The Duke Is Mine

Page 49

Olivia pulled her dumpy self very straight, and as tall as possible, and said with icy precision, “I will respond only to the claim that reflects on my parents, although I will note that your incivility warrants no response at all. My parents may not be members of the aristocracy themselves, Your Grace, but they are related to peers on both sides. In fact, my father’s claim to the title esquire has been held for one generation longer than the Sconces can claim. And may I add that when it comes to matters of breeding, no one in my family has married into the Bumtrinkets?”
The dowager’s bosom rose slightly into the air, resembling a balloon ascension Olivia had once seen in Hyde Park. “I was referring not to your birth,” she said, biting the words with frigid disdain, “but to your manners.”
“I like the way Olivia looks,” Quin said, intervening. For the first time, his voice had a distinct warning in it. “In fact, I adore the way she looks. And I think her manner is perfect for a duchess.”
“I’m sure you do!” the dowager snapped. There were red flags high in her cheeks and her black eyes glinted with anger.
“What do you mean by that?” Olivia demanded.
“I mean that you are made of the same stuff as his first duchess, Evangeline. He adored her appearance as well, and found out too late that all that wanton sensuality tends to mask a woman who should be flattered to be called a trollop.”
“Mother.” Quin’s voice was now as icy as his mother’s. “You go too far. I beg you, for the sake of all of us, to modify your voice and behavior.”
“I will not.” The duchess was clearly beside herself. “The Duke of Canterwick wrote me before you arrived,” she said, turning on Olivia with the look of a mother tiger facing a threat to her cub.
Olivia waited, head high.
“Have you informed my son that you may well be carrying the heir to the Canterwick title? You will note that I say nothing here about the fact that you are unmarried; that the duke is reportedly such an innocent that you almost certainly molested the poor man; nor that he is barely eighteen. Those are such deeply unpleasant facts that one can only hope that no one outside your immediate family ever learns them, Miss Lytton, because they do not speak highly of you.”
“Are you threatening me?” Olivia gasped.
The dowager actually backed up a step, but then linked her hands at her waist and stood her ground. “Certainly not. Those of us in the peerage have no need to resort to methods such as you clearly envision.”
Quin met Olivia’s eyes with a silent question.
“No heir,” she managed.
“Mother!” Quin’s voice was lethal, and cold as ice. “You will show me the courtesy to instruct your servants that you will be leaving for the dower house on the morning. I refer not to the dower house on these grounds, but that attached to Kilmarkie, our Scottish estate.”
To Olivia’s surprise, it was she—and not the dowager—who blurted out “No!” in response to this command.
The dowager was utterly silent for a heartbeat. Then she bowed her head and descended into a curtsy.
Olivia grabbed Quin’s arm and shook it. “You will not do this!” she said to him, not gently.
He frowned at her. “I don’t—”
“Your mother and I have the perfect right to disagree about what is best for you without your interfering!”
“I wasn’t interfering. I was responding to what my mother said about you. That, I cannot, and will not, tolerate from anyone.” He looked at his mother and said it again, through clenched teeth. “Anyone. You should know that any man, whether in my family or not, who implies that Olivia and Evangeline have anything in common will give me satisfaction at the end of a sword.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Olivia said, grabbing hold of his cravat, since shaking his arm had had no effect. “Could you descend the ducal mountain for one moment and pay attention? Your mother is worried sick about you, and you’re threatening to send her off to Scotland? You weren’t joking when you said that you don’t always understand emotions, were you?”
The dowager made a small noise, but Olivia didn’t look at her. She kept her eyes fastened on Quin.
He frowned at her.
“Of course your mother thinks that I resemble Evangeline—well, in everything except our figures. I came here betrothed to one duke, and when everyone expected that you would betroth yourself to my own sister, I stole you for myself. Your mother walked into a room and found the two of us unchaperoned, and lucky not to be sprawled together on the floor. I do look like the worst sort of hussy. If you are planning to duel every man who points that out, we shall have a very short marriage.”
Quin’s frown deepened.
“No time for all those children you envision,” she continued, remorselessly. “No time to do anything but run around the country attacking people who are saying the obvious. Make no mistake, they won’t just be saying it. Ten to one, they’ll be making horns behind your back as well, at least for a few years.”
Some sort of rationality was stealing into his eyes.
“Don’t you see?” she said, letting go of his cravat. “None of that matters. Your mother loves you. She wants to spare you the horns, and the whispers, and the fat wife too—” She looked at the dowager. “That’s the only part that I’m having trouble forgiving you for.”
Quin reached out, spun her back to him, and pulled her into his arms, held her tight, so tight that she could hardly breathe. “I need you,” he said, low and fierce, into her hair. “Oh, God, Olivia, how did I ever live without you?”
She reached up, pulled his face down to hers. “I’m yours, for good or ill.”
There was a little click as the door to the ballroom closed, but Olivia paid it no mind.
“You’re the missing piece of me,” Quin said. “You make me feel.”
“You have always felt. You’re one of the most sensitive, loving men I know. Anyone can tell that.”
He shook his head, so she just pulled his face to hers and gave him a kiss so searing that it said what neither of them were able to put in words . . . yet.
Without a word, Quin dropped into an armchair, taking Olivia with him. This time there was no stopping, and she knew it; he knew it. They kissed until little moans were coming again and again from her throat and she was trembling, touching him everywhere she could reach, fingers shaking.
Quin pulled gently on her bodice . . . and her breast tumbled into his hand. For a moment he froze. Then: “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever imagined, Olivia. May I?”
She wasn’t entirely sure what he meant to do, but she nodded. She would always say yes to him, though it wouldn’t be wise to let him know.
His mouth was hot and wet on the curve of her breast. She arched her back, offered herself until those searching lips reached her nipple.
Olivia wasn’t quite sure what happened next. She would have thought the most she would do was gasp at the surprise, perhaps utter a ladylike squeak, even a tiny shriek . . . no. With an entire ballroom full of aristocrats on the other side of the door, she let out a full-throated cry, an expression of need and burning want.
Without pausing, Quin clamped a hand over her mouth and then suckled harder.