by Eloisa James
“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
Georgiana 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.
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 imp
ortant 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.”