by Eloisa James
Olivia blinked and turned away.
Georgiana, of course, did nothing so ill-bred as to ogle the duke from the top of the stairs. Instead she dropped a curtsy, giving both the duke and her ladyship a measured, affable smile. Then she sent one sharp-eyed glance toward Olivia that said follow me, turned, and walked down the hallway after Cleese.
For the first time in her life, Olivia felt a deep longing to possess her sister’s figure rather than her own. Georgiana looked so slim and elegant, even in a drenched costume.
Whereas she herself undoubtedly looked like a loaf of bread, wrapped in a heavy coat, wet skirts clinging to her legs. Which weren’t nearly as nicely shaped as her sister’s.
“I’ll just lean on your arm, Nephew,” Lady Cecily was saying. “I certainly don’t wish to be carried up the stairs like a bundle of linens.”
Olivia started down the hallway, planning to escape before the duke reached the top of the stairs and had a good look at her wet gown from the rear.
“I hope you don’t mind my saying this,” Lady Cecily told the duke, “but your hair looks a little disordered. My husband used to wear a little net cap at night that kept his hair neatly in place. Your valet will find you one, Nephew; I shall give him the proper direction.”
Olivia giggled at the thought of the duke in a hair net. She glanced over her shoulder and . . .
Their eyes met.
His face could have been granite, for all the emotion she saw on it.
But his eyes . . . his eyes were different. They locked with hers and she could have sworn that she read something there.
Longing. Perhaps.
Olivia almost shook her head as she hurried back down the corridor after her sister. Of course it wasn’t longing. No one could possibly feel that, not for her.
She was a plump, long-in-the-tooth woman without much more to recommend her than her betrothal to a duke’s heir.
Longing!
What did she possess that a duke could possibly long for? The world lay in front of him, his for the asking.
Just as it would for her, once she became a duchess.
Eight
Defining the Qualities of a Fairy-Tale Prince
Olivia woke the next morning to the sound of her bedchamber door opening. She had no idea what time it was. The dowager duchess favored old-fashioned bedding, which meant that Olivia might as well have been sleeping in a cave. The very air around her looked blue, reflecting the watered silk that hung around her bed.
“Norah?” she asked drowsily. Late the night before, after they’d all retired, her maid had appeared, none the worse for wear. It turned out that the service carriages had missed the sign for Littlebourne Manor altogether and had gone several leagues out of their way before the coachman had at last conceded to stop and ask for directions.
“No, it’s me,” came a cheerful voice. Bright sunshine spilled onto the coverlet as the bed curtains were whipped aside to reveal Georgiana.
Olivia gave a little groan. “What time is it?”
“After eleven. You slept through breakfast, but you must accompany me to luncheon. The duke will be there.”
Olivia yawned and pushed herself up against the carved headboard. “Lord knows I wouldn’t want to miss the chance of being patronized again.” Though, in truth, ducal condescension wasn’t foremost in her mind when she thought of His Grace. She was not an early riser, but she would make an exception tomorrow and go down to breakfast if she thought . . .
Of course, the duke wouldn’t kiss her again, and she most certainly would never allow it. He was likely temporarily maddened by lust—there she was, practically naked. Still, one had to think that he liked what he saw.
That thought made Olivia feel a glow of happiness. She always felt fat, but he hadn’t seemed to notice. He didn’t look at her as if she could stand to lose three stone—or even just one.
“Oh, Olivia!” Georgiana said, pulling back the curtains all the way to the foot of the bed and then sitting with a little bounce at her sister’s feet. “Isn’t this the most wonderful party?”
“Don’t sit on Lucy!” Olivia cried.
Georgiana poked at the little ball she now saw under the covers. “You allow that dog to sleep in your bed? I’ve heard of canines sleeping on the bed, and that struck me as quite unhealthy. I’m sure this is even more insalubrious.”
Olivia shrugged. “Rupert told me that’s where she likes to sleep, and sure enough, she burrowed down there directly last night. She’s something of a toe warmer, if I need one.”
