The Duke Is Mine

Page 42

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.”