The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [43]
“I should hope not,” the dowager said, intervening. “You are to be a duchess, Miss Lytton, and I assure you that a romantic soul is a marked detriment in a woman of our rank.” She gave Quin a significant glance. “I’m sure we would all prefer to speak of something more elevating than Lord Justin’s paltry attempts at verse. Lady Sibblethorp, how are your charitable endeavors with wayward youth progressing?”
As it happened, Lady Sibblethorp was more than happy to detail the blue shirts and sturdy shoes that her organization was handing out to blighted lads. Or youths from blighted backgrounds: the two categories seemed to overlap.
“How interesting,” Georgiana said, managing to sound genuinely interested. “How did you decide on shirts and shoes, Lady Sibblethorp?” It seemed that she was both intelligent and charitable. Wonderful.
The lady in question swelled with pride and settled into a thrilling discussion of neckcloths, stockings, shirts, and coats.
Quin listened for just as long as he felt it absolutely necessary, and then turned back to Justin and Olivia. They had blithely ignored the dowager’s instructions: Justin was reciting bits of his poetry and Olivia was making fun of them. They were obviously enjoying each other enormously.
“I was born under a star,” Justin was reciting, “so the moon is within my grasp.”
“What on earth do you mean by saying that you were born under a star? I was born at night, so surely I qualify. Does that mean the moon might drop into my hand?”
“It’s a tribute,” Justin explained. “I often compare my beloved to the Moon Goddess, Cynthia. She falls within my grasp because I am star-born.” He paused. “Star-born. I like that. I have to remember to tell my tutor; he’ll applaud, I’m sure.”
“I thought Mr. Usher was supposed to be preparing you for the upcoming term at Oxford, rather than feeding your passion for poetry,” Quin remarked.
“He has taught me no end of important things about mathematics,” Justin said with a patent lack of veracity.
Quin frowned. “Just who is your beloved? You’ve read me a number of poems, but I believe I never asked for that salient bit of information. Perhaps a young lady you met while at Oxford?”
“Oh, I don’t have one,” Justin admitted cheerfully.
“One hundred and thirty-eight sonnets for a nonexistent lady,” Olivia said, sounding quite impressed. “Do you ever describe her—this moon person, I mean?”
“Moon Goddess,” Justin corrected. “Of course I do. She has silver hair.”
“That’s a surprise,” Olivia said. Her voice was so droll that Quin found another laugh rising up his chest. “Let me guess. Sparkling eyes?”
“Generally speaking, they glow. They do sparkle in two poems, a sonnet and a ballad.”
“She sounds a bit witchy. Aren’t you worried she’ll take on a jack-o’-lantern touch?”
“Absolutely not,” Justin said with dignity. “My lady has no resemblance whatsoever to a carved turnip. She usurps the sun and stars with her beauty.”
“What do you do about her clothing? Does she favor short-waisted gowns, or is she more old-fashioned, being a goddess and presumably long-lived?”
“I’ve heard enough of the poems to know that you should imagine Lady Godiva rather than a jack-o’-lantern,” Quin put in.
“Your Grace,” Olivia said, dimpling. “You surprise me!”
In fact, he surprised himself.
Justin rolled his eyes. “My poems are for all time. I’d merely date them if I described a gown. What if I described my moon goddess in a turban headdress? By next year she’d have turned to a frump, and I’d have wasted all that time on the poem.”
“One certainly wouldn’t want to write a poem that couldn’t be reused,” Olivia agreed. “I see that naked is best. Your Moon Goddess is making a brave strike against the tiresome rules of conduct against which I’m sure we all chafe.”
“Do we?” Quin asked, leaning toward her. “Are you revealing a touch of the Lady Godiva in yourself, Miss Lytton?” He caught her gaze again, just until he saw a faint wash of pink in her cheeks.
He leaned back, vaguely aware that his heart was thumping in his chest in a thoroughly inelegant fashion. The mere mention