“How on earth does rain affect chickens?” Georgiana asked, looking perplexed.
“They drown, Miss Georgiana,” Norah explained. “They turn their beaks up to see the sky, and then they drink too much water, and then they fall over. A whole flock of them can go that way, just like dominos going down in a row.”
“I think you can safely interpret that to mean that Althea Henwitty isn’t going to beat you in the category of raw intelligence,” Olivia said, with some satisfaction.
Norah gave a little snort of appreciation.
“I must not keep Florence waiting,” Georgiana said with a stiff little smile. “Thank you, Norah, for . . . for . . .”
“For snitching on the enemy,” Olivia put in.
Georgiana whisked out the door before having to agree to something so antithetical to her sense of propriety.
Norah looked after her. “Miss Georgiana is just perfect for the duke; that’s what everyone is saying below-stairs. He’s as smart as a whip, they say, but terribly lofty. Not as much as his mother, who takes the prize, but a gentleman who never forgets who he is, if you see what I mean.”
Sometimes he forgets, Olivia thought to herself. That was no duke who grabbed her in the silver room last night.
“His mother, the dowager, is even worse,” Norah continued. “They all warned me that if I see her in the corridor, I should drop a curtsy, then put my back to the wall and look at the floor. If she deigns to speak to me, I should drop another curtsy before I dare to look up.”
Olivia snorted, but thought it best not to comment. “Just look how excited Lucy is to see you.”
Norah reached down and pulled Lucy’s long ears. “She is ugly, but there’s something very taking about her all the same.”
“Do you think she’s trying to tell you something with all that hand licking?” Olivia asked.
“She can smell bacon on my hands. I helped clear the breakfast dishes.”
“Still, you’d better take her out before she piddles on the carpet.”
“Her Grace doesn’t like animals at all,” Norah said, moving reluctantly toward the door. “The dowager, I mean. Apparently the shape of paws makes her almost faint. Isn’t that odd? If she even sees an animal running along on its paws, she goes all queer-like.”
“Very odd,” Olivia agreed.
“And did you hear about the duke’s first wife?” Norah said, lingering by the door.
“I knew of her existence, of course, but you’ll have to tell me any details later. The last thing I want is to have to explain to the housekeeper why my bedchamber has an unfortunate smell.”
“She was no better than a trollop,” Norah stated.
“No!” It didn’t suit Olivia’s image of the duke to think of him married to a hussy.
“Terrible! A very glad eye, if you see what I mean, miss. Very glad indeed. Always out with the carriage, hither and yon, and taking no more than a groom with her.”
“That’s dreadful,” Olivia said, thinking of the duke’s closed face. No wonder he had such a bleak look about him.
“Dreadful is the word,” Norah said with emphasis. “And—”
But at that moment Lucy lost patience and piddled on the floor.
And that was the end of that particular conversation.
Nine
Introducing Lord Justin Fiebvre
As Quin allowed his valet to dress him that morning, he was happily aware that whatever madness had possessed him the previous night had been washed away by a few hours of good sleep.
Actually, more than a few hours of sleep, given that it was very nearly time for luncheon.
He felt like himself again, a man who valued reason and the intellect above all else. Obviously, he’d have to keep his distance from the nubile Miss Lytton. There was something about her that brought out his least reasonable side. He would go so far as to describe himself in the grip of a somewhat compulsive lust.
He’d even dreamed about her during the night, and it was the kind of dream he hadn’t had in years. Not since the early days of his marriage.
In his dream, he had entered a room to find Olivia, her back to him, reading a book. He had walked over to her, his entire body one fiery throb of anticipation, and without saying a word, he had bent over her, running his fingers down the side of her face, her neck . . .
As his caress swept down, he realized that she was wearing nothing more than a light wrapper. And then she turned her face up to him, smiling, and reached her arms up to pull him closer. Her dressing gown fell open and—
It was embarrassing to have dreams of that sort. Yet there was something about Miss Lytton’s smile, her hips, even the way she kept insulting him that drove his pulse to a faster rhythm.
