Page 34 of This Marquess of Mine

“She certainly does,” he said, his voice soft.

Olivia’s blush deepened. “Thank you, my lord.”

Why was she blushing? The compliment was coerced, for heaven’s sake. You are behaving like a ninny.

“Oh, there’s Delia!” Aunt Augusta blurted out, referring to her good friend, Mrs. Prewitt. She squeezed Olivia’s arm. “She’s just returned from her trip to Scotland, and I haven’t seen her since she got back. Excuse me, my dear. Keswick.”

And with that, she was off, charging through the crowd in her multi-colored gown, making Olivia smile when she used her walking stick to herd a bewigged Rob Roy out of her path.

“Your costume is magnificent,” Griffin said, coming up beside her. “I cannot recall a peacock from any stories I’ve ever read. What is it from?”

Lacing her fingers behind her back, she turned to him, both relieved and annoyed by his casual attitude. Evidently their kiss had already left his memory.

She was not so lucky.

“It is from a story titled Princess Rosette,” she said, snagging a glass of ratafia from a passing servant’s tray. “She marries the King of the Peacocks.”

Feeling abysmally out of her depths, she took a long drink from her glass, savoring the balm to her suddenly dry throat. Making small talk wasn’t usually so difficult, but then she’d never attempted it with a man who, only two days ago, had put his tongue in her mouth.

“I don’t remember that tale,” he said, moving aside to let a pair of Roman goddesses pass by.

“There is no reason you should,” she said with a polite smile. “It is one of Madame d’Aulnoy’s creations. From her collection of stories called Les Contes des Fées.”

His brows rose. “A French children’s book?”

“My maternal grandmother was French,” she explained. “The book belonged to my mother.”

“I see. And this Princess Rosette, she is your favorite character from these stories?”

“Oh, no,” Olivia answered, gazing into her empty glass. “That would be Belle-Belle. From Belle-Belle ou Le Chevalier Fortune.” She slanted him an arch look. “Belle-Belle slays a dragon.”

There. She could pretend nothing had happened, too.

“A dragon slayer? Impressive,” Griff said before casting a pointed glance at her costume. “But why did you not come dressed as Belle-Belle, if she is your favorite?”

“Because Belle-Belle spends most of her story disguised as a boy.” She curved her lips into an impish smile. “I could hardly attend Lady Henley’s costume ball dressed in trousers, now could I?”

“More’s the pity,” he said, amusement creasing the corners of his eyes. “I would have liked to have seen that.”

She shrugged. “I’m afraid you’ll have to rely on your imagination instead.”

His eyes glinted, all amusement gone, and she stilled as his gaze flicked to her lips, her breasts, her hips, scorching a path down her body all the way to her toes. His eyes snapped to her face and locked on hers, and the desire burning there, the want, shocked her to her very core.

She swallowed, scrambling for something to say, something sophisticated and coolly unaffected, but her mouth seemed incapable of forming words.

Was it true? Did he want her? Or was that look in his eyes the workings of her hopelessly hopeful imagination?

“Here you are, Livvy!” Emmy materialized out of nowhere, her color high, her breathing labored as if she’d sprinted across the ballroom. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Olivia grinned, taking in Emmy’s Lincoln green skirt and fitted coat, the jaunty bycocket perched on her head, the quiver and bow she’d strapped to her back.

It was a Robin Hood costume that would not scandalize the ton.

“You look glorious, Em,” she said with a grin. “And your hat is simply div—”

“Please, Livvy.” Emmy held up her hands. “I have something I must tell you. Something important.” Her voice was low and urgent, and Olivia’s smile slowly faded.

“What is it?” she asked, unease knotting her belly. “Is something the matter?”

Emmy nodded, her eyes pained. “It’s the duke,” she said. “He is betrothed.”