The Duke Is Mine
Page 25

“You bring to mind another aphorism that might apply,” she said sweetly. “ ‘Even the ghosts of one’s dead ancestors would rather sleep than listen to someone twitter like a jug-bitten parrot.’ ” She paused. “Although now I think on it, perhaps that cannot be attributed to The Mirror of Compliments.”
“You have a lively sense of humor, Miss Lytton,” the dowager remarked. It was not a compliment.
“I’m curious about the ghosts of my living ancestors, not the dead ones,” Justin said, his eyes full of mischief. “What do they do when Quin launches into mathematical conniptions?”
Quin intervened. “Miss Lytton.”
“Your Grace?”
“I promise not to inform you about square roots again without issuing tickets first.”
“I, for one, would enjoy receiving one of those tickets,” Georgiana said, giving him a warm smile. “And I apologize for my sister’s irreverence. I’m afraid that we are used to funning between ourselves.”
She was perfect for him in every way.
“I no longer have the moral fortitude to endure lectures in mathematics,” Justin put in. “So, if you’ll forgive me, Coz, I won’t be buying a ticket to lectures on the complexities of square roots.”
“Miss Georgiana,” his mother said, “I should like to ask your opinion of stone window casements in the Gothic style.”
“Your comment implies you once had the moral fortitude to endure mathematical lectures,” Olivia said to Justin. Her eyes had a way of smiling when she was speaking—as if she were thinking naughty thoughts—that Quin found he quite appreciated.
“No, no, I’ve never had it,” Justin replied, leaning slightly forward. “At least, not when it comes to mathematics. Now if you were talking about something truly interesting . . .”
“Fashion?” she guessed.
“I adore it!” Justin exclaimed, adding, “Life is nothing without the embellishment offered by the proper attire. But my true passion is writing poetry and ballads.”
“Justin has written one hundred and thirty-eight sonnets, all for the same woman,” Quin said, inserting himself into the conversation, though by all rights he should talk with Georgiana. Still, he had nothing to say about casements, a fact his mother had to appreciate.
“Really!” Olivia said, sounding quite impressed.
“It’s called a sonnet cycle,” Justin informed her.
“That is a great many sonnets, and even more rhymes. When you’re writing such a cycle, are you allowed to repeat a few rhymes along the way? Say love and dove?”
“Not doves,” Justin said with a wave of his hand. “Doves are for chimneys and the elderly. And love is harder to rhyme than you might think. How often can one write about gloves, for instance? After you’ve longed to be the glove on your lady’s hand, what else is there to say?”
“Why would anyone want to be a glove on a lady’s hand?” Quin inquired.
Justin rolled his eyes, something he was prone to do whenever Quin participated in a conversation. “Because that glove touches her cheek, of course.”
“Other places, too,” Olivia said thoughtfully.
Quin surprised himself by almost laughing.
“Such as her nose,” she added.
“That is not very romantic,” Justin said, shaking his head at her.
“I’m afraid that I don’t have a romantic soul,” Olivia said apologetically.
“I should hope not,” the dowager said, intervening. “You are to be a duchess, Miss Lytton, and I assure you that a romantic soul is a marked detriment in a woman of our rank.” She gave Quin a significant glance. “I’m sure we would all prefer to speak of something more elevating than Lord Justin’s paltry attempts at verse. Lady Sibblethorp, how are your charitable endeavors with wayward youth progressing?”
As it happened, Lady Sibblethorp was more than happy to detail the blue shirts and sturdy shoes that her organization was handing out to blighted lads. Or youths from blighted backgrounds: the two categories seemed to overlap.
“How interesting,” Georgiana said, managing to sound genuinely interested. “How did you decide on shirts and shoes, Lady Sibblethorp?” It seemed that she was both intelligent and charitable. Wonderful.
The lady in question swelled with pride and settled into a thrilling discussion of neckcloths, stockings, shirts, and coats.
Quin listened for just as long as he felt it absolutely necessary, and then turned back to Justin and Olivia. They had blithely ignored the dowager’s instructions: Justin was reciting bits of his poetry and Olivia was making fun of them. They were obviously enjoying each other enormously.
“I was born under a star,” Justin was reciting, “so the moon is within my grasp.”
“What on earth do you mean by saying that you were born under a star? I was born at night, so surely I qualify. Does that mean the moon might drop into my hand?”
“It’s a tribute,” Justin explained. “I often compare my beloved to the Moon Goddess, Cynthia. She falls within my grasp because I am star-born.” He paused. “Star-born. I like that. I have to remember to tell my tutor; he’ll applaud, I’m sure.”
“I thought Mr. Usher was supposed to be preparing you for the upcoming term at Oxford, rather than feeding your passion for poetry,” Quin remarked.
“He has taught me no end of important things about mathematics,” Justin said with a patent lack of veracity.
Quin frowned. “Just who is your beloved? You’ve read me a number of poems, but I believe I never asked for that salient bit of information. Perhaps a young lady you met while at Oxford?”
“Oh, I don’t have one,” Justin admitted cheerfully.
“One hundred and thirty-eight sonnets for a nonexistent lady,” Olivia said, sounding quite impressed. “Do you ever describe her—this moon person, I mean?”
“Moon Goddess,” Justin corrected. “Of course I do. She has silver hair.”
“That’s a surprise,” Olivia said. Her voice was so droll that Quin found another laugh rising up his chest. “Let me guess. Sparkling eyes?”
“Generally speaking, they glow. They do sparkle in two poems, a sonnet and a ballad.”
“She sounds a bit witchy. Aren’t you worried she’ll take on a jack-o’-lantern touch?”
“Absolutely not,” Justin said with dignity. “My lady has no resemblance whatsoever to a carved turnip. She usurps the sun and stars with her beauty.”
“What do you do about her clothing? Does she favor short-waisted gowns, or is she more old-fashioned, being a goddess and presumably long-lived?”
“I’ve heard enough of the poems to know that you should imagine Lady Godiva rather than a jack-o’-lantern,” Quin put in.
“Your Grace,” Olivia said, dimpling. “You surprise me!”
In fact, he surprised himself.
Justin rolled his eyes. “My poems are for all time. I’d merely date them if I described a gown. What if I described my moon goddess in a turban headdress? By next year she’d have turned to a frump, and I’d have wasted all that time on the poem.”