Page 14 of This Marquess of Mine

She adored the bonnet, but even she had to acknowledge that frills could be overdone.

Emmy cocked her head to one side, studying Olivia’s reflection. “No, I don’t,” she said. “But perhaps we need a third opinion. A male one.”

Before Olivia could stop her, Emmy turned and called out Griffin’s name, beckoning him over.

“Emmy, no,” Olivia hissed. “That isn’t necessary—”

But it was too late. Griffin was already walking over to them, his gaze on his sister. Olivia drew in a breath and turned, clasping her hands at her front.

“What do you think of this bonnet?” Emmy asked him. “I think it is lovely. Simply perfect for a drive through the park with a certain gentleman caller, but Olivia isn’t so sure. What do you think?”

Griffin’s gaze flicked from Emmy to the bonnet to Olivia’s face, and she could feel her cheeks warming beneath his perusal. The seconds felt like hours as he considered his answer, and suddenly, the weight of the moment grew uncomfortable, and the thought of hearing his opinion was simply too much to bear.

She could not stand another of his veiled insults or, worse, an insincere compliment.

“I have no need for your brother’s opinion,” she said lightly as she removed the bonnet and returned it to its perch. “He and the duke have vastly different tastes, after all.” She set about securing the ribbons of her own bonnet, avoiding Griffin’s gaze.

“And besides,” he said, his deep voice laced with amusement, “if I said I liked the bonnet, she wouldn’t want it, and if I said I didn’t, she would.”

Olivia clucked her tongue and forced a serene smile. “Don’t be silly. That would suggest your opinion matters to me and, I assure you, it does not.”

The bell on the door gave a pleasant jangle, interrupting the moment, and two women walked into the shop, one older, the other a younger version, clearly mother and daughter.

“It’s Miss Stanhope and her mother,” Emmy said, heading off to greet them. “Miss Stanhope! What a beautiful shawl. You must tell me where it came from.”

Olivia watched as Emmy joined the ladies, well aware she ought to do the same, but she was too aggravated for social niceties.

Ignoring the infuriating man at her side, she stepped around him and wandered over to the display case of earrings, irritation thrumming through her veins.

No one tested her patience like Griffin. No one. And no matter what she did or how hard she tried, she seemed incapable of containing her temper with him.

Dratted man.

She knew he thought very little of her, but why did he have to be so rude? Why did he derive such pleasure from mocking her, and provoking her temper?

Could he not simply suffer her presence in silence?

She stared at a pair of earrings with unseeing eyes and blew out a frustrated breath. He’d called her a silly, spoiled flirt, and maybe he was right, but surely she wasn’t the only silly, spoiled flirt in London.

So why did he dislike her so much?

When she was a little girl, he’d tolerated her as his younger sister’s little friend, and she’d been fine with that. He’d ignored her more often than not, but he was never mean. It wasn’t until she made her debut that his behavior changed toward her, as if he sensed her budding attraction for him and sought to repel it.

A peal of giggles drew her gaze to the center of the shop where Emmy stood chatting with Miss Stanhope and her mother. Griffin had joined the group, though she knew him well enough to recognize that he didn’t want to be there. His smile was tight, likely due to the fact that Miss Stanhope was flirting with him, her smile coy, her eyes coquettish. Griffin shifted on his feet.

With a soft chortle, Olivia turned back to the display case, pleased as punch to see him suffering so. Petty, perhaps, but she didn’t care. Just add it to my long list of transgressions.

Shoving Griffin from her mind yet again, she studied the display of earrings, searching for a pair that would complement her costume, something in deep blue or bright green.

A slash of scarlet caught her eye, a stunning pair of earrings with gems of bright red, violet and orange intertwined like flames. She stroked one with the tip of her gloved finger, her eyes transfixed on the work of art. They were bold and daring and gorgeous. She adored them.

But Paxton liked her best in blue. Indecision warred within her.

“Those are pretty.”

Olivia stiffened at the intrusion, Griffin’s low voice invading her space. “Yes, they are,” she murmured, her tone impassive even as awareness skittered up her spine.

He was close, too close, his arm scant inches from hers, and the warmth of him, the scent of him—sugared almonds and bergamot—seemed to be everywhere.