“They would not,” the dowager stated. “There can be no kite-flying today. After luncheon, we shall all walk to the village and deliver baskets to the poor. After that, the ladies will spend several hours planning the upcoming festivities.”

“I would help you, but I know that you would be unhappy to share the morning room with little Lucy, given her marked preference for you,” Olivia said, giving the dowager a beaming smile. “Perhaps familiarity will breed something warmer than contempt? No?”

“You may dabble with your kite-flying expedition tomorrow,” the dowager continued, with crushing indifference, as if she were dictating the nursery schedule. “I cannot spare Lady Sibblethorp to act as a chaperone for the excursion, as we shall still be hard at work.” She managed to make it sound as if the ladies planned to spend the afternoon digging in the mines. “It is possible that Lady Cecily will be kind enough to accompany you, Miss Lytton, if her ankle has mended appreciably. If not, I would feel comfortable were my son to accompany you on this excursion. I think we may eschew a chaperone on our own grounds.”

Quin nodded.

His mother raised her finger as they rose from the table. “One’s digestion is always the better for a brief stroll. Ladies, I would request that you join me in the Chinese drawing room as soon as you are dressed for walking, and we shall proceed to the village.”

“I’m afraid that I have other plans,” Justin said cheerfully. “Mr. Usher and I are going to be poring over some very important lessons. Latin . . . mathematics . . . it never ends.”

Quin opened his mouth to offer a similar excuse when he realized that Olivia was bending over the stone balustrade, trying to pluck a spray of clematis that was just out of her reach.

His entire body stiffened with a flare of lust so keen that he drew in his breath. Those sweet and generous curves were pure temptation. Without conscious volition, he found himself standing beside her, their bodies touching as he reached for the flower she was straining to reach.

The spray of blossoms snapped and he turned. For once, Olivia was not laughing. She met his eyes for a moment, then long eyelashes fluttered down and she broke his gaze.

Who would have thought that pale green eyes could look so smoky? He dropped back a step, swept into an elaborate bow, the bow of a duke. As he straightened: “Miss Lytton, may I offer you this flower?”

She curtsied. Quin cursed himself silently for noticing that the movement gave him an even better glimpse of creamy breasts. What in the bloody hell was happening to him?

Then she straightened, and the look in her eyes made the blood beat like thunder in his ears. Her gaze was frank. Carnal. He wasn’t alone.

But in a second, it all changed. “Darling!” Olivia cried, turning slightly to the right and looking past his shoulder. “Look what the duke was kind enough to pluck from that vine. You must take it. You like flowers so much more than I do.”

Quin smiled politely as Georgiana took the spray of blossoms.

And Georgiana smiled back: charming, pretty . . . a perfect lady. “How kind of you, Your Grace. The clematis smells so beautiful; we were remarking on it throughout the meal.”

He hadn’t even noticed its perfume. Sitting beside Olivia, he had caught a whiff of something different . . . better.

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.”