Authors: Eloisa James
The spray of blossoms snapped and he turned. For once, Olivia was not laughing. She met his eyes for a moment, then long eyelashes fluttered down and she broke his gaze.
Who would have thought that pale green eyes could look so smoky? He dropped back a step, swept into an elaborate bow, the bow of a duke. As he straightened: “Miss Lytton, may I offer you this flower?”
She curtsied. Quin cursed himself silently for noticing that the movement gave him an even better glimpse of creamy breasts. What in the bloody hell was happening to him?
Then she straightened, and the look in her eyes made the blood beat like thunder in his ears. Her gaze was frank.
Carnal
. He wasn’t alone.
But in a second, it all changed. “Darling!” Olivia cried, turning slightly to the right and looking past his shoulder. “Look what the duke was kind enough to pluck from that vine. You must take it. You like flowers so much more than I do.”
Quin smiled politely as Georgiana took the spray of blossoms.
And Georgiana smiled back: charming, pretty . . . a perfect lady. “How kind of you, Your Grace. The clematis smells so beautiful; we were remarking on it throughout the meal.”
He hadn’t even noticed its perfume. Sitting beside Olivia, he had caught a whiff of something different . . . better.
Lemon soap. Clean woman.
In comparison, clematis was overly sweet.
Eleven
The Art of the Insult
I
t was excellent that her sister had found the perfect husband. Of course it was. Not that repeating it over and over would make her feel any better. Envy was a rotten emotion, especially between sisters—and yet she was envious.
“It’s beneath you,” Olivia told her reflection in the glass.
“Did you say something, miss?” her maid asked from the other side of the room.
“I’m very happy with this walking costume,” Olivia responded quickly.
Norah trotted over and twitched the hem of Olivia’s gown straight. “That butter yellow suits you no end. And the spencer jacket is darling.” She hesitated. “Is Her Grace accompanying you to the village?”
“Of course. She’ll be watching poor Georgie to make sure that she doesn’t put a step wrong.”
“They all say downstairs that she’s terribly strict,” Norah confirmed. “I wouldn’t want to be her daughter-in-law, myself.”
“A terrible fate, no doubt, but I’m sure that Georgie can tame her.”
Norah nodded, but managed to convey utter disbelief.
“Over time,” Olivia clarified. “Do you think that perhaps you should weave a ribbon into my hair? Perhaps dull gold, to pick up the yellow?”
They both looked into the glass. Olivia’s walking dress came with a pretty little jacket made of bombazine. It was short, stopping just below the bodice, and trimmed with a frill. Olivia fancied that it did an excellent job of emphasizing her curves.
“No,” the maid said decisively. “I suggest a little hat, the one with the feather going sideways.”
“Of course!”
“Her Grace is not going to appreciate your gown,” Norah said, sorting through Olivia’s hats and bonnets. “Not a bit.”
Olivia groaned.
“The hem is too high, and she’s likely to faint at the sight of your ankles. She has the butler measure all the maids’ costumes weekly, to make sure they are precisely the right length from the floor. They aren’t allowed to show even a twitch of ankle.”
“My ankles are my favorite feature,” Olivia said, looking at the mirror once again. Sure enough, they were on full display, accentuated by her utterly delicious new slippers. They looked positively bony. Truly: her best feature.
“They’re going to be the gentlemen’s favorite, too,” Norah said with a giggle, “with those ribbons crossing up your legs. It’s a good thing your mother isn’t here to see.”
“Oh, pooh,” Olivia said lightly. “If a future duchess can’t wear the newest design in kid slippers, who can? I’m sure the dowager would agree.”
Or . . . she wouldn’t.
By the time the party had assembled before the house and begun traipsing along the path to the village, Olivia had decided that the dowager’s silent—yet ferocious—glances indicated that she was not in favor of the new short skirts, nor Olivia’s delightful new slippers.
In fact, Olivia found it more peaceful to walk slightly behind the group on the way to the village. It was a charitable impulse, since the very sight of her ankles—and of Lucy obediently trotting beside those ankles—seemed to be driving the dowager toward apoplexy.
Yet as far as Olivia could tell, men were much more interested in bosoms and thighs than ankles. It was only women like herself, longing for bony body parts, who cared a twig about ankles.
It would be extraordinarily foolish to voice that idea to the dowager. One did not deliberately bait a lioness.
