The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [37]
But when he reached the door, the dog melted off to the side, disappearing behind the curtains. The party was clustered at one end of the terrace, looking quite flowery and picturesque. With a faint pulse of alarm, he realized that he was the only man.
His mother turned to greet him. “There you are, Tarquin,” she said. “I wish to introduce you.”
Quin walked forward and joined the circle. The dowager began at her left. “Miss Georgiana Lytton, my son, the Duke of Sconce.” Miss Georgiana bore only a faint resemblance to the sodden woman he had helped from the toppled carriage. Her hair was warm brown with streaks of bronze, and pinned in loops and curls about her head. Her eyes were lively and intelligent, but above all, she carried herself with a kind of natural grace and dignity that was a pleasure to see.
He bowed. Georgiana dipped her head and dropped a pretty curtsy. His mother watched with noticeable warmth in her eyes.
It’s done, Quin thought as he kissed Georgiana’s glove. She was perfect. She even looked like a duchess-to-be. She was wearing something pink with lots of tiny pleats. It wasn’t at all like her sister’s gown—it didn’t make him rage with lust—but one had to assume it was à la mode, with short sleeves that belled around her shoulders with a kind of elegance gifted only by a French modiste.
She looked as if she were ready to have her portrait painted and stuck up on the wall with all the other duchesses who’d lived in his house.
“Miss Lytton, may I present the duke,” his mother said, her voice altering just a shade. “Miss Lytton is Miss Georgiana’s twin sister.” Olivia was clearly not a favorite in the marital sweepstakes, which didn’t surprise him in the least.
Olivia curtsied, rather less deeply than her sister had done, and then Quin swept into a bow. Her hair was far darker than her sister’s.
“Miss Lytton,” his mother continued, “is betrothed to the Marquess of Montsurrey. While the marquess has not been in company overly much, I’m sure you’ve met his father, the Duke of Canterwick, in the House of Lords.”
Quin froze in mid-bow at the word “betrothed,” then his lips touched Olivia’s glove. He felt her fingers trembled in his hand; perhaps it was his hand that trembled around her fingers. He straightened.
“Indeed,” he said. “Best wishes on your betrothal, Miss Lytton. I’m afraid that I have not had the pleasure of meeting the marquess.”
She smiled at him. She had dimples. No, only one dimple, in her right cheek.
“Rupert is heading a company against the French,” she said. “He is quite patriotic.”
“He must be so,” Quin said, pulling himself together and giving a silent nod to the absent marquess. He himself had thought of serving in the war against France but had deemed it impossible. Given that his father was dead and he had no brothers, he was responsible for an enormous estate that stretched across three English counties, not to mention the land in Scotland. He simply could not leave. “I have the greatest respect for those men who are defending our country against the incursions of Napoleon.”
“May I present Lady Althea Renwitt and her mother, Lady Sibblethorp,” the dowager said, ignoring the question of Napoleon. She didn’t approve of the war; the French had been most objectionable when they slew their nobility, but she couldn’t see why England should risk English lives on that account. Quin had given up trying to explain it to her. “Lady Althea, Lady Renwitt, my son, the Duke of Sconce.”
Lady Althea was quite small, and had two dimples to Olivia’s one. She smiled in such a way that both dimples and a great expanse of teeth were in evidence, and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.” Then she giggled.
“My sister, Lady Cecily, will be unable to join us, as she injured her ankle in last night’s debacle,” his mother said. “I don’t doubt but that Cleese will wish to begin luncheon now. We are hopelessly uneven, of course. And there is no sign of Lord Justin.