“Did you even hear what I said? Isn’t he wonderful?” Georgiana demanded. She had been sitting in her customary prim fashion, hands clasped in her lap and ankles neatly crossed, but now she pulled up her knees and sat sideways on the bed. Her face broke into a beaming smile. “He’s . . . he’s everything I dreamed of.”
“He is?” Olivia felt as if her mind were wading through treacle.
“Tall, and so handsome,” Georgiana said. “And intelligent, Olivia! A proper mathematician—which is not at all the same thing as an accountant.” A faint frown creased her brow. “You really must try to be more polite. What if he takes a dislike to you and we’re asked to leave? I’ll never meet anyone like him again.”
“I won’t,” Olivia said automatically. “I mean, I will. I’ll fawn on him as much as he could wish.” Of course Georgiana loved Sconce. He was a perfect match for her: he had rank, bearing, and intelligence. And Georgiana was so exquisite, far more beautiful than Olivia.
“I just never thought,” Georgiana said dreamily. “I never truly believed there was anyone for me. And all the time, here he was. He’s so distinguished, and brilliant, and”—she giggled suddenly—“he looked wonderful drenched in rain yesterday.”
Olivia nodded. That was true enough.
Georgiana’s mouth curled in a naughty smile that Olivia had never, ever, seen on her sister’s face. “This is terrible of me, Olivia, but did you look closely at him when he came out of the rain?”
“No,” Olivia said, mendaciously.
“He—his breeches were wet and—oh Olivia, I think I have an idea why Juliet Fallesbury called her footman Longfellow!”
“Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?” Olivia said, laughing. “Did you hit your head last night, Georgie? Are you feeling yourself?”
“I’m absolutely fine and actually, I feel happier than I have in years. The only thing that’s worrying me is you.”
“Me?” Olivia frowned at her. “I wasn’t so impolite to Sconce. I merely teased him. I honestly don’t think he gave it a second thought.” Thank goodness her sister had no knowledge of that kiss.
“No, no, you and Rupert! I actually couldn’t sleep last night. I kept thinking about how wonderful the duke is, and the way he smiled at me—he didn’t look bored once, Olivia, not once—and then I remembered that you had to marry Rupert, and it broke my heart.”
“Ah well,” Olivia said, summoning up a jaunty tone. “You know I could never rub along with someone like the duke. I would die from pure ennui if he launched into a display of mathematical brilliance.”
“He’s a genius,” Georgiana said with conviction. “Anyone could see that. He’s a genius, and at the same time, he’s not peculiar or crazed in the head.”
“Amazing, given that his mother wrote the Almighty Mirror.”
“You must stop making fun of the dowager’s book. What if you accidentally mock the title in her presence?”
“I expect that she would survive the shock.”
“Please,” Georgiana pleaded, “please, Olivia. This is my chance. Mother said that she was quite certain the dowager intends to select her son’s bride. She heard it from one of Lady Cecily’s bosom friends. You mustn’t insult Her Grace in any way, or she might overlook me for that honor.”
“She couldn’t,” Olivia said with conviction.
“I want . . . I truly want to marry Sconce.” Georgiana said it on a near whisper. “I know that
’s a terribly unladylike thing to say, but it’s true. When he appeared out of the darkness to rescue us last night, it felt like the moment in a book when the hero appears. And then he spoke. His voice is so deep—steady and true—that I realized that he really was the prince in a fairy tale. Do you know what I mean?”
Yes, Olivia thought. Yes, I know exactly what you mean.
But there was absolutely no point to thinking such a thing, let alone voicing it.
“Princes have never appealed to me,” she said instead. “Though I will admit that that type of man does seem oddly given to permitting his mother to choose his wife. If he doesn’t select her on the basis of something as idiotic as her footwear. If the duke were really a hero, he would have saddled a white horse rather than running out in the rain looking like a butcher’s boy. All those little details are very important when it comes to literature.”
Georgiana groaned. “Stop jesting for a moment, Olivia! I always thought there was no prince for me. I just couldn’t imagine him.”
“What about the white horse?” Olivia inquired.
Her sister swatted her. “Be serious. What I’m saying is that I want to marry the duke. The way I’ve never wanted anything before.”
