The Duke Is Mine

Page 21

“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?”