The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [38]
Quin thought that the more likely explanation was that Justin took longer to dress than a woman. But still, he felt a little better remembering that his cousin would be at luncheon as well. While Justin couldn’t precisely be said to have achieved manhood at age sixteen, half a man was better than none.
At that very moment he heard the click of heels. They all turned, to find Lord Justin Fiebvre making his characteristic flamboyant entry. He paused for a moment in the doorway, threw back the lock of hair that constantly—and, one had to believe, deliberately—obscured his eyes, and cried, “Such beauty! I feel as though I am entering the garden of the Hesperides.”
Lucy was tucked under his arm, her long snout nuzzling the shot silk of a quite extraordinary pearl-colored silk coat, embroidered with silver arabesques and pale blue beads.
The dowager straightened her shoulders, a sign of irritation. She allowed Justin to vex her, which was foolish, to Quin’s mind. Justin was not entirely English nor entirely adult, but under all the frills he was a decent fellow.
“Lord Justin,” she stated. “May I inquire as to why you are carrying that—that animal under your arm?”
“I found this little sweetheart in the library,” he replied, grinning. “I couldn’t leave a lonely girl all on her own.”
From the way she was eyeing him, the dowager considered the coat inappropriate for a country luncheon—though it was difficult to distinguish her sartorial disapproval from her patent dislike of dogs.
But Justin had a charming habit of ignoring his aunt’s displeasure. He had a sunny disposition and preferred, as he often said, “to see happiness.”
“Now who is the mistress of this charmer?” he asked, looking from person to person as he stroked Lucy’s head.
“She is mine,” Olivia said, moving forward. “I left her in the library because she seemed to be so afraid to come into the sunlight. I’m afraid that Lucy is not a deeply courageous dog.”
“We don’t all need to be brave,” Justin said. “I, for one, count myself among the cowardly yet respectable majority. Your Lucy is utterly charming.”
“If you would be so kind as to join us, Lord Justin,” the dowager cut in, “I will introduce you to our houseguests.”
“A keen pleasure awaits me!” Justin put Lucy down at his feet, and she scurried over to Olivia and hid behind her. The dowager drew aside her skirts with a barely suppressed squeak.
Justin bowed low over each lady’s hand, brushing kisses and breathing compliments. He adored Miss Lytton’s gown (so did Quin), Miss Georgiana’s ring, Lady Althea’s ribbons . . .
Quin was rather interested to see that while Lady Althea fell into a perfect frenzy of dimpling, Olivia and her sister seemed more amused than admiring.
He took a deep breath and willed himself to calmness.
For a man who prided himself on not experiencing emotion, Quin had reacted to the news of Miss Olivia Lytton’s betrothal to the Marquess of Montsurrey with a jolt of something so primitive that he had hardly recognized it.
He had to stop himself from sweeping her off her feet, carrying her to the library, and slamming the door behind them—after which, he would make damn sure that she broke off her betrothal.
But he never slammed doors. That was for . . . that was for other men. The emotional kind.
He wasn’t emotional. It was a good thing he reminded himself of that, because he was in some danger of surprising himself.
Could he be experiencing some sort of temporary insanity? Perhaps there was a medical syndrome that encompassed kissing the vicar’s wife, and given that no such matron was within ready grasp, kissing a stranger who appears on one’s doorstep in the middle of the night in a rainstorm.
Of course, Olivia probably had every lecherous man in London panting after her, given her voluptuous figure. That gown she wore was made up of different panels that somehow swept