But if a man didn’t learn from his mistakes, then he was less intelligent than any member of the animal kingdom. Even animals quickly learned to avoid a forest fire.
He turned as his valet twitched the bottom of his coat, then he regarded himself in the glass. His mother firmly believed that a duke should both look and carry himself like a member of the aristocracy at all times; it was very lucky that she had not been there to see it when he’d blundered downstairs without his coat.
His coat had been made by a Parisian tailor who had fled to London. It was dark plum and severely cut, but it had unmistakable Continental flair, with mother-of-pearl buttons and an occasional glimpse of the green silk that lined his collar and cuffs. Quin never spent much time thinking about his appearance, but he was quite certain that he did not look like an accountant.
His man, Waller, handed him a starched linen cravat. Raising his chin, Quin began swiftly folding it into the Mathematical. “Miss Lytton arrived with a small cur at her heels.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Waller said, bobbing his head. “The dog remains with her at all times, except when being given a daily bath. It’s been quite the subject of conversation below-stairs, as the animal cannot be said to present an aristocratic appearance.”
“It looks like a rat,” Quin said. “Mind you, a friendly rat.”
“Very sweet, by all accounts,” Waller agreed.
“Has my mother been informed?” Quin carefully inserted a pearl-and-diamond pin in the folds of his cravat.
“Not to the best of my knowledge,” Waller replied, offering Quin a pair of gloves and a pressed handkerchief, and adding, “Mr. Cleese feels that it is not his place.”
“Coward,” Quin remarked.
He caught Waller’s smile as he left the room.
His mother would be extremely displeased. She could not abide animals of any sort. Animals, in her view, were dumb brutes controlled by only the basest of instincts, incapable of the civilized behavior on which her sense of order depended. She never rode, and he had been allowed no pets as a child. In fact, it could transpire that Miss Lytton’s visit would be a brief one once the dowager learned of the dog.
After all, Miss Lytton was clearly ineligible, even if the mongrel were not taken into account. She was far too given to pleasure—the kiss briefly slipped through his mind—and she had giggled the night before. What’s more, she’d giggled at him, at the idea of him wearing a nightcap.
But her sister seemed to be quite different.
Quin thought about Miss Georgiana as he descended the stairs. She had uttered an anguished gasp when her sister compared him to an accountant. She appeared to have a delightful sense of command and self-control, to be the sort of woman you could count on never to embarrass you, in public or private.
One had only to think of Evangeline to recognize how deeply important the trait of being dependably self-restrained was to a successful marriage.
Cleese met him at the bottom of the stairs and directed him through the library; luncheon was to be taken on the terrace overlooking the gardens. Quin walked toward the open doors onto the terrace, irritably aware that his heart had speeded up. Of course he wasn’t excited by the idea of seeing the trollopy Miss Lytton.
Rather, he told
himself, he merely felt a natural level of anxiety given that he was about to spend time with two young ladies, one of whom would quite likely become his wife. A man with his unhappy marital history had every right to feel unsettled at that prospect.
Of course, the first person he saw was Olivia Lytton. He actually stopped for a moment at the sight, frozen just inside the door leading to the terrace. She wore a very soft, violet-colored gown that seemed to be made of silk and lace. Bands of silk wound around her body, crisscrossing low over her breasts in a way that tempted him to unwrap her like a present. She had the curves of a Rubens painting, one of the lush goddesses of the hunt.
She leaned forward, laughing, and Quin’s breath caught in his throat. Her hair was pinned up, but tendrils fell around her face. She was . . .
He glanced down. His severely cut coat was not designed to disguise reactions of this sort. A compulsion, he told himself, walking a bit uncomfortably back into the library. Lust, he told himself. His body agreed with that last word, though lust hardly seemed a strong enough word for the fierce desire coursing through him.
There was a sound at his feet, and he looked down. Miss Lytton’s little pup was standing there, its odd face cocked to the side and its skinny tail wagging furiously. Quin knelt and scratched the dog under its floppy ears. “You are a coquette,” he stated. “Lucy, isn’t it?”
