The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [71]
And Tarquin?
It took a moment, but she managed to find her son. He was seated in a corner, and appeared to be watching Miss Lytton, who was sitting in another corner talking to the Bishop of Ramsgate. This evening Olivia Lytton looked the very picture of the future Duchess of Canterwick, the only possible objection being that her neckline was a bit daring.
The dowager squinted until she could see more clearly. The bishop, that old goat, seemed to be enjoying the view afforded by Miss Lytton’s embonpoint.
But it was Tarquin whose face caught her eye. The expression on his face was somehow familiar. In fact, she had seen that look before, and she had hoped never to see it again. Before she even realized it, she was halfway out of her chair.
But she eased back.
It could not have gone very far. In fact, thinking carefully over the last few days, the dowager was quite certain that the relationship, if one could call it that, couldn’t be said to exist. At least, not to Miss Lytton. That was important. Miss Lytton was already betrothed to a marquess. What’s more, she seemed to be loyal to the poor fool.
Furthermore, Canterwick himself had insinuated to her that Miss Lytton might be carrying the heir to his dukedom.
Of course, that didn’t mean that Olivia Lytton wouldn’t throw over her fiancé in a moment if she got wind of the idea that she could exchange the marquess for a duke with a full twelve eggs to the dozen.
The dowager’s fingers tightened on the arms of her chair. Miss Lytton was almost certainly another Evangeline.
Possibly carrying the duke’s heir, even though the boy was only eighteen and as simple as they come, or so she’d heard. And now she was flirting with a bishop! Incredible.
“I must say, you have an ugly little dog, Amaryllis,” Mary said, interrupting her thoughts.
“I don’t own a canine!” Her irritation with Miss Lytton colored her voice.
“Whose is it, then?”
With a sense of misgiving, the dowager followed the direction of Mary’s lorgnette. That odd dog belonging to Miss Lytton—one could hardly call it a canine, given its size and untidiness—was sitting at her skirts. Sitting with its horrid little paw on her slipper. Again!
For a moment she simply stared at the dog, aghast.
“Not bad in its own way,” Mary said. “And it certainly adores you. Reminds me of the hunting dogs my husband used to have. They looked at him in just that way.”
“I hate dogs. Take it off, if you please.”
Mary gave that odd cackle of laughter that made her sound like a demented witch. “Nonsense, Amaryllis! At our age, we can’t afford to coddle that sort of ridiculousness.”
“I loathe animals with paws.” It was a statement of fact, though she couldn’t help noticing that this one seemed to have rather sweet eyes.
“You should give that up,” Mary said. “Makes you look like a fool. You’re too old to carry on like a green girl.” And with that shot, she got to her feet, her knees creaking, and hobbled off.
The dog was an ugly little thing, with almost no fur and a distinct scar on its eyelid. Its nose was longer than any dog’s nose needed to be. She glared at it and the dog lay down at her feet.
“There’s nothing foolish about disliking paws,” she said aloud. But she couldn’t help frowning at the tiny black one that was inching close to her slipper again. Logically . . .
She pushed the thought away and looked back at Tarquin. Catching his eye, she gave a small but imperial wave. A moment later her son bowed before her. “Mother?” He had always obeyed her, even when he was a little boy. Too solemn, she’d thought at the time. He had inherited the title too young. But then he had eased into his duties so seamlessly that it felt as though Tarquin had always been the duke.
“I should like you to take Miss Georgiana for a turn around the gardens,” she stated. “She has been talking to Lady Augustina for a half hour now, which is sufficiently charitable for one night. You have time before the festivities will commence.”
Tarquin bowed,