by Eloisa James
“Are you saying that she’s light-heeled?” Olivia asked, still trying to figure out exactly how far his wordplay was meant to go. “Because she most certainly is not.”
“That would mean our Alice was a hussy,” Avery said disapprovingly. “You don’t say that about a horse.”
“You’re absolutely right,” the duke said. “I stand corrected. Alice is clearly a creature of virtue.”
“You make very little sense,” Olivia observed. “One would almost—almost!—think you implied that Alice is a high-flier.”
“And she’s not,” Avery put in. “Mr. Edgeworth says she won’t even jump the stile.”
“We think it’s because she’s got such a round belly,” Acorn put in.
“Indeed.” The duke smiled again, and Olivia was furious to feel warmth creeping up in her cheeks. He couldn’t be referring to her.
“Everything a man could desire,” he said. “A lovely, plump buttock, too.”
Yes, he could be referring to her. She stood taller, fiercely resisting the impulse to back her plump buttock out of sight. Maybe into the next county.
“It’s because of all the grass we give her,” Ant said importantly. “We tear it up on the Common and we bring her handfuls.”
“What a lucky animal,” the duke murmured. He was a devil . . . unless she was completely misunderstanding him.
How could he possibly mean what she—
“Well, Miss Lytton? Don’t you agree with our assessment of this exquisite beast?”
The words jumped out of her mouth before she thought. “A plump buttock? Since when is that something a man desires in his mount?”
Stupidly, she caught the double entendre only after she herself made it. But the duke didn’t miss the intimation. His eyes lit up with an unholy, smoldering light, a secret promise that made fire pool in her body.
“Why, Miss Lytton,” he said, his voice a deep purr, “you surprise me.”
It forcibly occurred to her that he had deliberately brought Lady Godiva into the conversation at luncheon. “Um,” she fumbled. “I surprise myself.” There was something hungry in his eyes that wasn’t for her—couldn’t be for her. She could never have what he was offering.
That hunger should be for Georgiana. From the time she was ten years old she’d known that her future didn’t include . . . this.
She couldn’t think what to say.
The children had no such hesitation. “You’re looking at Miss Lytton like the way our Annie looks at Bean,” Apple told the duke.
“I expect you’re walking out,” Apricot chimed in. “Ma did say as how the duke was like to marry, remember?”
The duke didn’t seem to be inclined to respond. One moment he had looked unemotionally ducal, for lack of a better word, and the next his face was transformed by a kind of rough sensuality.
“That’s just how Bean looks back at Annie, too,” Acorn put in, apparently taking silence as encouragement. “Like trouble, that’s what Mum says.” She turned to Olivia. “That’s why Annie won’t come out of the house. Because those purple bumps are all over her bottom, and how did they get there?”
Olivia frowned.
“Iffen she had had her clothes on,” Acorn explained.
“See, Bean is the butcher’s son, and they’re walking out,” Apricot added. “Though you shouldn’t be saying things like that to fine folk,” she told her brother with a poke to his middle. “This is a lady, and ladies don’t know anything about their own clothes.”
“We don’t?” Olivia asked.
“You can’t take ’em off yourself, can you? That’s what Mum says. Though it could be she’s wrong.”
Alas, Olivia had to confirm. “You’re right. My gowns are all buttoned up the back and I do need someone to help me undress.”
“Well, the good news is that you won’t get the purple itch, then, at least not on your bottom.”
“That is very good to know,” the duke said, gravely.
But he would never fool Olivia again. This particular duke may look as stiff as a poker, but there was something quite different inside.
A smile, a hidden smile.
Twelve
The Merits of Scrambled Custards and Gooseberries
Immediately upon the little band’s return to Littlebourne Manor—the unfortunate Annie’s rash having been inspected, diagnosed, and treated—the dowager waved all the ladies off to their chambers to change their clothing, then raised a finger at Quin.
“Accompany me, if you please, Duke,” she said. “I should be grateful for the support of your arm while I take a brief turn around the gardens.”
