The Duke Is Mine

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.

“Miss Lytton, I would ask you to return that canine to the house before you join us. Animals are not tolerable in the vicinity of the dining table. In fact, I would prefer that the creature remain in the stables at all times.”

“I do assure you, Your Grace, that if it were within my capacity to put Lucy in the stables, I would do so. But my fiancé, the Marquess of Montsurrey, begged me to keep her with me at all times before he left for the wars. I could not deny a request from a man engaged in the defense of our country.”

“I am certain that he did not mean it literally,” the dowager replied acidly.

“I’m afraid Rupert is always literal in his requests.”

“Indeed.” The dowager narrowed her eyes. “I had heard something of the sort.”

Quin tensed at this, but Olivia merely said, “In fact, Lucy seems to have taken quite a liking to you, Your Grace.”

As one, the entire company looked down to find that Olivia’s dog was now sitting at the edge of the dowager’s skirts, one tiny paw resting gently on the tip of her slipper.

She made a strangled sound. “Off!”

Lucy seemed unmoved by this command. She simply raised her long nose and gave a small woof, leaving her paw where it was.

“Tarquin!” the dowager said, staring down with the same horror with which one might greet the sudden appearance of a squid in one’s bathwater.

Before Quin could come to the rescue, Olivia scooped up her dog. “I am so sorry,” she exclaimed. “I had no idea that you were frightened by dogs, Your Grace.”

The dowager regained her composure instantly. “Of course I am not frightened by canines. I merely find them to be unnervingly dirty. Given what I have heard of your fiancé, Miss Lytton, I think we can both agree that you may overrule his request. Put the dog in the stables. Begin, in short, as you mean to carry on.”

It was Olivia’s turn to stiffen. “I am quite sure you did not mean to speak of the Marquess of Montsurrey in such a manner, Your Grace.” And then, as the dowager opened her mouth, Olivia added, “I myself would be reluctant to incur the censure of disloyalty, but I consider this of no account, since I am certain that you had no intention of making a suggestion that would be a wound to your credit, and give blemish to your courtesy.”

Quin didn’t even bother to untangle that; he could see that a gauntlet had just been tossed onto the flagstones at their feet. His mother held herself as rigidly as a soldier on parade, as did Olivia. They were of approximate heights and seemed to be displaying equal strength of will. And even more unnerving, each lady had a slight smile on her face.

“While Lucy will remain in my presence except at meals, as requested by my fiancé,” Olivia continued, “I will do my best to keep her from your sight, Your Grace.”

There was a terrible moment of silence, and then the dowager said, “That shall have to do.”

Olivia sank into a curtsy, still holding Lucy under her arm. “I trust that you are not offended, Your Grace. I am heartened by memory of your own words: ‘A true lady prefers gentle reproof to extravagant compliment.’ ”

There was a soft gasp from the direction of Lady Sibblethorp, and Quin judged it time to separate the contestants before his mother forgot some of the precepts she held so dear; for her part, Olivia seemed to regard them as little more than weapons.

“Miss Georgiana and Lady Althea,” he interjected. “May I have the honor of escorting you both to luncheon?”

“Miss Lytton,” Justin chimed in. “May I give Lucy to a footman?”

But the dowager, chin high, ignored both of them. “I gather that I have underestimated your attachment to the marquess, Miss Lytton.”

“My fiancé does not carry his accomplishments on his sleeve, but I assure you that the sweetness of his disposition inspires loyalty.”

The dowager nodded. Rather to Quin’s surprise, there was a grudging respect in her eyes. “I would desire your forgiveness for the indignity of my suggestion.”

Olivia’s smile was very charming. “Your Grace,” she said, “I heartily repent any untoward words of my own.”

“For goodness’ sake,” Justin moaned, not quite under his breath, “I feel as if I am watching an elocution lesson.”

Neither lady paid him the slightest heed.

“The Marquess of Montsurrey is very lucky,” the dowager pronounced. “I shall write to his father immediately and inform him that his selection of a wife for his son does the family great credit.”

Olivia bowed her head and dropped into yet another deep curtsy.

Quin, who had been momentarily distracted from the matter of Olivia’s betrothal, just stopped himself from growling.

Lucky? If he understood correctly, Montsurrey’s father had chosen Olivia, much in the same way that he himself was allowing his mother to pick a wife.

He suddenly realized that Georgiana was smiling expectantly at him. He bowed, as stiffly as a marionette. “Miss Georgiana.”

She wrapped her hand under his arm. “Your Grace.”

It wasn’t leftovers.

It wasn’t.

Ten

One Should Never Underestimate the Power of a Twist of Silk

Georgiana appeared to be both admiring and rather awed. At the same time, she had composure and clear self-respect. This was how a lady should look at a duke. And she hadn’t giggled once.

Lady Althea, on the other hand, giggled the moment he held out his arm.

“I hope that my mother’s invitation did not draw either of you from London at an unwelcome time,” Quin said, leading Georgiana and Althea across the terrace, one lady on either side. Cleese had set up a table at the far end, under the shade of the blooming clematis.