Authors: Eloisa James
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
G
eorgiana 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.”
“Of course you were!” Olivia’s smile was wide and utterly natural—until you looked at her eyes.
Or did he imagine that flash of possessiveness?
Quin deliberately put his other hand on top of Georgiana’s fingers. “We were having such a fascinating conversation that regretfully I allowed your sister to grow quite chilled.”
Georgiana glanced up at him, her eyes unreadable, and then back to her sister. “We are just returning to the house, Olivia. Thank you for coming to fetch me.”
“I apologize for interrupting your conversation,” Olivia said, her tone perfectly friendly. She fell back and walked at Georgiana’s side.
“Did I hear you call your sister ‘Georgie’?” Quin asked, looking across at her.
“Yes,” Olivia said. “It’s my pet name for her. Goodness, it is cold out here, isn’t it? I can almost see my breath.” She took a breath and huffed.
Georgiana laughed. “Don’t be silly, Olivia! In order to condense the moisture in your breath sufficiently to be visible, it must be far colder outside than this.”
Quin dimly registered Georgiana’s response, but he couldn’t find a way to bring words to his mouth. Whenever Olivia took a deep breath, her breasts strained against those delicate strings of lace. It seemed to him that a few of those strings were all that prevented her nipples from being exposed to every man in the ballroom.
A growl rose in his throat and he choked it back. “I like the name Georgie,” he said. The words came with a husky intonation that sounded as if he meant something entirely different by them.
Georgiana—Georgie—looked up at him with a surprised smile. And Olivia blinked and looked away.
They both heard his voice, and they both misunderstood.
“Well,” he said briskly, “I suggest that we go straight to the library and bake ourselves before the fireplace before we join everyone in the ballroom.”
“Oh, I’m not cold at all,” Olivia said lightly. “I’ll warm up dancing.” They were approaching the short set of stairs that led to the marble terrace. The very idea of Olivia in the arms of another man went through him like a sword.
It only took one smooth motion. He politely ushered Georgiana onto a step before him, slipped to the side, and stepped forward quite precisely so that his foot descended on the train of her gown, pinning her to the stair. Then he threw his weight forward, appearing to trip.
The scientist in him was quite satisfied by the prolonged ripping sound that resulted.
Swallowing a smile, he flowed into a smooth series of apologies—surprisingly fluent, for him. Georgiana remained calm, although many a lady would have been in hysterics. The seam at the waist of her gown had separated and now gaped open, revealing her chemise.
“I’ll walk behind you,” Olivia said to her sister. “We only have to make our way through the room and then straight up the stairs.”
“Nonsense,” Quin said. “I did the damage and I’ll carry you to your chamber. Miss Georgiana, you have turned your ankle.” He picked her up and discovered she weighed almost nothing. It was like picking up a bird, all hollow bones and feathers.
Georgiana didn’t squeal, but she sucked in an anxious breath. “Olivia, you’ll have to accompany us,” Quin said, over his shoulder. “I can carry your sister upstairs, but I need you with me as chaperone.”
Without waiting for an answer, he walked through the open doors. A rising spiral of conversation greeted them as people inquired what mishap had felled Georgiana.
“It’s just a turned ankle,” Olivia kept saying, walking just in front of them.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Georgiana said, her voice as tranquil as ever. “In fact, I think I shall rest briefly and then return to the ballroom.”
“I shall deliver you to your maid,” Quin announced, making sure all in the near vicinity heard him. “You may, of course, make up your own mind about whether you feel it advisable to return. One wouldn’t want to see you dance on an injured ankle, Miss Georgiana.”
This flummery got them to the bottom of the stairs. Quin started climbing, thinking about the difference between the sisters. Georgiana felt like a bundle of feathers in his arms, whereas the idea of holding Olivia like this . . . carrying her upstairs to the bedroom . . .
He walked faster. When they reached the top of the stairs, he moved to the side to allow Olivia to go before them.
As soon as they were inside Georgiana’s bedchamber, she politely but firmly freed herself and dropped a perfectly calibrated curtsy. “I thank you very much for rescuing me, Your Grace.”
“I am happy to be of service; after all, it was I who was responsible for your predicament. And I think we should be on a first-name basis,” he said, picking up her hand and kissing it. “My intimates call me Quin.”
There was an odd look to her eyes, one he couldn’t interpret, not the way he could read Olivia’s.
“May I call you Georgie? The name suits you.”
She nodded. “I would be honored.” Then she turned to her sister. “Olivia, I’ll join you downstairs in a half hour or so. Thank you again, Your Grace.”
“My name is
Quin
,” he insisted.
She really was a somber young woman; her smile came nowhere near her eyes. “Of course,” she agreed. Then she closed the door in their faces.
Olivia stared, frowning, at the door, but Quin didn’t give a damn about what Georgiana was feeling or thinking. He gave one swift look about and found to his deep satisfaction that there was no one within sight, and no one could see them from below. His hand closed on Olivia’s like a vise and he pulled her down the corridor, flung open the door to his bedchamber, and hauled her inside like a recalcitrant child.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in a harsh whisper.
Quin not only knew exactly what he was thinking, but he knew what she was thinking, too. She could protest all she wished, but he had learned to read her eyes.
Without a word he closed the door and backed her against it, and bent his head to her mouth, spurring the wild, searing passion that always flared between them.
“Quin,” she gasped, but he was tilting her head to the side, unable to think, his entire body just a fierce ball of
want
. He throbbed to touch her, to have her, to be inside her.
“I need you,” he said haltingly. He shaped his hands around her bottom and pulled her up, closer to him, molding her luscious body to his. “Olivia!” Her name came out low and deep, like a plea or a prayer. She was on tiptoes, kissing him back, and still it wasn’t enough.
With a smooth swirl he plucked her from her place against the door and placed her on his bed. He lowered himself on top of her slowly, making sure that every inch of him was against her softness, watching her to see that she understood what he was doing.
She made a sweet, inarticulate sound, more like a gasp, but she didn’t say a word. Then she was kissing him too, and her body was soft under his muscled thighs, her fingers locked in his hair.
They stayed there, not moving much, for long minutes. It wasn’t kissing the way Quin ever thought of kissing. He thought he knew exactly what a kiss was: a caress of the lips that might or might not involve an exploration of the recipient’s mouth by the giver’s tongue.
None of that made any sense compared to this. This was an inferno and a conversation, all at once. He felt every touch with double ferocity: the way her fingers caressed his hair and then clenched almost painfully if he nudged forward with his hips. Her breath, sweet and smelling of tea and lemons. The little sounds she made in the back of her throat, urging him on, telling him without words that—
He reared up, looking down at her, running a possessive hand down her neck, her shoulders, trailing onto her breast. He felt her shudder under his touch.
She opened her mouth, about to speak, so he put a finger across her lips. The tip of her tongue stole out and touched his finger. He pressed back, just a little, allowed his finger to slip through soft lips into liquid warmth. The groan was torn from his chest, reverberated through his entire body.
It crystallized his thoughts.
“I will not marry Georgiana.” It was blunt because he wasn’t good at words, even though he was a little more fluent around Olivia. Somehow, he could talk to her.