“Then you shall have him,” Olivia said, swinging her legs out of bed. The whole conversation was making her feel rather odd. Of course she had no claim on the duke. That kiss meant nothing. Nothing! He was always meant to be Georgiana’s husband.
She walked over to the dressing table and pushed back her heavy mop of hair. “All that rain last night made my dress turn transparent, and I looked as if I were completely naked. You should have seen the mortified look the butler gave me. When my coat slipped, he got a direct eyeful. I thought he was going to faint.”
“Then he was foolish,” Georgiana said loyally. “I’m sure you look as lovely naked as you do dressed.”
“Better,” Olivia said consideringly. “Although I’m hoping that the new gowns will make a difference in that respect. I didn’t order a single gown that caught up under my breasts and billowed out at my waist. The style works only for women whose hips don’t match their breasts, whereas it makes me resemble a milk cow.”
“Gentlemen like a bovine air,” Georgiana pointed out.
“You did hit your head,” Olivia said, laughing. “That was a joke, Georgie! A proper joke.”
Her sister rolled her eyes. “Hardly. What will you wear to luncheon? It’s so warm that we’re eating on the terrace.”
“Interesting. I wouldn’t have thought that the dowager ever countenanced irregular eating habits. You see, Georgie, I am already learning to appreciate her.”
“You must, if she’s to be my mother-in-law.” Georgiana hopped off the bed. “Do you think it’s possible? The maid told me last night that Lady Althea Renwitt is in residence. What if the duke has already fixed his interest? Althea is an aristocrat. I don’t suppose you remember her?”
“Not in the slightest. Is she one of the new flock on the market this year?”
“Yes. She’s got the most beautiful eyes,” Georgiana said, sinking into a chair. “And pretty hair, the color of buttercups. But she’s a little . . . well, silly. I’m not sure that I can picture the duke with her.”
“Silly, is she? Then she won’t care for His Soberness.”
“I have no doubt but that Althea would be happy to be a duchess even if Sconce were as crazy as a bedbug—which he’s not.”
“Room for only one bedbug-brained duke in this kingdom,” Olivia said cheerfully, “and I’ve already got the monopoly on him. How do you suppose Rupert is doing in Portugal, by the way? He must have gone ashore by now.”
Georgiana waved her hand dismissively. “I expect he’s missing Lucy, but fine otherwise.”
“Which reminds me that I’d better ring for Norah. It’s surprisingly difficult to take care of a dog. It seems as if she’s always having to go out, or eat, or be given her bath.”
“Olivia!” Georgiana said impatiently. “This is not the moment to talk about you or your dog. Do you think the dowager has already made up her mind to choose Althea? Her name sounds appropriate for a duchess.”
“I think it sounds like some odd sort of digestive. Drink Althea for your bowels! Lady Cecily would love it. Do you suppose, Georgie, that her ladyship is perfectly unconscious of how odd it is for a woman with the surname Bumtrinket to be constantly talking about her digestion?”
“Only you would notice such a thing. It certainly never occurred to me.”
“The duke noticed as well. I saw a gleam in his eye that might have been a guffaw in a man who knew how to laugh.”
“My point is that the dowager duchess will certainly look for birth along with elegance. I do hope that she hasn’t already decided for Althea. Or even worse, perhaps Althea has already caught the duke’s fancy,” Georgiana fretted. “She’s very sweet.”
“I don’t think so,” Olivia said, bundling up her hair and then reaching over to pull the bell.
“You don’t think the duchess has chosen a daughter-in-law, or you don’t think the duke has settled on Althea?”
“I don’t think the duke has any idea whom to marry. He doesn’t have the right look about him,” Olivia said flatly. And—she added silently—presumably he wouldn’t be kissing strange women, no matter how revealing their clothing.
“What kind of look would he have if he had made such a decision?”
“Less dashing. At the moment he has a kind of highwayman appeal that suggests that he wants every woman in his vicinity to lust after him.”
Georgiana frowned.
