This Duke is Mine

by Eloisa James

  “What will you wear to the ball tomorrow?”

  “I think the blue silk with Chantilly lace.”

  “Ah,” Olivia teased. “The big weapons are coming out.”

  “I have the strangest feeling that Sconce’s mother is throwing this ball as some sort of test,” her sister said. “Isn’t that odd? She seems to be interrogating both me and Althea, as if she were comparing our answers to an approved list.”

  Olivia shrugged. “You will triumph, in that case. What was our childhood, if not a series of tests?”

  Her sister’s brow pleated. “Do you really feel that way? And don’t shrug again!”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose I see your point.”

  “Everything we were scolded for, or celebrated for, was directed at just one thing,” Olivia said. “Becoming duchesses.”

  “I can see why you’re bitter.”

  “You can?”

  “Because you never passed a single test!” her twin said, hooting with laughter and running round the sofa as Olivia dashed after her, brandishing a napkin.

  Sixteen

  Various Anxieties Related to Children and Canines, but Not to Canapés

  Whenever the Dowager Duchess of Sconce announced a ball—even a smallish affair—plans changed at all the great houses within a forty-mile radius. No one who claimed gentry status or higher would even consider missing such an occasion, unless it were for their mother’s funeral.

  And for some, even that would be a distinct wrench.

  It wasn’t that a Sconce ball was especially fashionable. Her Grace never bothered to import two hundred lemon trees heavy with fruit, or blanket the ballroom with orchids, or even send to Gunter’s for specially made ices.

  Rather, she followed the prescribed routine of the duchesses who had come before her: one ancestor had hosted King Henry VIII on two different occasions, greeting two different wives, and another had welcomed Queen Elizabeth three times.

  To wit: The ballroom was scrubbed and polished to a fare-thee-well, a smallish orchestra was hired, a reasonable amount of food was ordered, and a great deal of excellent wine was brought up from the cellars.

  And that was that.

  The rest would take care of itself, to the dowager’s mind, and it always did. There was nothing more pitiable than the sight of an anxious hostess.

  As was her custom, in the early evening in question she presided over a small meal, to which were invited those guests who would stay at Littlebourne overnight, having traveled a goodly distance. Following the meal, the assembled guests were asked to proceed to the music room. Some time remained before the ball was to begin, and Her Grace had judged this interval an opportune time to address another item on her suitability inventory.

  To this end, she issued a command, faintly disguised as an invitation. “I believe we should all be grateful if the young ladies among us would give us some light entertainment.”

  Lady Althea and Miss Georgiana immediately rose, as did the two Miss Barrys. (The Barrys lived on the other side of the county and were all very well in their way, but not eligible as daughters-in-law as a consequence of the unfortunate existence of an inebriate great-uncle. One never knew when that bad strain might pop up in the blood.) Her Grace positioned herself on a settee with a clear view to the instruments, instructing her friend Mary, Lady Voltore, to sit with her.

  The Miss Barrys conducted themselves tunefully. Lady Althea sang very prettily. Miss Georgiana not only sang very well—a piece from an opera and then a light ballad—but she also accompanied herself on the harpsichord. It was eminently clear that Miss Georgiana Lytton would be an entirely commendable Duchess of Sconce. The dowager never permitted herself an excess of emotion, but she was inwardly aware that if she confessed to a weakness, it was her only son. The pain he had suffered after his first marriage was unacceptable.

  “Your Grace?”

  She looked up to find the Miss Barrys curtsying before her. “Yes?”

  “Your Grace,” one of them said, rather breathlessly, “would you be so kind as to allow Lord Justin to sing something for the assembled company?”

  The other one dropped another curtsy. “Everyone would love it, we are sure.”

  The dowager allowed one eyebrow to arch. Yes, she had made the right decision when she dismissed the Barrys from her list of possible duchesses. “If Lord Justin would agree, I’m sure I have no objection,” she said rather frostily.

