The Duke Is Mine
Page 50

Olivia bit his finger, felt giddy spirals building in her body, sending her heartbeat into her throat.
He raised his head, dropped his hand from her mouth and rubbed a rough thumb across her nipple. Olivia arched back on his arm, mad with the need of it, dazed by the wild sensations coursing through her.
“We can’t do this here,” Quin said, his voice a growl against her throat.
“No?” She jolted, shocked by her own voice, by the pleading hunger. “Of course we can’t.” She sat up, preparing to stand.
Quin looked at her, a wicked invitation in his eyes, and rubbed a thumb over her nipple again. Her spine crumpled against him again, her legs falling open in an invitation he didn’t take.
His hand stilled, finally. Olivia swallowed hard, fighting the impulse to beg for more.
“Are you quite certain that you are not carrying Montsurrey’s child?” His voice held no condemnation, merely a request for information.
She turned her head against his chest. “Yes.”
“But you and he . . .”
Olivia tried to think how to explain, while honoring her promise to Rupert. Georgiana was her twin, her other self; Rupert would understand that she had told Georgie the truth.
But Quin . . . Quin was the man who was going to take her away from Rupert. And even if Rupert didn’t actually want her, he was nevertheless accustomed to her. For a man who loved familiarity, it would be a wrench to lose her. There was no question but that Rupert wouldn’t want Quin to know about the limp celery.
“His father was concerned, because Rupert was going off to war,” she said, choosing her words carefully.
Silence.
Then: “Canterwick forced you to sleep with his simpleton of a son out of wedlock because he was worried that he would have no heir?”
It sounded terrible, put like that.
“I wasn’t forced.”
“Did you volunteer?”
“No.”
“That’s rape,” he said flatly.
“No! Rupert wasn’t . . . Rupert would never.”
“Then it was double rape of the both of you.”
Olivia let out a huff of air. “You make it sound despicable. I’m very fond of Rupert, as is he of me. We got through it as best we could. And he did tell me a poem he’d written. It was very good.”
“What was it?”
“It was about the death of a sparrow that had fallen from a tree. ‘Quick, bright, a bird falls down to us, darkness piles up in the trees.’ ”
Quin scowled. “I don’t understand that any better than the limerick Peregrine taught me. What does he mean by saying that darkness piles up in the trees? As someone who is studying light, I can tell you that rays don’t pile up anywhere.”
Olivia tugged her bodice into place, and then leaned back against his arm so she could see his face. “Rupert’s poem and the limerick aren’t supposed to be dissected. They just cause a little rush of feeling, that’s all.”
“ ‘Darkness piles up’ is a feeling?” Quin sounded adorably confused.
“He’s talking about grief: the grief he felt when the sparrow fell out of the tree. The bird was quick and bright, and then it was gone. Darkness piled up in the tree where the sparrow once sang.”
His eyes changed.
“Yes, like Alfie,” she said, and put her cheek against his chest. The emotion on his face was so raw that it was painful to witness.
They sat there for a while, Quin’s arms tight around her. Strains of a contra dance crept into the silence, drifting from the ballroom under the door. The music was joyous and sweet, as if it came from miles away, from a world in which no little boys—or sparrows—fell from trees.
Finally Quin cleared his throat. “You do realize that Montsurrey—”
“Rupert,” she corrected him. “Rupert hates to be called by his title. Were he able, he would be on intimate terms with the world.”
“You realize that Rupert is more and more dislikable? He wrote the only piece of poetry I’ve ever understood, he’s defending our country while I sleep comfortably at home, and I’m stealing his fiancée.”
“Rupert would adore the idea that you were in the least bit jealous,” Olivia said. “He may not think clearly, but he understands feelings, and it hurts him when people are dismissive.”
“He certainly understands feelings.”
“I think the damage in his brain freed him. He cries whenever he is moved, whenever he hears or sees something grievous.”
Quin digested this in silence. At last he rose, setting her on her feet. “Are you certain that you wish to marry me? I didn’t have a rush of feeling in response to that poem until you explained it. Why couldn’t it be in full sentences?”
“Rupert very rarely speaks in full sentences.”
“But he could have been more clear. Why didn’t he say: When the swift-flying sparrow died—likely of old age—and fell from the tree, I felt as if my heart grew very dark.”
Olivia wrapped her arms around him. “You forgot bright, but I think you did well with dark.”
“Bright doesn’t make sense. Birds from the Passeridae family tend to be gray or brown. I realize that my version is much longer, but it’s more precise. And grammatical.”
“But your version talks about Rupert’s feelings, whereas Rupert’s spoke to you about your feelings for Alfie.”
“Ah.” He considered, and then: “I still find the conjoining of the specific words he chose to be quite illogical.”
“Consider it the poetic equivalent of a mathematical function,” Olivia suggested. “So, do you suppose we should walk into the ballroom and pretend nothing has happened? You’ll need to tie your hair back.”
“No.”
“No to going into the ballroom, or no to pretending that nothing happened?”
“I have no objection to going into the ballroom, because that’s the only way to reach the stairs to the bedchambers. I have changed my mind.”
Olivia gave a little gasp. “Are you saying . . . ? No! That would create a terrible scandal. Absolutely not.”
His hands tightened on her. “A sparrow falls every second, Olivia.” He gave her a kiss that was an erotic demand.
It took a moment, but Olivia managed to pull herself away from his kiss and out of his arms. “Your mother would be horrified by such a scandal. You remain here for at least a half hour. I’ll try to slip into the ballroom, and hopefully people will think that I was merely composing myself after having a conversation with your mother.”
“There is a footman in front of the door.”
“What?”
“My mother stationed him there after she left, to ensure our privacy. Look at the bottom of the door and you’ll see the shadow of his boots. My mother’s servants are trained to have their shoulders to the wall; if you open the door, you’ll strike him in the back, which will attract attention.”
Olivia bit her lip. “I had not planned to embark upon a life as an infamous woman with such speed.”
He walked to the back of the room, wrenched open the window, and beckoned to her. “It’s a good thing you’re a nimble climber.”