The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [29]
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.
“Yes, indeed,” Olivia said, feeling a little ashamed of herself. She had done it again; the moment she became aggravated by flagrant displays of propriety, she abandoned