  Naturally, her nephew didn’t take a hint from her tone, but leapt up in an unbecoming manner to sit at the pianoforte. It wasn’t proper, to her mind. Ladies sang and played musical instruments. The only men who sang, let alone played, were of the professional sort, with whom one did not associate.

  In fact, Justin was unsatisfactory in more than one way. This evening, for example, he was wearing purple. To her mind, wearing purple was like singing: gentlemen one knew simply didn’t do it. But there was her own nephew (if by marriage), wearing the color of lilacs, with dove-gray lace at the cuffs, which made it worse. Vulgar was the word for it. The late duke would turn in his grave if he could see such a garment on a family member, half-French or not.

  And why on earth were all those girls clustering around the pianoforte as if they were minnows nibbling on a crust of bread?

  She shushed Lady Voltore, who was rambling on about a new type of rose, and turned her attention back to her nephew and his flock of admirers.

  “What’s that he’s singing?” Mary bellowed. She was more than a little deaf. “It doesn’t sound like ‘Greensleeves.’ I like it when they sing ‘Greensleeves.’ Tell him to play it, will you, Amaryllis?”

  The dowager tolerated being on a first-name basis with Lady Voltore only because they had known each other since they were two years of age. “I cannot simply tell him to sing that,” she said now. “I can request it, if you wish.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Amaryllis. You paid for the fellow; you might as well get your money out of him.” Mary had always been a touch crass, to put it charitably.

  “I didn’t pay for him,” she said reluctantly. “He’s a relative.”

  “Decorative? Yes, I’d say so. Does he work for the circus? I don’t think I’d invite the circus into my house if I were you.”

  The dowager contented herself with giving Mary a look.

  “I don’t know where you hired that boy, but I have to say, I rather like him. Nice song. Nice face.” Mary had a quite ribald chuckle. “Not so old but that I can appreciate a face. Why, he almost looks like a gentleman, barring that coat, of course. Makes him look like an organ-grinder’s monkey.”

  Justin was surrounded by a positive flowerbed of young girls. One Barry hovered at each elbow, and Lady Althea was hanging over his shoulder.

  The dowager duchess cocked her ear and listened for a moment. “She was his sun,” Justin crooned. “She was his earth.” Well, that sounded foolishly innocuous enough. But given that Lady Althea had been granted the incalculable honor of even being considered for the title of Duchess of Sconce, the least she could do was to behave in a dignified manner. The truth was that Althea was dizzy as a doorknocker, and she’d never make Tarquin happy.

  Justin had started a new song, something about love. Love! Love was a destructive, disagreeable thing, to her mind. Just look what it had done to Tarquin: almost torn the poor boy to pieces.

  She turned away, noting with approval that Miss Georgiana was sitting beside an elderly aunt on the late duke’s side, engaging in a quiet conversation. She showed no signs of joining the throng around the piano, which said a great deal for her common sense.

  And Tarquin?

  It took a moment, but she managed to find her son. He was seated in a corner, and appeared to be watching Miss Lytton, who was sitting in another corner talking to the Bishop of Ramsgate. This evening Olivia Lytton looked the very picture of the future Duchess of Canterwick, the only possible objection being that her neckline was a bit daring.

  The dowager
squinted until she could see more clearly. The bishop, that old goat, seemed to be enjoying the view afforded by Miss Lytton’s embonpoint.

  But it was Tarquin whose face caught her eye. The expression on his face was somehow familiar. In fact, she had seen that look before, and she had hoped never to see it again. Before she even realized it, she was halfway out of her chair.

  But she eased back.

  It could not have gone very far. In fact, thinking carefully over the last few days, the dowager was quite certain that the relationship, if one could call it that, couldn’t be said to exist. At least, not to Miss Lytton. That was important. Miss Lytton was already betrothed to a marquess. What’s more, she seemed to be loyal to the poor fool.

  Furthermore, Canterwick himself had insinuated to her that Miss Lytton might be carrying the heir to his dukedom.

  Of course, that didn’t mean that Olivia Lytton wouldn’t throw over her fiancé in a moment if she got wind of the idea that she could exchange the marquess for a duke with a full twelve eggs to the dozen.

