oxford?”

“Oh, I don’t have one,” Justin admitted cheerfully.

“One hundred and thirty-eight sonnets for a nonexistent lady,” Olivia said, sounding quite impressed. “Do you ever describe her—this moon person, I mean?”

“Moon Goddess,” Justin corrected. “Of course I do. She has silver hair.”

“That’s a surprise,” Olivia said. Her voice was so droll that Quin found another laugh rising up his chest. “Let me guess. Sparkling eyes?”

“Generally speaking, they glow. They do sparkle in two poems, a sonnet and a ballad.”

“She sounds a bit witchy. Aren’t you worried she’ll take on a jack-o’-lantern touch?”

“Absolutely not,” Justin said with dignity. “My lady has no resemblance whatsoever to a carved turnip. She usurps the sun
and
stars with her beauty.”

“What do you do about her clothing? Does she favor short-waisted gowns, or is she more old-fashioned, being a goddess and presumably long-lived?”

“I’ve heard enough of the poems to know that you should imagine Lady Godiva rather than a jack-o’-lantern,” Quin put in.

“Your Grace,” Olivia said, dimpling. “You surprise me!”

In fact, he surprised himself.

Justin rolled his eyes. “My poems are for
all time
. I’d merely date them if I described a gown. What if I described my moon goddess in a turban headdress? By next year she’d have turned to a frump, and I’d have wasted all that time on the poem.”

“One certainly wouldn’t want to write a poem that couldn’t be reused,” Olivia agreed. “I see that naked is best. Your Moon Goddess is making a brave strike against the tiresome rules of conduct against which I’m sure we all chafe.”

“Do we?” Quin asked, leaning toward her. “Are you revealing a touch of the Lady Godiva in yourself, Miss Lytton?” He caught her gaze again, just until he saw a faint wash of pink in her cheeks.

He leaned back, vaguely aware that his heart was thumping in his chest in a thoroughly inelegant fashion. The mere mention of Lady Godiva caused him to picture Olivia, naked and lush, breasts playing peekaboo with a sweep of dark hair, that wicked mouth of hers laughing at him.

“My Moon Goddess is not naked!” Justin rolled his eyes yet again. “I simply don’t mention her clothing. Besides, I’d rather write about how it feels to be in love. Here’s one of my favorite couplets:
For you, I’d climb the highest tower; I’d dash across the sea
.”

“I hate to be pedantic, but those two lines are not in iambic pentameter, nor do they rhyme,” Olivia pointed out. “I’m certain that a couplet should rhyme.”

“It seems more troublesome to me that the two activities are quite dissimilar,” Quin put in. “Quite likely you could climb a bell tower if you had to, Justin, but you could not run, let alone walk, on water.”

“Unless he’s concealing signs of divinity,” Olivia said, that dimple playing beside her mouth again. “He is star-born, after all.”

They both glanced at young Justin, and then Quin’s eyes met Olivia’s again with a deeply pleasurable shock. “No visible signs,” he commented. “No hovering halo.”

Justin was a remarkably good-natured soul. “Philistines,” he said, but without force. “Poetry need not rhyme. Only sticklers bother with that sort of thing.”