“Olivia!” Georgiana called, dropping back from the larger group.
Olivia twirled her parasol. It was a frivolous bit of lace and ruffle that looked like a giant buttercup. She loved it. “Yes?” she asked, knowing exactly what was coming.
But Georgie surprised her. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you before we left the house. Those slippers are extremely fetching.”
“I am showing off my best feature. And oddly enough, all the barely suppressed anger from the dowager is making me feel alarmingly at home. Perhaps I’ll break out a limerick at the table tonight.”
Georgiana carefully adjusted her parasol so that not a touch of daylight reached her face. Needless to say, Georgie’s parasol was altogether more substantial than Olivia’s, with a high peaked top that shaded every inch of her from hair to toes. “Mother did not accompany us to this house party.”
“In fact, no one has quoted
The Maggoty Mirror
in the last hour, and if I, for one, don’t hear a few choice phrases from it soon, I might begin to forget its precepts. Although the living version does stalk before us.”
“Mother is not here,” her sister repeated, “and therefore you needn’t behave as if she was on hand, trying to force you to do something you abhor—such as marry Rupert.” She waved her gloved hand. “Look around you, Olivia. There’s no one here but the two of us.”
“If you manage to overlook the dowager, the duke, Lady Sibblethorp, and young Henwitty. Not to mention those poor footmen carrying the baskets and sweltering in their livery. I do wish Lord Justin had elected to join us on this excursion. I find walking unutterably boring, and at least Justin makes me laugh.”
“What were you talking about in the drawing room before we left?” Georgiana asked. “You seemed to be having a wonderful time.”
“Being shallow by nature, Justin and I have started a game to see which of us can come up with the worst insult.”
“Why on earth would you try to make up insults?” Georgiana looked genuinely pained, likely thinking that Olivia was going to let fly at their hostess. “When can you possibly use them?”
“It’s merely a game with no practical usage,” Olivia explained. “Justin came up with this for a man:
You dog’s-head, you rotten, roguey trendle-tail!
”
Georgiana glanced at the dowager’s back. “For goodness’ sake, Olivia, keep your voice down. I’m sure you’re well aware that the two of you are engaged in an extraordinarily tasteless activity. What on earth is a trendle-tail?”
“I’m not sure,” Olivia said now, wishing that she had never repeated it to Georgie. Of course her sister wouldn’t approve of such a foolish way to spend one’s time. “We both loved the way it sounded,” she added in a weak defense.
“Trendle-tail,” Georgiana repeated. “The word sounds vulgar. I’m sure it means something that you ought not be thinking about, let alone speaking aloud.”
The duke dropped back and turned around. “A trendle-tail is a dog with a curled tail: in short, not purebred.” He made no apology for eavesdropping.
Olivia’s pulse instantly started tapping along at a faster rhythm. His Grace had the largest shoulders she’d ever seen on a peer. They were wasted on someone who apparently spent his time playing with scraps of paper covered with numbers.
“And what is
your
current entry in the game you are playing with my cousin, Miss Lytton?” he asked, looking at her with those intently dark eyes of his.
If she’d had her choice, she’d rather not have shared her contribution, but they were both waiting expectantly. “Mine is an insult for a woman.
You thin lean polecat, you of the grasshopper thighs and bony rump!
”
At that, the duke actually broke into a crack of laughter. It sounded a bit rusty, but it was laughter.
Georgiana, naturally, did not laugh. “I trust you weren’t thinking of me,” she hissed, under cover of the duke’s laughter.
“Actually, no,” Olivia said, nodding toward the lean, if lovely, Lady Althea.
“Your insult says more about you than her,” Georgiana said, giving her a meaningful glance. Then she readjusted her parasol once again and slipped her hand under the duke’s arm. “Do tell me more about infinitesimal calculus, Your Grace?”
Olivia had actually never heard Georgiana
coo
before. She bent over, pretending that one of her ankle ribbons had come loose, hoping the two of them would take the opportunity to walk ahead.
She could easily imagine them married. Lord and Lady Prim, the Duke and Duchess of Dandification, the—
The duke turned around. “Miss Lytton, we are loathe to leave you behind.” He looked at her, unsmiling, and her unruly heart thumped again.
