The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [69]
Her sister smiled reluctantly. “I expect you’re probably right. Given the loss of his wife and son, the poor man has forgotten how to have fun, if he ever knew. That’s why he looks to you when you laugh.”
Olivia only trusted herself to nod again. Some stubborn, stupid part of her wanted to howl, scream that Quin was hers. Which was ridiculous. She knew perfectly well that she couldn’t leave Rupert. And Quin was her darling sister’s best chance to become the aristocrat she was meant to be.
“What will you wear to the ball tomorrow?”
“I think the blue silk with Chantilly lace.”
“Ah,” Olivia teased. “The big weapons are coming out.”
“I have the strangest feeling that Sconce’s mother is throwing this ball as some sort of test,” her sister said. “Isn’t that odd? She seems to be interrogating both me and Althea, as if she were comparing our answers to an approved list.”
Olivia shrugged. “You will triumph, in that case. What was our childhood, if not a series of tests?”
Her sister’s brow pleated. “Do you really feel that way? And don’t shrug again!”
“Yes.”
“I suppose I see your point.”
“Everything we were scolded for, or celebrated for, was directed at just one thing,” Olivia said. “Becoming duchesses.”
“I can see why you’re bitter.”
“You can?”
“Because you never passed a single test!” her twin said, hooting with laughter and running round the sofa as Olivia dashed after her, brandishing a napkin.
Sixteen
Various Anxieties Related to Children and Canines, but Not to Canapés
Whenever the Dowager Duchess of Sconce announced a ball—even a smallish affair—plans changed at all the great houses within a forty-mile radius. No one who claimed gentry status or higher would even consider missing such an occasion, unless it were for their mother’s funeral.
And for some, even that would be a distinct wrench.
It wasn’t that a Sconce ball was especially fashionable. Her Grace never bothered to import two hundred lemon trees heavy with fruit, or blanket the ballroom with orchids, or even send to Gunter’s for specially made ices.
Rather, she followed the prescribed routine of the duchesses who had come before her: one ancestor had hosted King Henry VIII on two different occasions, greeting two different wives, and another had welcomed Queen Elizabeth three times.
To wit: The ballroom was scrubbed and polished to a fare-thee-well, a smallish orchestra was hired, a reasonable amount of food was ordered, and a great deal of excellent wine was brought up from the cellars.
And that was that.
The rest would take care of itself, to the dowager’s mind, and it always did. There was nothing more pitiable than the sight of an anxious hostess.
As was her custom, in the early evening in question she presided over a small meal, to which were invited those guests who would stay at Littlebourne overnight, having traveled a goodly distance. Following the meal, the assembled guests were asked to proceed to the music room. Some time remained before the ball was to begin, and Her Grace had judged this interval an opportune time to address another item on her suitability inventory.
To this end, she issued a command, faintly disguised as an invitation. “I believe we should all be grateful if the young ladies among us would give us some light entertainment.”
Lady Althea and Miss Georgiana immediately rose, as did the two Miss Barrys. (The Barrys lived on the other side of the county and were all very well in their way, but not eligible as daughters-in-law as a consequence of the unfortunate existence of an inebriate great-uncle. One never knew when that bad strain might pop up in the blood.) Her Grace positioned herself on a settee with a clear view to the instruments, instructing her friend Mary, Lady Voltore, to sit with her.
The Miss Barrys conducted themselves tunefully. Lady Althea