The dog’s tail whipped back and forth in evident agreement, and she licked Quin’s hand enthusiastically.
He took a deep breath and stood. He had himself in control again. He pulled on his gloves. “Come on, then,” he said to Lucy. “Let’s join the rest on the terrace.”
But when he reached the door, the dog melted off to the side, disappearing behind the curtains. The party was clustered at one end of the terrace, looking quite flowery and picturesque. With a faint pulse of alarm, he realized that he was the only man.
His mother turned to greet him. “There you are, Tarquin,” she said. “I wish to introduce you.”
Quin walked forward and joined the circle. The dowager began at her left. “Miss Georgiana Lytton, my son, the Duke of Sconce.” Miss Georgiana bore only a faint resemblance to the sodden woman he had helped from the toppled carriage. Her hair was warm brown with streaks of bronze, and pinned in loops and curls about her head. Her eyes were lively and intelligent, but above all, she carried herself with a kind of natural grace and dignity that was a pleasure to see.
He bowed. Georgiana dipped her head and dropped a pretty curtsy. His mother watched with noticeable warmth in her eyes.
It’s done, Quin thought as he kissed Georgiana’s glove. She was perfect. She even looked like a duchess-to-be. She was wearing something pink with lots of tiny pleats. It wasn’t at all like her sister’s gown—it didn’t make him rage with lust—but one had to assume it was à la mode, with short sleeves that belled around her shoulders with a kind of elegance gifted only by a French modiste.
She looked as if she were ready to have her portrait painted and stuck up on the wall with all the other duchesses who’d lived in his house.
“Miss Lytton, may I present the duke,” his mother said, her voice altering just a shade. “Miss Lytton is Miss Georgiana’s twin sister.” Olivia was clearly not a favorite in the marital sweepstakes, which didn’t surprise him in the least.
Olivia curtsied, rather less deeply than her sister had done, and then Quin swept into a bow. Her hair was far darker than her sister’s.
“Miss Lytton,” his mother continued, “is betrothed to the Marquess of Montsurrey. While the marquess has not been in company overly much, I’m sure you’ve met his father, the Duke of Canterwick, in the House of Lords.”
Quin froze in mid-bow at the word “betrothed,” then his lips touched Olivia’s glove. He felt her fingers trembled in his hand; perhaps it was his hand that trembled around her fingers. He straightened.
“Indeed,” he said. “Best wishes on your betrothal, Miss Lytton. I’m afraid that I have not had the pleasure of meeting the marquess.”
She smiled at him. She had dimples. No, only one dimple, in her right cheek.
“Rupert is heading a company against the French,” she said. “He is quite patriotic.”
“He must be so,” Quin said, pulling himself together and giving a silent nod to the absent marquess. He himself had thought of serving in the war against France but had deemed it impossible. Given that his father was dead and he had no brothers, he was responsible for an enormous estate that stretched across three English counties, not to mention the land in Scotland. He simply could not leave. “I have the greatest respect for those men who are defending our country against the incursions of Napoleon.”
“May I present Lady Althea Renwitt and her mother, Lady Sibblethorp,” the dowager said, ignoring the question of Napoleon. She didn’t approve of the war; the French had been most objectionable when they slew their nobility, but she couldn’t see why England should risk English lives on that account. Quin had given up trying to explain it to her. “Lady Althea, Lady Renwitt, my son, the Duke of Sconce.”
Lady Althea was quite small, and had two dimples to Olivia’s one. She smiled in such a way that both dimples and a great expanse of teeth were in evidence, and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.” Then she giggled.
“My sister, Lady Cecily, will be unable to join us, as she injured her ankle in last night’s debacle,” his mother said. “I don’t doubt but that Cleese will wish to begin luncheon now. We are hopelessly uneven, of course. And there is no sign of Lord Justin.” She turned to Lady Sibblethorp. “My brother’s son. His mother was French, and I expect he inherited the propensity to be late from that side of the family. Sometimes he does not join us until the second remove.”
