The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [15]
They left the room on a stream of Rupert’s babble. Olivia allowed herself to be seated when they reached the library; the duke stayed in his favorite posture, feet spread, hands behind his back, as if he were standing on the prow of a ship.
He’d have made a good ship’s captain, now Olivia thought on it. That nose would have come in handy when it came to smelling the storm winds, or sniffing out rotten goods in the hold.
“Just in case you’re worried, my dear, Rupert will be going nowhere near the French shore,” His Grace announced.
Olivia nodded. “I am very happy to hear it.”
“He’ll be landing in Portugal.”
“Portugal?” Olivia echoed, thinking that she had been right: Rupert was indeed being kept a whole country away from the battle.
“The French are fighting in Spain at no great distance,” the duke said. “But Rupert is landing in Portugal, and there he will stay. He wishes to be at Wellington’s side, but I simply cannot allow that.”
Olivia inclined her head again.
The duke shifted from foot to foot, the first time that Olivia had ever seen him show the faintest hint of uncertainty. Then: “He’s a biddable lad, as you’ll discover. Generally does what he’s told, without much fuss. He learned to . . . He can even dance now. Not the quadrille, of course, but most of the rest. But when he does get an idea in his head, he simply won’t let go of it. And here’s the problem: he’s convinced himself that he will not marry until he achieves military glory.”
Olivia didn’t twitch an eyebrow. But the duke read something more subtle in her face.
“Astonishing, isn’t it? I blame his tutors for spending altogether too much time beating the history of our family into his head. The first duke led five hundred men into battle—and the best way to describe that engagement would be a glorious and epic defeat. But of course we put a different gloss on it amongst ourselves. Or at least those fools of tutors did. Rupert wants to lead a troop of men and come home covered in glory.”
Olivia was suddenly aware of a feeling of pity for the duke, something he would undoubtedly resent.
“Perhaps he might lead a small skirmish?” she suggested.
“Precisely my thought,” the duke said, sighing. “It’s taken a bit of maneuvering, but he’ll be heading up a company of one hundred men.”
“And what will he do with them?”
“Lead them into battle,” the duke said. “In Portugal, a nice distance from any soldiers who might be inclined to fight back.”
“Ah.”
“Of course, anytime I let him out of my sight, I worry.”
Olivia would worry too, if she had the faintest affection for Rupert. He was just the type to commit suicide. Oh, he wouldn’t have it in mind as such. But he would wander into the Whitefriars with a jeweled snuffbox in his hand and a diamond set in his cravat. Suicide.
The duke thumped his walking stick on the flagstones before the fireplace, rather as if he were trying to even out the stone. “The truth of it is that I’m concerned about the possibility that Rupert won’t go through with the marriage if I force him to the altar.”
Olivia nodded again.
The duke looked at her fleetingly and then gave the flagstone at his foot another good prod. “I could deliver him to a church, obviously, but I would be unsurprised if he said no at the crucial moment, even if I filled St. Paul’s with witnesses. He’d cheerfully explain exactly why he didn’t want to say his vows, and he would certainly be happy to tell everyone that he planned to marry you after he achieved—” His voice broke off.
“Military glory,” Olivia finished his sentence for him. She was feeling very sorry indeed for the duke. No one deserved to be humiliated like this.
“Precisely.” Another thump sounded, along with the distinct sound of splintering wood.
“I have no doubt but that the marquess will return from Portugal satisfied with his prowess,” Olivia said. It was true,