Page 11 of This Marquess of Mine

“Fiercely and terrifyingly adorable, you mean,” Olivia quipped, her gaze on Artemis, a soft smile curving her plump, wine-red lips.

Forcing his gaze from that irritating smile, Griffin turned to Winters, who hovered near the front door. “Take Artemis to my mother’s rooms,” he instructed. “Thank you, Winters.”

With a bow, the butler collected the kitten and carried her from the room.

“Shall we, then?” Emmy asked, pulling on her pelisse as she headed for the door. “Where shall we go first? I know we need to visit the plumassier for your costume, Livvy, but should we stop at Madame Adelasia’s first?”

“Yes, let’s,” Olivia said, following her out the front door. “Her shop is on the way, and I would like to see if any new earrings have arrived. I still need to find the perfect pair to go with my costume.”

Emmy nodded. “And I need a pair of red gloves to go with mine.”

Grabbing his beaver hat from the coat rack, he donned it and followed the two chattering ladies down the front steps toward their awaiting carriage. He inhaled deeply, willing the damp spring air to clear his thoughts, and cleanse the scent of jasmine from his addled senses.

“Have you chosen a character yet, Griff?” Emmy asked once the trio were settled and the carriage had set off, Olivia and Emmy seated side by side on the bench opposite his.

“Character?” he asked, crossing one leg over the other. “For what?”

Emmy threw him a frown. “For Lady Henley’s costume ball, of course. It is next week.”

Griffin shook his head. “I don’t do costume balls.”

“Well, you will be attending this one,” she replied crisply. “You are to act as my escort. Remember?”

Bloody, bleeding hell.

Olivia’s head dipped and she appeared to be fighting a smile, almost as if she’d read his mind. Or perhaps she’d simply read his expression.

He cleared the frown from his lips and turned to the window, looping his hand through the leather strap attached to the upholstered wall beside him. He gazed out at the passing carriages and strolling pedestrians, though he barely noticed the view as images of costume balls and musical soirées and God only knew what else flashed through his mind. Bloody sprained ankle.

“I cannot wait to see everyone’s costumes this year,” Emmy said, clacking her heeled slippers on the carriage floor. “There are sure to be some excellent efforts. Lydia Tuttenham told me last night that George Milton will be in attendance and apparently, he has a real treat in store for us.” She chuckled. “Although, I cannot imagine he will be able to best his wolf in sheep’s clothing costume from last year’s ball.”

Olivia groaned. “I had forgotten all about that night.”

“It was rather a clever creation,” Emmy said, still chuckling, “but I don’t think he considered how warm it would be, poor man.”

“Well, I say he deserved every miserable moment,” Olivia said with a sniff.

Griffin raised a brow, curious despite himself. Olivia wasn’t usually so mean-spirited. He held his tongue, though, and continued his feigned interest in the passing scenery.

“Oh, let it go, Livvy,” Emmy said, her tone more than a little exasperated. “It’s been nearly a year! I can’t believe you are still sore with him after all this time.”

“Let it go?” Olivia scoffed. “The man proposed marriage to me that night, Em! And when I asked him how I could possibly agree to marry a man with a large, red tongue hanging down the middle of his face, he behaved like a petulant child and called my costume boring.”

Griffin couldn’t help himself. He turned from the window and looked at Olivia, who was gaping at his sister, her color high, her full lips parted in indignation. Gorgeous, he thought. Even with her bristles up.

“To be fair,” Emmy countered, “you had just rejected the man’s proposal.”

Olivia sniffed. “That is no excuse for such ungentlemanly behavior.”

“I’d wager his behavior would have been less offensive to you if he’d been a rich duke,” Griffin drawled before he could stop himself.

Olivia’s bright blue eyes met his, and he caught the barest flash of emotion there—indignation? hurt?—before her expression cleared. “Well, of course it would,” she said brightly. “One can forgive almost anything for a duke. Isn’t that right, Em?”

“Er, well…” Emmy shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“If only there were more of them to go around,” Olivia went on, her voice mournful now. “Alas, single dukes are in tragically short supply these days. It almost renders the lesser titles more appealing.” She shot Griffin a treacle-sweet smile. “Almost.”

Arching a brow in reply, he said nothing, fighting the urge to laugh. She irritated the hell out of him, but she amused him, too. Always had. Spending time with Olivia Blakely could give a man whiplash.