The moment they were out of earshot of their guests, she stopped. “Tarquin, I am not enjoying Miss Lytton’s company.”
“Yes,” Quin agreed.
“Yet her sister Miss Georgiana appears to be a most suitable candidate for your duchess. She was remarkable when talking to Mrs. Knockem and her wagtail of a daughter—whose rash, by the way, is no more than she deserves, given her loose behavior. At any rate, Miss Georgiana evinced compassion for the invalid, along with a kind, yet reserved attitude toward the family as a whole. She kept her distance, yet was never disdainful. I thoroughly approved.”
Quin murmured something, thinking that Olivia didn’t seem to care in the least about maintaining her distance from the Knockem family.
“In fact, the only drawback I can identify to the match,” his mother continued, “is the elder sister. Yet since Miss Lytton will be married as soon as that young fool comes back from France, the pleasure of her company—or its opposite—hardly matters.”
“Young fool?” Quin inquired.
“Montsurrey.” His mother waved her hand impatiently. “Miss Lytton seems to have reconciled herself to the matter; I must credit her with that. And she was right about my slip of the tongue: I should not have maligned a peer of the realm, no matter what I may have heard about the future duke. Though,” she added, “his own father described him as having brains more scrambled than an egg custard.”
“An egg custard,” Quin repeated.
“Irrelevant,” the dowager said. “My point is that you must keep Miss Lytton and her dog out of my sight, Tarquin. As you know, I consider it very important that I carry out my tests in a judicious manner. I can hardly do so if I am engaged in fencing with a chit half my age.”
“She held her own,” Quin said, making quite certain that satisfaction did not leak into his voice.
“I am aware of that,” his mother replied, rather grimly. “For my peace of mind, then, I would ask that you occupy the young virago and her mongrel while I continue to explore the characters of Lady Althea and Miss Georgiana.”
“All right,” Quin said.
His mother tightened her grip on his arm. “I do realize that Miss Lytton is a challenging and rather tiresome companion, and I apologize for burdening you with her company. At least I need have no worries that you will succumb to her charms. Her figure, for one, renders her most unattractive. What can she be thinking, wearing such a revealing costume when she carries all that extra flesh?”
Quin said nothing.
“Besides,” his mother continued, talking to herself as she often did, “Miss Lytton seems admirably devoted to Montsurrey. Therefore, amongst ourselves, en famille, I believe we may dispense with a chaperone. Really, I have to credit Canterwick. I can see that she’s just right for his boy.”
“Boy?”
“Montsurrey must be five years younger than she is at the very least,” her mother said, turning so they could stroll back to the house. “I find it amusing that both Canterwick and myself have looked to the Lytton family for a possible alliance with our children. It is true that the Lyttons are well connected on both sides, but they are hardly aristocracy. It is a tribute to . . .”
But Quin had stopped listening. Olivia was betrothed to a boy, a bird-witted boy, if he believed his mother.
Olivia—wry, witty Olivia?
Impossible.
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“Don’t you agree, Tarquin?” his mother asked sharply.
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid that I lost track of the conversation.”
“I said that Miss Lytton was remarkably fortunate to have been chosen by the Duke of Canterwick to marry his son. Her birth is negligible, her figure forgettable, and her manner impertinent.”
Quin stared down at his mother. “But she’s beautiful.”
“Beautiful? Beautiful? Certainly not. She’s round as a gooseberry, which bespeaks a gluttonous turn of mind. And I don’t care for her eyes.”
“Actually, they are the color of gooseberries,” Quin said. “A green such as I have never seen in a pair of eyes before.”
“Unusual,” his mother said. She didn’t mean it as a compliment. “But her sister’s eyes are entirely acceptable. And her figure is lovely. I find it odd that one sister should have such a squabby shape while the other is elegant in every respect. I expect it’s a matter of self-control, always a lady’s best weapon against the world’s tribulations. Miss Georgiana obviously has excellent self-control.”