The group was clustered before a white gate in a fence that surrounded a small and rather dilapidated house. The dowager handed her cane to one of the footmen. “Give that gate a good beating, if you would,” she commanded. “It will rouse the inhabitants.”
“Excuse me,” the duke said. He slipped his arm from Georgiana’s. “Allow me.” He unhooked the latch.
“You needn’t, Tarquin,” the dowager said. “I always signal my arrival thus. One wouldn’t want the poor souls to run out half-clothed or some such. We would all be mortified.”
Without a reply, the duke opened the gate and held it open for all of them to pass. Their bright bonnets and parasols seemed doubly so in contrast to the battered house and its neglected garden.
Then the front door popped open and children began to spill out, all bobbing up and down in a frenzy of curtsying.
“A very good afternoon to you, Mrs. Knockem,” the dowager said, nodding at a plain, tired-looking woman with red, knobby hands. All the children were lined up by now. “Avery, Andrew, Archer,” the dowager said, nodding to each child. “I’m Alfred,” the littlest boy said. “Archer is in the pub.”
The dowager frowned. “In the pub, Mrs. Knockem? Surely Archer is extraordinarily young to be imbibing spirits.”
“Our Archer is bringing home a penny a week washing mugs, Yer Grace. We’re right proud of him.”
“A penny is certainly not to be overlooked.” The dowager looked at the line again. “Good afternoon, Audrey and Amy. Where is Anne?”
“She’s inside, feeling a bit poorly,” their mother replied, her hands twisting in her apron.
“Not in the family way, Mrs. Knockem?” the dowager inquired. “I understand she is walking out with the butcher’s youngest.”
“Oh no,” Mrs. Knockem said, blinking madly. “Our Anne is a good girl. She’s sat in a patch of something, and she’s all covered with little bumps. We do call it the purple itch hereabouts.”
The dowager gestured to the footman. “Bring the basket inside. Mrs. Knockem, if I might be so bold, one of my guests, Miss Georgiana Lytton, has quite remarkable skill at curing skin ailments.”
Olivia leaned over and breathed in her sister’s ear, “Lady Althea should just call for her carriage and return to London now.”
But Lady Sibblethorp was apparently not ready to give up the fight. “My daughter, Lady Althea, has also made an extensive study of minor skin ailments,” she said magisterially. “We shall examine the girl.”
Mrs. Knockem didn’t look particularly happy about the imminent house invasion, but she seemed to realize that there was no stopping a flood once the riverbank was breached. She fell backward a step, blinking even faster.
Georgiana stepped forward. “Mrs. Knockem, you must be so worried. Could you tell me more about what happened?” She walked into the house, her arm tucked under Mrs. Knockem’s, her head bent to hear her description.
The dowager waved Lady Althea and her mother into the house, and then turned. “You shall not be welcome, Duke,” she said. “And Miss Lytton, I’m sure you understand that the canine must remain outdoors.”
“I don’t know anything about skin infections,” Olivia put in, hoping madly that the dowager would touch something and catch a case of purple bumps.
“Quite,” the dowager stated. The door shut behind her.
Olivia sighed.
Then she realized that she was standing in front of the line of small children, who didn’t seem inclined to mill about the way children normally do. They were rather dirty and thin. And they looked anxious. “Let’s see,” she said to the eldest. “Your name is Apple because you have lovely red cheeks.” She looked to the next. “You look very fast, so you must be Arrow. And this must be Apron because—”
“I’m not Apron,” the small boy said indignantly. “That’s for a girl!”
“Hmmm,” Olivia said. “Then how about Ant? You are about the size of a peasecod.”
“I’ll get bigger,” he said stoutly.
“Very true.” She could see smiles popping up. The line had broken, and now they were clustering around her. “Let’s try the girls. You must be Apricot, since your hair is a lovely shade of ginger that I heartily envy.”
The girl giggled. “Me gram says it’s the color of the devil’s beard.”
“It’s not the most flattering of comparisons, but then we should all be so lucky as to have a fire that burns all the way through the winter, not to mention an apricot beard. And you,” she said, turning to the last, very small girl, “you look like . . .” Her imagination failed.
“An acorn,” came a deep voice just behind her. The duke leaned over and put a finger under the child’s chin. “You are no more than a wee acorn.”
She broke into a peal of laughter. “That’s what me dad calls me, too!”