The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [48]
Lemon soap. Clean woman.
In comparison, clematis was overly sweet.
Eleven
The Art of the Insult
It was excellent that her sister had found the perfect husband. Of course it was. Not that repeating it over and over would make her feel any better. Envy was a rotten emotion, especially between sisters—and yet she was envious.
“It’s beneath you,” Olivia told her reflection in the glass.
“Did you say something, miss?” her maid asked from the other side of the room.
“I’m very happy with this walking costume,” Olivia responded quickly.
Norah trotted over and twitched the hem of Olivia’s gown straight. “That butter yellow suits you no end. And the spencer jacket is darling.” She hesitated. “Is Her Grace accompanying you to the village?”
“Of course. She’ll be watching poor Georgie to make sure that she doesn’t put a step wrong.”
“They all say downstairs that she’s terribly strict,” Norah confirmed. “I wouldn’t want to be her daughter-in-law, myself.”
“A terrible fate, no doubt, but I’m sure that Georgie can tame her.”
Norah nodded, but managed to convey utter disbelief.
“Over time,” Olivia clarified. “Do you think that perhaps you should weave a ribbon into my hair? Perhaps dull gold, to pick up the yellow?”
They both looked into the glass. Olivia’s walking dress came with a pretty little jacket made of bombazine. It was short, stopping just below the bodice, and trimmed with a frill. Olivia fancied that it did an excellent job of emphasizing her curves.
“No,” the maid said decisively. “I suggest a little hat, the one with the feather going sideways.”
“Of course!”
“Her Grace is not going to appreciate your gown,” Norah said, sorting through Olivia’s hats and bonnets. “Not a bit.”
Olivia groaned.
“The hem is too high, and she’s likely to faint at the sight of your ankles. She has the butler measure all the maids’ costumes weekly, to make sure they are precisely the right length from the floor. They aren’t allowed to show even a twitch of ankle.”
“My ankles are my favorite feature,” Olivia said, looking at the mirror once again. Sure enough, they were on full display, accentuated by her utterly delicious new slippers. They looked positively bony. Truly: her best feature.
“They’re going to be the gentlemen’s favorite, too,” Norah said with a giggle, “with those ribbons crossing up your legs. It’s a good thing your mother isn’t here to see.”
“Oh, pooh,” Olivia said lightly. “If a future duchess can’t wear the newest design in kid slippers, who can? I’m sure the dowager would agree.”
Or . . . she wouldn’t.
By the time the party had assembled before the house and begun traipsing along the path to the village, Olivia had decided that the dowager’s silent—yet ferocious—glances indicated that she was not in favor of the new short skirts, nor Olivia’s delightful new slippers.
In fact, Olivia found it more peaceful to walk slightly behind the group on the way to the village. It was a charitable impulse, since the very sight of her ankles—and of Lucy obediently trotting beside those ankles—seemed to be driving the dowager toward apoplexy.
Yet as far as Olivia could tell, men were much more interested in bosoms and thighs than ankles. It was only women like herself, longing for bony body parts, who cared a twig about ankles.
It would be extraordinarily foolish to voice that idea to the dowager. One did not deliberately bait a lioness.
“Olivia!” Georgiana called, dropping back from the larger group.
Olivia twirled her parasol. It was a frivolous bit of lace and ruffle that looked like a giant buttercup. She loved it. “Yes?” she asked, knowing exactly what was coming.
But Georgie surprised her. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you before we left the house. Those slippers are extremely fetching.”
“I am showing off my best feature. And oddly enough, all the barely suppressed anger from the dowager is making me feel alarmingly at home. Perhaps I’ll break out a limerick at the table tonight.”
Georgiana carefully adjusted