“Yes,” Quin agreed.
“She’ll throw you no tantrums,” his mother continued. A smile curled up the corner of her mouth. “I can see the two of you now, presiding over a cluster of small children. You would like that, wouldn’t you, Tarquin?”
Black ice seized his heart; he didn’t reply, but it didn’t matter.
His mother went on, all the way back to the house, painting a picture of Quin and Georgiana, smiling affectionately at their brown-eyed children.
Thirteen
What It Means to Lead an Army
The next afternoon
Olivia’s new riding habit had regimental flair: braid marched up the cunning little jacket and then down the skirt; there were tiny epaulets on the shoulders. Even the fetching little hat was not a bonnet, but a rakish version of a lieutenant’s cap in dark crimson that flattered her hair and skin.
The costume made her feel as if her figure wasn’t too plump, as if she wasn’t too saucy (as her mother would put it). As if everything was right in the world, and she was the general of her own personal army.
A perfect illustration of the fundamental pettiness of her brain, she thought, walking slowly along the path to the stables. Georgiana felt happiest after she had cooked up some noxious brew that might—or might not—cure the second footman’s baby of red blotches on its bum. Whereas Olivia felt happiest when she liked what she saw in the mirror and then headed out to engage in recklessly imprudent flirtation with a duke.
And not the duke she was marrying, either.
Worse yet, the duke her sister was marrying.
Obviously she couldn’t flirt with the duke. The sooner she got it in her head that Sconce was Georgiana’s future husband, the better. She actually gave a little shudder at the idea of flirting with her future brother-in-law. Only the most distasteful—not to mention disloyal—sister would do such a thing.
She was already feeling guilty enough. She had left Georgiana supine on a sofa, a wet cloth over her eyes. Olivia’s exchanges with the dowager over the midday meal—which she herself had actually rather enjoyed—had given her sister a migraine headache.
Lucy gave a little yelp and ran forward, wagging her tail furiously. An elderly gardener was planting some seedlings in the shade of an old stone wall that separated Littlebourne Manor’s gardens from the stables beyond. He was kneeling, back to her, the well-worn soles of his old boots cocked to each side.
“Thou art a hash little one, aren’t thou?” the gardener said, scratching Lucy between her ears. His voice was warm and smoky, and made Olivia think about the qualities of voices: the way the dowager’s voice was bright and cold, so different from her son’s deep, intent voice. The duke sounded as if each word was chosen carefully, whereas her own tumbled out any which way, and often in an unladylike fashion—you have a lively sense of humor, the duchess had said the day before.
She shook off that thought and walked a little closer to the gardener. “Good day. Are you from Wales?”
The moment he heard her voice, he struggled to his feet, his joints creaking loudly, and backed against the wall, doffing his cap. “My lady,” he said, eyes on the ground. “Not Wales.” He sounded disgusted. “Shropshire.” He was bowlegged and bent, like an apple tree on the ridge of a hill, fighting a blustery wind.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your work,” Olivia said. “Please, go back to whatever you’re doing. That’s my dog sniffing your boots. Lucy, behave yourself!”
Lucy was dancing about, trying to lick the gardener’s hand. Slowly, he reached down and gently pulled one of the little dog’s ears. “She’s a fair one, bain’t she?”
“I don’t think she’s fair, if by that you mean beautiful.” They both looked down at Lucy. “She’s got very short fur, and there’s that bite on her eyelid.”
“O aye, she’s lost a bit of her eyelid. But her eyes themselves are a fair treat,” he offered. “Tail, too.”
“It’s a rat tail, though,” Olivia pointed out.
He knelt back down on the brown soil, shoulder to her. Then he said, as if to his plants, “There’s those as are decorative, like these flowers here will be. And then other flora that isn’t a bit pretty, not until the petals drop.”
Olivia came closer and peered past him. “Which flowers are unattractive until their petals drop?”
“Happen you walk in a cloud of petals jist dancing on the wind, then?”