  The dowager’s fingers tightened on the arms of her chair. Miss Lytton was almost certainly another Evangeline.

  Possibly carrying the duke’s heir, even though the boy was only eighteen and as simple as they come, or so she’d heard. And now she was flirting with a bishop! Incredible.

  “I must say, you have an ugly little dog, Amaryllis,” Mary said, interrupting her thoughts.

  “I don’t own a canine!” Her irritation with Miss Lytton colored her voice.

  “Whose is it, then?”

  With a sense of misgiving, the dowager followed the direction of Mary’s lorgnette. That odd dog belonging to Miss Lytton—one could hardly call it a canine, given its size and untidiness—was sitting at her skirts. Sitting with its horrid little paw on her slipper. Again!

  For a moment she simply stared at the dog, aghast.

  “Not bad in its own way,” Mary said. “And it certainly adores you. Reminds me of the hunting dogs my husband used to have. They looked at him in just that way.”

  “I hate dogs. Take it off, if you please.”

  Mary gave that odd cackle of laughter that made her sound like a demented witch. “Nonsense, Amaryllis! At our age, we can’t afford to coddle that sort of ridiculousness.”

  “I loathe animals with paws.” It was a statement of fact, though she couldn’t help noticing that this one seemed to have rather sweet eyes.

  “You should give that up,” Mary said. “Makes you look like a fool. You’re too old to carry on like a green girl.” And with that shot, she got to her feet, her knees creaking, and hobbled off.

  The dog was an ugly little thing, with almost no fur and a distinct scar on its eyelid. Its nose was longer than any dog’s nose needed to be. She glared at it and the dog lay down at her feet.

  “There’s nothing foolish about disliking paws,” she said aloud. But she couldn’t help frowning at the tiny black one that was inching close to her slipper again. Logically . . .

  She pushed the thought away and looked back at Tarquin. Catching his eye, she gave a small but imperial wave. A moment later her son bowed before her. “Mother?” He had always obeyed her, even when he was a little boy. Too solemn, she’d thought at the time. He had inherited the title too young. But then he had eased into his duties so seamlessly that it felt as though Tarquin had always been the duke.

  “I should like you to take Miss Georgiana for a turn around the gardens,” she stated. “She has been talking to Lady Augustina for a half hour now, which is sufficiently charitable for one night. You have time before the festivities will commence.”

  Tarquin bowed, silent as ever, and walked away. But his mother watched him and wondered.

  Georgiana Lytton was the perfect wife for her son. She felt it to the depth of her bones. Georgiana was no namby-pamby miss, following rules just because they were there. She had a deep, ladylike decency about her. She would understand why The Mirror of Compliments had to be written: because civilization was the only thing that stood between mankind and raw pain.

  The kind of pain that Evangeline had caused Tarquin. The dowager had written the book in the year after her son married his first wife, a tome born of desperation, sadness, and the conviction that if only ladies behaved like ladies, none of this grief would have to happen.

  Yet the grief Evangeline had caused Tarquin when she leapt from his bed into those of strangers, neighbors, friends . . . that didn’t even approach what he felt after she died. That foolish, foolish woman. Died and took little Alphington with her. She had honestly believed that Tarquin would never smile again.

  There was no need for further tests. Georgiana was a perfect duchess. They could be betrothed within the day. For a moment she considered directing her son to issue a marriage proposal that very night, but then recalled that there were occasions when Tarquin—her mild, sober Tarquin—had dug in his heels. And given what she saw in his eyes while he watched Olivia Lytton, she needed to be very careful.

  Tomorrow, she told herself, settling back into the settee. They could have this whole muddle solved tomorrow.

  Seventeen

  For Better, for Poorer, in Sickness and in Health

  Georgiana was a very restful companion. They strolled to the bottom of the garden, where there was a little bench. Georgiana was as fascinated by the composition of light in terms of waves and particles as he was. It was a real pleasure to talk the question through.

