“Actually, they are the color of gooseberries,” Quin said. “A green such as I have never seen in a pair of eyes before.”

“Unusual,” his mother said. She didn’t mean it as a compliment. “But her sister’s eyes are entirely acceptable. And her figure is lovely. I find it odd that one sister should have such a squabby shape while the other is elegant in every respect. I expect it’s a matter of self-control, always a lady’s best weapon against the world’s tribulations. Miss Georgiana obviously has excellent self-control.”

“Yes,” Quin agreed.

“She’ll throw you no tantrums,” his mother continued. A smile curled up the corner of her mouth. “I can see the two of you now, presiding over a cluster of small children. You would like that, wouldn’t you, Tarquin?”

Black ice seized his heart; he didn’t reply, but it didn’t matter.

His mother went on, all the way back to the house, painting a picture of Quin and Georgiana, smiling affectionately at their brown-eyed children.

Thirteen

What It Means to Lead an Army

The next afternoon

Olivia’s new riding habit had regimental flair: braid marched up the cunning little jacket and then down the skirt; there were tiny epaulets on the shoulders. Even the fetching little hat was not a bonnet, but a rakish version of a lieutenant’s cap in dark crimson that flattered her hair and skin.

The costume made her feel as if her figure wasn’t too plump, as if she wasn’t too saucy (as her mother would put it). As if everything was right in the world, and she was the general of her own personal army.

A perfect illustration of the fundamental pettiness of her brain, she thought, walking slowly along the path to the stables. Georgiana felt happiest after she had cooked up some noxious brew that might—or might not—cure the second footman’s baby of red blotches on its bum. Whereas Olivia felt happiest when she liked what she saw in the mirror and then headed out to engage in recklessly imprudent flirtation with a duke.

And not the duke she was marrying, either.

Worse yet, the duke her sister was marrying.

Obviously she couldn’t flirt with the duke. The sooner she got it in her head that Sconce was Georgiana’s future husband, the better. She actually gave a little shudder at the idea of flirting with her future brother-in-law. Only the most distasteful—not to mention disloyal—sister would do such a thing.

She was already feeling guilty enough. She had left Georgiana supine on a sofa, a wet cloth over her eyes. Olivia’s exchanges with the dowager over the midday meal—which she herself had actually rather enjoyed—had given her sister a migraine headache.

Lucy gave a little yelp and ran forward, wagging her tail furiously. An elderly gardener was planting some seedlings in the shade of an old stone wall that separated Littlebourne Manor’s gardens from the stables beyond. He was kneeling, back to her, the well-worn soles of his old boots cocked to each side.

“Thou art a hash little one, aren’t thou?” the gardener said, scratching Lucy between her ears. His voice was warm and smoky, and made Olivia think about the qualities of voices: the way the dowager’s voice was bright and cold, so different from her son’s deep, intent voice. The duke sounded as if each word was chosen carefully, whereas her own tumbled out any which way, and often in an unladylike fashion—you have a lively sense of humor, the duchess had said the day before.

She shook off that thought and walked a little closer to the gardener. “Good day. Are you from Wales?”

The moment he heard her voice, he struggled to his feet, his joints creaking loudly, and backed against the wall, doffing his cap. “My lady,” he said, eyes on the ground. “Not Wales.” He sounded disgusted. “Shropshire.” He was bowlegged and bent, like an apple tree on the ridge of a hill, fighting a blustery wind.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your work,” Olivia said. “Please, go back to whatever you’re doing. That’s my dog sniffing your boots. Lucy, behave yourself!”

Lucy was dancing about, trying to lick the gardener’s hand. Slowly, he reached down and gently pulled one of the little dog’s ears. “She’s a fair one, bain’t she?”

“I don’t think she’s fair, if by that you mean beautiful.” They both looked down at Lucy. “She’s got very short fur, and there’s that bite on her eyelid.”

“O aye, she’s lost a bit of her eyelid. But her eyes themselves are a fair treat,” he offered. “Tail, too.”

“It’s a rat tail, though,” Olivia pointed out.

He knelt back down on the brown soil, shoulder to her. Then he said, as if to his plants, “There’s those as are decorative, like these flowers here will be. And then other flora that isn’t a bit pretty, not until the petals drop.”

Olivia came closer and peered past him. “Which flowers are unattractive until their petals drop?”

“Happen you walk in a cloud of petals jist dancing on the wind, then?”

She walked around so she was looking down at his weather-beaten cap, rather than his shoulder. “What a lovely description.”

“This little mistress,” he said, giving Lucy a nudge with his elbow that made the dog dizzy with delight, “is one of them as lift your heart when you’re ornery, though likely there are them as would prefer something feather-tailed and furred.”

Olivia found herself smiling down at Lucy. “You’re right, of course. I didn’t think much of her at first, but she’s dear to me now.” She bent over and peered at the ground. “What will those seedlings become?”

“Delphiniums.”

“The tall, purple ones?”

“Aye.”

Olivia frowned. “I thought those flowers need a great deal of sunshine. Will they get enough beneath this wall?”

“Her Grace likes them here, me lady.” Rich soil ran like rain through his fingers as he patted the ground around each little sprig.

“I hate to plant things that won’t live long. Perhaps the head gardener could teach Her Grace about delphiniums?”

He gave her a fleeting glance. “A lady likes her garden lush, neat, scented, sweet.”

“That rhymes,” Olivia said, thinking that Justin might learn from the gardener.

A warm hand suddenly touched her back. Olivia yelped and straightened.

“Miss Lytton,” the duke said, his eyes dark and unreadable. “I apologize for startling you.” He bowed. “I see you’ve met Riggle, our highly esteemed head gardener, who has been with us since I was all of six years old. Riggle, may I introduce Miss Lytton?”

Riggle looked over his shoulder and said something along the lines of “bain’t it.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Riggle,” Olivia said. “Good morning, Your Grace.” The duke had changed for riding as well. Breeches clung to muscular thighs; one quick glance made her heart speed to a red-and-gold beat.

Desire—for Olivia was not one to pretend to a more dignified emotion if the proper word presented itself—was proving to be an overwhelming sensation. She could imagine that fleeting touch of his hand down every limb.

Brother-in-law, she thought to herself. Brother-in-law.