The Duke Is Mine

How could he possibly mean what she—

“Well, Miss Lytton? Don’t you agree with our assessment of this exquisite beast?”

The words jumped out of her mouth before she thought. “A plump buttock? Since when is that something a man desires in his mount?”

Stupidly, she caught the double entendre only after she herself made it. But the duke didn’t miss the intimation. His eyes lit up with an unholy, smoldering light, a secret promise that made fire pool in her body.

“Why, Miss Lytton,” he said, his voice a deep purr, “you surprise me.”

It forcibly occurred to her that he had deliberately brought Lady Godiva into the conversation at luncheon. “Um,” she fumbled. “I surprise myself.” There was something hungry in his eyes that wasn’t for her—couldn’t be for her. She could never have what he was offering.

That hunger should be for Georgiana. From the time she was ten years old she’d known that her future didn’t include . . . this.

She couldn’t think what to say.

The children had no such hesitation. “You’re looking at Miss Lytton like the way our Annie looks at Bean,” Apple told the duke.

“I expect you’re walking out,” Apricot chimed in. “Ma did say as how the duke was like to marry, remember?”

The duke didn’t seem to be inclined to respond. One moment he had looked unemotionally ducal, for lack of a better word, and the next his face was transformed by a kind of rough sensuality.

“That’s just how Bean looks back at Annie, too,” Acorn put in, apparently taking silence as encouragement. “Like trouble, that’s what Mum says.” She turned to Olivia. “That’s why Annie won’t come out of the house. Because those purple bumps are all over her bottom, and how did they get there?”

Olivia frowned.

“Iffen she had had her clothes on,” Acorn explained.

“See, Bean is the butcher’s son, and they’re walking out,” Apricot added. “Though you shouldn’t be saying things like that to fine folk,” she told her brother with a poke to his middle. “This is a lady, and ladies don’t know anything about their own clothes.”

“We don’t?” Olivia asked.

“You can’t take ’em off yourself, can you? That’s what Mum says. Though it could be she’s wrong.”

Alas, Olivia had to confirm. “You’re right. My gowns are all buttoned up the back and I do need someone to help me undress.”

“Well, the good news is that you won’t get the purple itch, then, at least not on your bottom.”

“That is very good to know,” the duke said, gravely.

But he would never fool Olivia again. This particular duke may look as stiff as a poker, but there was something quite different inside.

A smile, a hidden smile.

Twelve

The Merits of Scrambled Custards and Gooseberries

Immediately upon the little band’s return to Littlebourne Manor—the unfortunate Annie’s rash having been inspected, diagnosed, and treated—the dowager waved all the ladies off to their chambers to change their clothing, then raised a finger at Quin.

“Accompany me, if you please, Duke,” she said. “I should be grateful for the support of your arm while I take a brief turn around the gardens.”

The moment they were out of earshot of their guests, she stopped. “Tarquin, I am not enjoying Miss Lytton’s company.”

“Yes,” Quin agreed.

“Yet her sister Miss Georgiana appears to be a most suitable candidate for your duchess. She was remarkable when talking to Mrs. Knockem and her wagtail of a daughter—whose rash, by the way, is no more than she deserves, given her loose behavior. At any rate, Miss Georgiana evinced compassion for the invalid, along with a kind, yet reserved attitude toward the family as a whole. She kept her distance, yet was never disdainful. I thoroughly approved.”

Quin murmured something, thinking that Olivia didn’t seem to care in the least about maintaining her distance from the Knockem family.

“In fact, the only drawback I can identify to the match,” his mother continued, “is the elder sister. Yet since Miss Lytton will be married as soon as that young fool comes back from France, the pleasure of her company—or its opposite—hardly matters.”

“Young fool?” Quin inquired.

“Montsurrey.” His mother waved her hand impatiently. “Miss Lytton seems to have reconciled herself to the matter; I must credit her with that. And she was right about my slip of the tongue: I should not have maligned a peer of the realm, no matter what I may have heard about the future duke. Though,” she added, “his own father described him as having brains more scrambled than an egg custard.”

“An egg custard,” Quin repeated.

“Irrelevant,” the dowager said. “My point is that you must keep Miss Lytton and her dog out of my sight, Tarquin. As you know, I consider it very important that I carry out my tests in a judicious manner. I can hardly do so if I am engaged in fencing with a chit half my age.”

“She held her own,” Quin said, making quite certain that satisfaction did not leak into his voice.

“I am aware of that,” his mother replied, rather grimly. “For my peace of mind, then, I would ask that you occupy the young virago and her mongrel while I continue to explore the characters of Lady Althea and Miss Georgiana.”

“All right,” Quin said.

His mother tightened her grip on his arm. “I do realize that Miss Lytton is a challenging and rather tiresome companion, and I apologize for burdening you with her company. At least I need have no worries that you will succumb to her charms. Her figure, for one, renders her most unattractive. What can she be thinking, wearing such a revealing costume when she carries all that extra flesh?”

Quin said nothing.

“Besides,” his mother continued, talking to herself as she often did, “Miss Lytton seems admirably devoted to Montsurrey. Therefore, amongst ourselves, en famille, I believe we may dispense with a chaperone. Really, I have to credit Canterwick. I can see that she’s just right for his boy.”

“Boy?”

“Montsurrey must be five years younger than she is at the very least,” her mother said, turning so they could stroll back to the house. “I find it amusing that both Canterwick and myself have looked to the Lytton family for a possible alliance with our children. It is true that the Lyttons are well connected on both sides, but they are hardly aristocracy. It is a tribute to . . .”

But Quin had stopped listening. Olivia was betrothed to a boy, a bird-witted boy, if he believed his mother.

Olivia—wry, witty Olivia?

Impossible.

“Don’t you agree, Tarquin?” his mother asked sharply.

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid that I lost track of the conversation.”

“I said that Miss Lytton was remarkably fortunate to have been chosen by the Duke of Canterwick to marry his son. Her birth is negligible, her figure forgettable, and her manner impertinent.”

Quin stared down at his mother. “But she’s beautiful.”

“Beautiful? Beautiful? Certainly not. She’s round as a gooseberry, which bespeaks a gluttonous turn of mind. And I don’t care for her eyes.”