Quin thought that the more likely explanation was that Justin took longer to dress than a woman. But still, he felt a little better remembering that his cousin would be at luncheon as well. While Justin couldn’t precisely be said to have achieved manhood at age sixteen, half a man was better than none.
At that very moment he heard the click of heels. They all turned, to find Lord Justin Fiebvre making his characteristic flamboyant entry. He paused for a moment in the doorway, threw back the lock of hair that constantly—and, one had to believe, deliberately—obscured his eyes, and cried, “Such beauty! I feel as though I am entering the garden of the Hesperides.”
Lucy was tucked under his arm, her long snout nuzzling the shot silk of a quite extraordinary pearl-colored silk coat, embroidered with silver arabesques and pale blue beads.
The dowager straightened her shoulders, a sign of irritation. She allowed Justin to vex her, which was foolish, to Quin’s mind. Justin was not entirely English nor entirely adult, but under all the frills he was a decent fellow.
“Lord Justin,” she stated. “May I inquire as to why you are carrying that—that animal under your arm?”
“I found this little sweetheart in the library,” he replied, grinning. “I couldn’t leave a lonely girl all on her own.”
From the way she was eyeing him, the dowager considered the coat inappropriate for a country luncheon—though it was difficult to distinguish her sartorial disapproval from her patent dislike of dogs.
But Justin had a charming habit of ignoring his aunt’s displeasure. He had a sunny disposition and preferred, as he often said, “to see happiness.”
“Now who is the mistress of this charmer?” he asked, looking from person to person as he stroked Lucy’s head.
“She is mine,” Olivia said, moving forward. “I left her in the library because she seemed to be so afraid to come into the sunlight. I’m afraid that Lucy is not a deeply courageous dog.”
“We don’t all need to be brave,” Justin said. “I, for one, count myself among the cowardly yet respectable majority. Your Lucy is utterly charming.”
“If you would be so kind as to join us, Lord Justin,” the dowager cut in, “I will introduce you to our houseguests.”
“A kee
n pleasure awaits me!” Justin put Lucy down at his feet, and she scurried over to Olivia and hid behind her. The dowager drew aside her skirts with a barely suppressed squeak.
Justin bowed low over each lady’s hand, brushing kisses and breathing compliments. He adored Miss Lytton’s gown (so did Quin), Miss Georgiana’s ring, Lady Althea’s ribbons . . .
Quin was rather interested to see that while Lady Althea fell into a perfect frenzy of dimpling, Olivia and her sister seemed more amused than admiring.
He took a deep breath and willed himself to calmness.
For a man who prided himself on not experiencing emotion, Quin had reacted to the news of Miss Olivia Lytton’s betrothal to the Marquess of Montsurrey with a jolt of something so primitive that he had hardly recognized it.
He had to stop himself from sweeping her off her feet, carrying her to the library, and slamming the door behind them—after which, he would make damn sure that she broke off her betrothal.
But he never slammed doors. That was for . . . that was for other men. The emotional kind.
He wasn’t emotional. It was a good thing he reminded himself of that, because he was in some danger of surprising himself.
Could he be experiencing some sort of temporary insanity? Perhaps there was a medical syndrome that encompassed kissing the vicar’s wife, and given that no such matron was within ready grasp, kissing a stranger who appears on one’s doorstep in the middle of the night in a rainstorm.
Of course, Olivia probably had every lecherous man in London panting after her, given her voluptuous figure. That gown she wore was made up of different panels that somehow swept around and under, and there was just a touch of lace over her breasts . . . perhaps they could call it the Olivia Syndrome.
The question was . . . what was the question? It was unusual for Quin to feel as if he were floundering between incoherent thoughts.
“As we have unequal numbers,” his mother stated, “I regret that some ladies must necessarily remain unescorted. Tarquin, you may escort Miss Georgiana and Lady Althea to luncheon. Lord Justin, you may escort Miss Lytton. Lady Sibblethorp, we shall progress together.” She paused for a moment.