She walked around so she was looking down at his weather-beaten cap, rather than his shoulder. “What a lovely description.”
“This little mistress,” he said, giving Lucy a nudge with his elbow that made the dog dizzy with delight, “is one of them as lift your heart when you’re ornery, though likely there are them as would prefer something feather-tailed and furred.”
Olivia found herself smiling down at Lucy. “You’re right, of course. I didn’t think much of her at first, but she’s dear to me now.” She bent over and peered at the ground. “What will those seedlings become?”
“Delphiniums.”
“The tall, purple ones?”
“Aye.”
Olivia frowned. “I thought those flowers need a great deal of sunshine. Will they get enough beneath this wall?”
“Her Grace likes them here, me lady.” Rich soil ran like rain through his fingers as he patted the ground around each little sprig.
“I hate to plant things that won’t live long. Perhaps the head gardener could teach Her Grace about delphiniums?”
He gave her a fleeting glance. “A lady likes her garden lush, neat, scented, sweet.”
“That rhymes,” Olivia said, thinking that Justin might learn from the gardener.
A warm hand suddenly touched her back. Olivia yelped and straightened.
“Miss Lytton,” the duke said, his eyes dark and unreadable. “I apologize for startling you.” He bowed. “I see you’ve met Riggle, our highly esteemed head gardener, who has been with us since I was all of six years old. Riggle, may I introduce Miss Lytton?”
Riggle looked over his shoulder and said something along the lines of “bain’t it.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Riggle,” Olivia said. “Good morning, Your Grace.” The duke had changed for riding as well. Breeches clung to muscular thighs; one quick glance made her heart speed to a red-and-gold beat.
Desire—for Olivia was not one to pretend to a more dignified emotion if the proper word presented itself—was proving to be an overwhelming sensation. She could imagine that fleeting touch of his hand down every limb.
Brother-in-law, she thought to herself. Brother-in-law.
“Don’t tell me she’s got you planting delphiniums again,” the duke said. He bent over and looked closely at the plant. “Yes, those are palmate leaves. I told her not to, Riggle.”
“Her Grace is a fierce believer,” the gardener said, patting down another small plant.
“In wha
t?” Olivia inquired.
“Her plans,” the duke answered for Riggle. “My mother is apt to think that if everyone will simply adhere to a plan—preferably of her making—the world will be a sane and ordered place.”
“To hope that a flower will bloom despite lack of sun shows an extraordinary confidence in one’s plan,” Olivia observed.
“I am surrounded by relatives with pretentions to divine powers.” There was a spark deep in his eyes that spoke to her like a burst of laughter. It felt flammable, dangerous.
She couldn’t not smile back at him, even though his face was—to outward appearance—serious enough. Still: Brother-in-law, she thought again.
“Riggle, we will take our leave of you,” the duke said, taking Olivia’s arm. “Miss Lytton, I’ve had two mounts prepared for us. Justin has already driven the pony cart around to the front to meet Lady Cecily, since her ankle is still unsteady.”
Olivia said her good-bye to Riggle, and then walked in silence next to the duke. She had to say something . . . anything. It was almost the first time in her life that her brain was unable to summon a single word.
After lunch, her sister had been quite certain that the duke had taken a great dislike to Olivia, given her hoydenish behavior. But the duke didn’t look as though he disliked her.
“Are you an enthusiastic horsewoman, Miss Lytton?” he asked, after a minute or two.
“Yes!” Olivia said, grateful to be given a topic of conversation. “I had a pony growing up, and nowadays my sister and I regularly ride in Hyde Park. Have you ridden there often yourself, Your Grace?”
“Not in some years,” he said. “Does your fiancé like to ride?”
“Rupert? He has some trouble staying in the saddle,” Olivia said, belatedly remembering that she shouldn’t tell virtual strangers that Rupert couldn’t stay on a horse until he was fifteen. “Though he’s much improved in the last year. He has a weak . . . a weak knee,” she added hastily.