The Duke Is Mine
Page 17

“That’s exactly what I said.” Olivia smiled at the duke’s stiff features. “From now on I’ll recognize that squint anywhere.”
“I am happy to welcome you to my house, Miss Lytton,” he said, dismissing the question of the squint as beneath him. Olivia had the feeling that he often ignored trivialities of that sort. “I trust that you, Lady Cecily, and your sister plan to make a long visit. My mother, the dowager duchess, will be most happy to greet you tomorrow morning, as will my cousin, Lord Justin Fiebvre, who is paying us a visit before he returns to Oxford University.”
He had a very deep voice, deeper than her father’s. It made him sound . . . it was very manly, Olivia thought, before she jerked her mind away from the subject.
Georgiana deserted Lady Cecily and trotted over to Olivia’s side, giving her a little pinch. “What on earth are you doing, making fun of the duke?” she whispered. “He hasn’t a squint!”
“Our driver was found in the ditch quite uninjured,” Lady Cecily said, “and my dear, he reeked of gin. Reeked! A knavish type he must be, soaked in drink. If it had been up to him, we could have died right in the carriage and been eaten by vultures.”
“Eaten while still in the carriage?” the duke remarked. “That would be quite unusual.”
“It’s a wonder we didn’t drive straight into a river! Or into a mail coach. We should have examined his fingernails before we entered the carriage. Were you aware that a man who has a slightly longer fingernail on the little finger is invariably an inebriate?”
“The duke was remarkably surprising,” Olivia whispered back. “He just—I’ll tell you later.”
“You didn’t say something unladylike already,” Georgiana groaned.
“No! Well, I did, but I’ll tell you later. But are you feeling quite all right, Georgie? I think Lady Cecily landed on top of you.”
“Five more minutes in that carriage alone with Lady C, and I’d have been a candidate for Bedlam,” Georgiana breathed, so quietly that she could scarcely be heard.
Olivia squeezed her hand. Olivia and Georgiana had survived the past five days in the carriage by reverting to the games they’d played as children: betting on the number of times that Lady Cecily mentioned her “dearest friend”—Lady Jersey, one of the patronesses of Almack’s—just as they used to bet on their mother’s references to The Mirror of Compliments.
“I was not aware of any parallel between a man’s character and his fingernails,” the duke said now, to Lady Cecily. Olivia could have told him that his aunt was a treasure trove of odd theories, mostly to do with the digestion. Olivia didn’t believe a single one.
“Oh, it’s very true,” Lady Cecily assured the duke. “I expect it’s the very first thing Bow Street Runners look for when they apprehend a criminal.”
“I always heard the telltale sign was a squint, myself,” Olivia remarked. For some reason the duke’s implacable expression made her long to tweak his nose, although she didn’t quite dare look to see how he took her comment. So she added hastily, “Have the carriages with our maids and trunks made an appearance?”
“I had a new gown in one of my trunks,” Lady Cecily said instantly. “And although you haven’t suckled the milk of the court, my dear, and thence come to be a proper courtier, anyone could understand the need to recover my fringed gloves. I wore those gloves when I met the Spanish ambassador and he paid me a great compliment, though I couldn’t tell you what it was, as he didn’t speak English.”
Cleese broke in the moment Lady Cecily paused for breath. “There is, as yet, no sign of the service carriages, Miss Lytton. I have taken the liberty of assigning a lady’s maid to each of you, who will be happy to aid you until your own servants arrive.”
“But I must have my maid,” Lady Cecily said, nimbly taking up the new subject. “No one but Harriet can make my face. You know what they say, dear.” She peered at Georgiana and Olivia through dripping strands of hair. “A woman’s past her prime at twenty, decayed at four-and-twenty, old, and insufferable at thirty. My dears, you’re not yet four-and-twenty, are you?”
“We have one year before we are entirely decayed,” Olivia stated.
“I am glad to hear it,” the duke put in, rather unexpectedly. “My squint may well indicate a marked state of decay.”
Olivia raised an eyebrow. There was just the faintest gleam in his eye . . . his comment almost suggested a sense of humor. What a peculiar man he was.
“Decay!” Lady Cecily hooted. “As if we would accept such a description of you! Men do not decay.”
Olivia felt nettled all over again. “Lady Cecily,” she asked, “why on earth should men not decay, if ladies do?”
“Oh, men do decay,” Lady Cecily said, not one to be stumped by any question that might possibly be construed as within her area of expertise. “That is, they rot, which is all the same thing, isn’t it? Mr. Bumtrinket always used to say that a man who can’t go diddly-diddly-up when required is rotten to the core.”
Olivia choked, but otherwise Lady Cecily’s comment was met with silence. She stole a look at the duke and found that very subtle gleam in his eye again. He looked as sober as an alderman, but possibly, just possibly, he was laughing inside.
Then she took another look and changed her mind. No one with a face that righteous could have a sense of humor. What’s more, he had presumably been raised according to the precepts found in the Mirror for Poker-Faced Peacocks. The ability to laugh would have been trained right out of him.
“At any rate,” Lady Cecily said, picking up the conversation again, “my nephew is famous all over the kingdom for the clever things he does with numbers. More than an accountant could do, I expect. Better than accounting. Such clever things.”
“It is an honor to meet such a renowned mathematician,” Georgiana said.
Olivia glanced to the side and saw with an odd little flip of her stomach that her sister was smiling at the duke. Of course, it would never occur to this man that Georgiana’s smile signaled condescension—because it wouldn’t. He was a duke. They were perfectly suited for each other. It was positively disgusting to think that she had kissed—no matter how unwillingly—her future brother-in-law.
The duke was as susceptible to Georgiana’s smile as she had always known men would be. His eyes softened perceptibly and he said, “Lady Cecily exaggerates, Miss Georgiana.” It was rather astounding the way he could murmur something self-effacing and yet look so proud.
“You mustn’t be modest,” Olivia said, unable to resist. “Accounting is such a useful skill. And it’s quite brave of you to have realized your desire to be an accountant, given your elevated position, Your Grace.”
Beside her, Georgiana gave a tiny, and likely involuntary, moan. The duke’s eyes shifted from her sister’s face.
“Most dukes haven’t the wits for simple fractions,” she finished, giving him a smile that didn’t include a hint of her sister’s worshipfulness.
“If I may, I suggest that we repair to the chambers that Cleese has kindly prepared for us,” Georgiana said, sticking an elbow into Olivia’s ribs.