  Quin didn’t even notice that it had grown a bit chilly until he inadvertently touched her arm and found it icy. “Miss Georgiana, you seem to be very cold. We should return to the house.”

  She ignored him. “I wonder whether it would influence the experiment if you slanted the paper that you are using to split the light into rainbows.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if I understood you correctly, you are holding a card with a vertical slit up to the window.”

  He nodded.

  “As the light strikes the slit, it divides into a rainbow, thereby demonstrating that light is made up of rays rather than particles. Though it is not clear to me why the rays evidence themselves merely because they went through a slit in paper.”

  “It may be because the rays bend as they go through. Though to be truthful, I’m not sure.”

  “What if the slit ran from corner to corner? Would the rays bend in the same fashion? What if the slit were parallel with the window frame rather than vertical? What happens then?”

  He paused. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But it’s a very good point. I shall try that tomorrow.” He put a hand under her chilly elbow and helped her to her feet. “I am growing cold as well.”

  Georgiana smiled up at him. “I didn’t notice because our conversation had been so interesting.” She took his arm and they began to walk back to the house. There was a contented silence between them. Quin was thinking furiously about the alignment of slits in relation to light, and Georgiana didn’t seem to mind the quiet.

  A patter of feet interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up just as Olivia burst around the curve in the path. He wasn’t any good at describing such things, but her gown was made of a dull gold stuff covered in lace that went sideways. The lace was composed of little strings, thousands of little strings that dared a man to run his fingers around her.

  The strings swayed when she ran. Just like that, his body went from chilled to hot. Heat sang to a pulse of blood raging through his body.

  “Georgie!” Olivia said. “Your Grace.” She dropped into a curtsy.

  Georgiana’s fingers tightened on his arm. “I’m sorry that you had to fetch me, Olivia. We were having a discussion about the scientific basis of light.”

  “Of course you were!” Olivia’s smile was wide and utterly natural—until you looked at her eyes.

  Or did he imagine that flash of possessiveness?

  Quin deliberately put his other hand on top of Georgiana’s fingers. “We were having such a fasci
nating conversation that regretfully I allowed your sister to grow quite chilled.”

  Georgiana glanced up at him, her eyes unreadable, and then back to her sister. “We are just returning to the house, Olivia. Thank you for coming to fetch me.”

  “I apologize for interrupting your conversation,” Olivia said, her tone perfectly friendly. She fell back and walked at Georgiana’s side.

  “Did I hear you call your sister ‘Georgie’?” Quin asked, looking across at her.

  “Yes,” Olivia said. “It’s my pet name for her. Goodness, it is cold out here, isn’t it? I can almost see my breath.” She took a breath and huffed.

  Georgiana laughed. “Don’t be silly, Olivia! In order to condense the moisture in your breath sufficiently to be visible, it must be far colder outside than this.”

  Quin dimly registered Georgiana’s response, but he couldn’t find a way to bring words to his mouth. Whenever Olivia took a deep breath, her breasts strained against those delicate strings of lace. It seemed to him that a few of those strings were all that prevented her nipples from being exposed to every man in the ballroom.

  A growl rose in his throat and he choked it back. “I like the name Georgie,” he said. The words came with a husky intonation that sounded as if he meant something entirely different by them.

  Georgiana—Georgie—looked up at him with a surprised smile. And Olivia blinked and looked away.

  They both heard his voice, and they both misunderstood.

  “Well,” he said briskly, “I suggest that we go straight to the library and bake ourselves before the fireplace before we join everyone in the ballroom.”

  “Oh, I’m not cold at all,” Olivia said lightly. “I’ll warm up dancing.” They were approaching the short set of stairs that led to the marble terrace. The very idea of Olivia in the arms of another man went through him like a sword.

  It only took one smooth motion. He politely ushered Georgiana onto a step before him, slipped to the side, and stepped forward quite precisely so that his foot descended on the train of her gown, pinning her to the stair. Then he threw his weight forward, appearing to trip.