Page 52 of This Marquess of Mine

Settling said shawl around her shoulders, she glanced from Olivia to Griffin and back again. “Are you two ready to leave?”

“Yes,” they replied in tandem.

Emmy grinned. “Excellent. Let’s go.”

The journey to Westminster was blessedly short, though not as short as Griffin’s temper. He brooded the entire ride over, staring out the carriage window, his thoughts consumed by the maddening woman sitting on the bench across from him.

Damn it, how could Olivia even consider marrying the duke now? She meant to encourage his favors again, even after all he’d put her through, even though nothing had changed.

He didn’t understand it.

But then, he didn’t have to, did he? It was none of his business what Olivia Blakely did, or whom she married.

She wanted her duke and he had agreed to help her catch him. He would do what he could while his mother’s ankle healed, and once she was back on her feet again, it would all be over, and everything would return to normal. That day couldn’t come quickly enough.

“Here we are,” Emmy said brightly as the carriage rolled to a stop.

The finally was left unsaid but greatly implied by the relief in her voice.

It had been an unusually quiet ride.

The trio filed out of the carriage and into Mrs. Lubbock’s enormous entrance hall where they handed over their outer garments before being ushered into the lady’s lively drawing room.

Music from the pianoforte filled the air with grating cheer, and all the chairs and sofas had been pushed against the walls to make space for dancing, leaving Griff to wonder if dancing was compulsory. Their hostess, a petite, ostentatious woman of middling years fluttered around the room, seeing to her guests’ needs.

Griffin bit back a sigh as he followed Emmy and Olivia through the open doors, his gaze panning over the other guests’ faces, all familiar, none welcome. Another tedious affair with the same tedious crowd.

He turned to his sister and tried for a pleasant expression. “I’m thirsty,” he said. “Would you like a glass of—”

“Lady Olivia! Good evening!” An eager male voice broke in, and Griffin’s gaze flicked to Gregory Sanford’s youthful, pink-cheeked face. Smiling, the gentleman greeted Griffin and Emmy before turning back to Olivia.

“You look lovely this evening, my lady,” Sanford said as his gaze crawled down her body. “May I request the next dance?”

The pup’s eyes dipped to Olivia’s cleavage again, lingering and lascivious, and Griffin squeezed his hands into fists as hostility surged, heating his blood.

“Thank you, my lord,” Olivia said with a sweet smile. “I would be honored.”

The baron bent his head to scrawl his name on her dance card and had barely finished uttering his thanks when another man—a Mr. Steffington—approached to request his own dance. Olivia acquiesced with another smile, just as genuine and lovely as the first, and Griffin felt its effects like a hard pinch to his already strained temper.

That was when—God help him—the Duke of Paxton appeared, out of nowhere, like an unwelcome surprise.

“Lady Olivia. At last, you’ve arrived.” Paxton’s voice was like the bleating of a randy goat and even as Sanford and Steffington departed, the duke had eyes only for Olivia. Bending his head, he brushed a kiss to her knuckles, his adoring gaze never leaving her face.

Griffin’s nostrils flared.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Olivia murmured, dipping into a shallow curtsy.

“And Lady Emmaline, Lord Keswick,” Paxton said with considerably less warmth. “Good evening to you.”

Emmy curtsied while Griffin gave a cool nod.

“The ratafia this evening is surprisingly flavorful, Lady Olivia,” Paxton said, turning to her with a smile. “Would you care to accompany me to the refreshments table for a glass?”

Olivia bowed her head prettily. “That would be lovely, Your Grace.” She turned her most charming smile on Griffin, batting her lashes at him for good measure. “And I shall meet with you later, Lord Keswick, yes? For our waltz?”

Griff sketched a bow. “I will be counting down the minutes, my lady.”

Her eyes flared with humor and then she was gone, walking away on the arm of the idiot duke as if she belonged there. Displeasure raked through him, scraping his nerves, and he thrust his hands into his pockets.