Olivia spoke before her sister could disagree. “His hair, Georgie? Loose around the shoulders? And where was his coat last night? He couldn’t be more obvious if he were one of those men who drift around the Pump Room at Bath looking for plump-in-the-pocket widows.”
“How can you even say such a thing?” Georgiana cried. “The duke would consider such behavior far below him.”
“All right, he’s only midway to a highwayman,” Olivia allowed. “He has the hair and the glamour, without the steed or the pistol. Although if he shouted Stand and deliver, I expect half the debutantes at the Micklethwait ball would have happily tipped up their heels.”
“Tipped up what?”
“Fallen on their backs,” Olivia elaborated, poking her sister. “I love you, Georgie, but you are a bit of a goose when it comes to jokes.”
“I know,” Georgiana said, wrinkling her nose. “I never understand them. At least I never understand yours.”
“I expect that says more about my poor sense of humor than your comprehension,” Olivia allowed. “I think I’ll wear the violet gown to luncheon.”
“Do you think it’s perhaps a bit daring for the time of day? I thought of that gown as more an evening dress.”
“Actually, I had all my dresses cut to the same low measure. I decided that since my curves aren’t going to disappear due to gorging on lettuce, I might as well flaunt them. If men like the bovine appeal, as you said, they’re certainly going to get it from me.”
“I have no curves to flaunt,” Georgiana said, turning so that she could see herself in the glass. “Do you think that the duke is the sort who likes a more generous figure?”
Olivia was strongly of the opinion that the duke was, indeed, of that sort, given the way his eyes had darkened at the sight of her wet gown. But there was no point in saying so. “I doubt it,” she said diplomatically. “He was quite stiff, didn’t you think? I expect he would disapprove if you showed the slightest bit of cleavage. Conduct unbecoming to a future duchess.”
Georgiana brightened. “I’ll wear the pink pleated gown, then. I love the way the sleeves peak into little triangles.”
There was a scratch at the door, and Norah entered.
“Good morning,” Olivia said, smiling at her maid. “I’m hoping you could hand Lucy to a footman so she can visit a grass patch. But first you must tell us everything you can about
Lady Althea Renwitt.” She ignored Georgiana’s scowl—The Mirror of Compliments was very censorious with regard to inappropriate informality with one’s staff—and added, “We’re all a-flutter to know whether she poses any true competition to Georgie in the ducal sweepstakes.”
There was nothing Norah liked better than relating conversations from below-stairs, which, generally speaking, tended to be far more lively than the conversations above-stairs. Her eyes sparkled as she closed the door. “Lady Althea and her mother only arrived yesterday evening, shortly before you, and the duke did not come down to greet them. So the first he’ll be meeting her is at luncheon. Miss Georgiana, I have to add that Florence is waiting for you in your chamber. She’s that anxious to start the dressing because Lady Althea’s maid is terribly proud of herself. Her name is Agnès, in the French way, because that’s where she’s from. She went on and on about politesse last night, and no one had the faintest idea what she was talking about. Florence is determined to knock her into the shade with Miss Georgiana’s appearance at the luncheon.” She stopped to take a breath.
“How nice to be a betrothed woman with no worries about my appearance,” Olivia said, standing up and stretching. “I did tell you that a curling iron is never coming near my head again, didn’t I, Norah?”
Norah bent over to tie a ribbon to Lucy’s collar. “As long as Mrs. Lytton doesn’t think that I had anything to do with that decision, miss, I’m just as happy not to be wielding those hot sticks. I’ve burned myself many a time.”
“I suppose I’ll be off,” Georgiana said. But she paused and shot Olivia a look.
Olivia obediently turned back to her maid. “Before you go, Norah, did you hear any gossip below-stairs about Althea? What’s she like?”
“Cleese isn’t one to allow prattle, as he calls it. But Lady Althea’s maid did say a bit about her mistress.” Norah paused. “Though of course I shouldn’t repeat tittle-tattle, given that Agnès seems a dreadfully critical woman.”
“Norah!” Olivia said. “Don’t be a noodle!”
Norah relented. “Agnès allowed as how her mistress was more giddy than a hen in the rain.”