“Yes, indeed,” Olivia said, feeling a little ashamed of herself. She had done it again; the moment she became aggravated by flagrant displays of propriety, she abandoned all the ladylike traits her mother had instilled in her. “If you would be so kind, Cleese,” she said, turning to the butler.

“I shan’t retire until I have a warmed milk and brandy,” Lady Cecily announced. “I’ve drunk it every night since my thirteenth birthday, and I assure each of you that it has made all the difference with my digestion. There are any number of diseases that I might have caught and haven’t, because I cleanse my stomach every night.”

“Withers, bring a hot milk and brandy to Lady Cecily’s chamber as soon as possible,” Cleese said, proceeding to the foot of the steps. “If you would please follow me, my ladies, I will escort you to your chambers.”

“You’ll have to haul me up, Nephew,” Lady Cecily said. “Just wait until the young ladies reach the top of the steps, if you please.”

Olivia couldn’t resist turning about when she and Georgiana neared the top of the flight of marble stairs. Her shoulders were prickling, as if . . . Sure enough, he was watching them.

The jokes she and Georgiana had made about satyrs leaped into her mind. There was something fierce and powerful about the duke’s face that would suit a satyr. He had sharp cheekbones, but it was his eyes . . . they burned with the kind of utterly contained power that one could imagine of a satyr.

She loathed a goatee, but she had to admit that the fashion would suit his faintly exotic look. His hair had begun to dry, and the shock of white fell over his brow.

“Olivia,” Georgiana said sharply.

Olivia blinked and turned away.

Georgiana, of course, did nothing so ill-bred as to ogle the duke from the top of the stairs. Instead she dropped a curtsy, giving both the duke and her ladyship a measured, affable smile. Then she sent one sharp-eyed glance toward Olivia that said follow me, turned, and walked down the hallway after Cleese.

For the first time in her life, Olivia felt a deep longing to possess her sister’s figure rather than her own. Georgiana looked so slim and elegant, even in a drenched costume.

Whereas she herself undoubtedly looked like a loaf of bread, wrapped in a heavy coat, wet skirts clinging to her legs. Which weren’t nearly as nicely shaped as her sister’s.

“I’ll just lean on your arm, Nephew,” Lady Cecily was saying. “I certainly don’t wish to be carried up the stairs like a bundle of linens.”

Olivia started down the hallway, planning to escape before the duke reached the top of the stairs and had a good look at her wet gown from the rear.

“I hope you don’t mind my saying this,” Lady Cecily told the duke, “but your hair looks a little disordered. My husband used to wear a little net cap at night that kept his hair neatly in place. Your valet will find you one, Nephew; I shall give him the proper direction.”

Olivia giggled at the thought of the duke in a hair net. She glanced over her shoulder and . . .

Their eyes met.

His face could have been granite, for all the emotion she saw on it.

But his eyes . . . his eyes were different. They locked with hers and she could have sworn that she read something there.

Longing. Perhaps.

Olivia almost shook her head as she hurried back down the corridor after her sister. Of course it wasn’t longing. No one could possibly feel that, not for her.

She was a plump, long-in-the-tooth woman without much more to recommend her than her betrothal to a duke’s heir.

Longing!

What did she possess that a duke could possibly long for? The world lay in front of him, his for the asking.

Just as it would for her, once she became a duchess.

Eight

Defining the Qualities of a Fairy-Tale Prince

Olivia woke the next morning to the sound of her bedchamber door opening. She had no idea what time it was. The dowager duchess favored old-fashioned bedding, which meant that Olivia might as well have been sleeping in a cave. The very air around her looked blue, reflecting the watered silk that hung around her bed.

“Norah?” she asked drowsily. Late the night before, after they’d all retired, her maid had appeared, none the worse for wear. It turned out that the service carriages had missed the sign for Littlebourne Manor altogether and had gone several leagues out of their way before the coachman had at last conceded to stop and ask for directions.

“No, it’s me,” came a cheerful voice. Bright sunshine spilled onto the coverlet as the bed curtains were whipped aside to reveal Georgiana.

Olivia gave a little groan. “What time is it?”

“After eleven. You slept through breakfast, but you must accompany me to luncheon. The duke will be there.”

Olivia yawned and pushed herself up against the carved headboard. “Lord knows I wouldn’t want to miss the chance of being patronized again.” Though, in truth, ducal condescension wasn’t foremost in her mind when she thought of His Grace. She was not an early riser, but she would make an exception tomorrow and go down to breakfast if she thought . . .

Of course, the duke wouldn’t kiss her again, and she most certainly would never allow it. He was likely temporarily maddened by lust—there she was, practically naked. Still, one had to think that he liked what he saw.

That thought made Olivia feel a glow of happiness. She always felt fat, but he hadn’t seemed to notice. He didn’t look at her as if she could stand to lose three stone—or even just one.

“Oh, Olivia!” Georgiana said, pulling back the curtains all the way to the foot of the bed and then sitting with a little bounce at her sister’s feet. “Isn’t this the most wonderful party?”

“Don’t sit on Lucy!” Olivia cried.

Georgiana poked at the little ball she now saw under the covers. “You allow that dog to sleep in your bed? I’ve heard of canines sleeping on the bed, and that struck me as quite unhealthy. I’m sure this is even more insalubrious.”

Olivia shrugged. “Rupert told me that’s where she likes to sleep, and sure enough, she burrowed down there directly last night. She’s something of a toe warmer, if I need one.”

“Did you even hear what I said? Isn’t he wonderful?” Georgiana demanded. She had been sitting in her customary prim fashion, hands clasped in her lap and ankles neatly crossed, but now she pulled up her knees and sat sideways on the bed. Her face broke into a beaming smile. “He’s . . . he’s everything I dreamed of.”

“He is?” Olivia felt as if her mind were wading through treacle.

“Tall, and so handsome,” Georgiana said. “And intelligent, Olivia! A proper mathematician—which is not at all the same thing as an accountant.” A faint frown creased her brow. “You really must try to be more polite. What if he takes a dislike to you and we’re asked to leave? I’ll never meet anyone like him again.”

“I won’t,” Olivia said automatically. “I mean, I will. I’ll fawn on him as much as he could wish.” Of course Georgiana loved Sconce. He was a perfect match for her: he had rank, bearing, and intelligence. And Georgiana was so exquisite, far more beautiful than Olivia.

“I just never thought,” Georgiana said dreamily. “I never truly believed there was anyone for me. And all the time, here he was. He’s so distinguished, and brilliant, and”—she giggled suddenly—“he looked wonderful drenched in rain yesterday.”