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Authors: Eloisa James
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flock to your side.”
Lucy thought about the way Cyrus had responded to her once she forced him to really “look” at her—to see her. There was something to Olivia’s advice. Maybe she had made it all worse, because she herself was so mortified by her height. She nodded. “You may well be right.”
“I think I saw your mother filling out your dance card earlier this evening,” Olivia said, tucking her hand under Lucy’s arm. They had reached the door to the ballroom.
“Yes, she did fill it out.”
“Then it’s all to the better that you lost it. Now you have no idea with whom you are supposed to dance. Make your own choices.”
Lucy came to a sudden realization and drew Olivia to a halt. “Do you know, this evening has offered a quite good lesson?”
Olivia groaned. “Not along the lines of the lessons my mother recites from The Maggoty Mirror ? In short, advice about being a lady?”
“Yes, actually,” Lucy said, lowering her voice. “You see, Cyrus—Mr. Ravensthorpe—kissed me very passionately.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Olivia said with a tone of distinct rancor. Cyrus had made a definite enemy in Miss Olivia Lytton.
“But that didn’t make the slightest bit of difference when I broke off our engagement. He didn’t even try to persuade me to change my mind. He merely agreed, as if I had said that I didn’t feel like taking a ride in the park.”
“I see what you’re saying,” Olivia sighed. “I’m afraid this is something with which The Maggoty Mirror would definitely concur. Men are not moved by desire to behave in the ways a woman would wish them to, that is, honorably and with respect.”
“You see, your mother’s bible is good for something.”
“I’ll try to keep it in mind if I’m ever in a situation to adjudicate a case of male lust. I rather think it would mean I was contemplating adultery, though, and my mother would expire at the thought.”
Lucy frowned at her. “This is the third time you’ve mentioned your betrothal, Olivia. Are you quite certain that you wish to marry Rupert? No one can force you to do it against your will.”
Olivia squeezed her arm. “I don’t mean to bleat about it; forgive me. I am fond of Rupert, and things could be much worse. Just wait until I’m a duchess. I’ll lord over you so much that you’ll hardly believe you ever knew me.”
Lucy broke into a peal of laughter. It was very hard to imagine Olivia a duchess. For all she adored her—and she did—Olivia resembled no duchess she could imagine.
They turned in to the door of the ballroom and paused. “Goodness me,” Olivia said. “Look at all those people craning to look at us, Lucy. I would guess that the news of your broken betrothal has spread, and the ton has found a new idol to worship. Men seem to find gold so irresistible.”
Lucy threw back her shoulders, choked back the wish that Cyrus thought of her as an idol, and put a warm smile on her lips.
R ather to Lucy’s surprise, Olivia was right. Suspected fortune hunters asked her to dance, but so did men who, she knew quite well, had substantial estates of their own.
Announcing that she had lost her dance card, she chose her partners on purely idiosyncratic grounds. She smiled coolly at men who were shorter than she and pleaded a filled dance card, even though no such card was in evidence. She was friendly to those of her own height, but declined to dance with them. She accepted only men who could be depended not to characterize her as a tower, a haystack, or a tall drink of water.
Except for the Duke of Pole. Had she turned down a duke’s request for a dance, her mother would have had a cataclysmic fit.
So when this short, pompous duke bowed before her, with all the air of a man bestowing the utmost favor, she smiled down at him prettily enough. He straightened, which put her eyes level with the wave of his hair. It was thick, and styled up from his forehead, rather like a unicorn horn. Only one as
Lucy thought about the way Cyrus had responded to her once she forced him to really “look” at her—to see her. There was something to Olivia’s advice. Maybe she had made it all worse, because she herself was so mortified by her height. She nodded. “You may well be right.”
“I think I saw your mother filling out your dance card earlier this evening,” Olivia said, tucking her hand under Lucy’s arm. They had reached the door to the ballroom.
“Yes, she did fill it out.”
“Then it’s all to the better that you lost it. Now you have no idea with whom you are supposed to dance. Make your own choices.”
Lucy came to a sudden realization and drew Olivia to a halt. “Do you know, this evening has offered a quite good lesson?”
Olivia groaned. “Not along the lines of the lessons my mother recites from The Maggoty Mirror ? In short, advice about being a lady?”
“Yes, actually,” Lucy said, lowering her voice. “You see, Cyrus—Mr. Ravensthorpe—kissed me very passionately.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Olivia said with a tone of distinct rancor. Cyrus had made a definite enemy in Miss Olivia Lytton.
“But that didn’t make the slightest bit of difference when I broke off our engagement. He didn’t even try to persuade me to change my mind. He merely agreed, as if I had said that I didn’t feel like taking a ride in the park.”
“I see what you’re saying,” Olivia sighed. “I’m afraid this is something with which The Maggoty Mirror would definitely concur. Men are not moved by desire to behave in the ways a woman would wish them to, that is, honorably and with respect.”
“You see, your mother’s bible is good for something.”
“I’ll try to keep it in mind if I’m ever in a situation to adjudicate a case of male lust. I rather think it would mean I was contemplating adultery, though, and my mother would expire at the thought.”
Lucy frowned at her. “This is the third time you’ve mentioned your betrothal, Olivia. Are you quite certain that you wish to marry Rupert? No one can force you to do it against your will.”
Olivia squeezed her arm. “I don’t mean to bleat about it; forgive me. I am fond of Rupert, and things could be much worse. Just wait until I’m a duchess. I’ll lord over you so much that you’ll hardly believe you ever knew me.”
Lucy broke into a peal of laughter. It was very hard to imagine Olivia a duchess. For all she adored her—and she did—Olivia resembled no duchess she could imagine.
They turned in to the door of the ballroom and paused. “Goodness me,” Olivia said. “Look at all those people craning to look at us, Lucy. I would guess that the news of your broken betrothal has spread, and the ton has found a new idol to worship. Men seem to find gold so irresistible.”
Lucy threw back her shoulders, choked back the wish that Cyrus thought of her as an idol, and put a warm smile on her lips.
R ather to Lucy’s surprise, Olivia was right. Suspected fortune hunters asked her to dance, but so did men who, she knew quite well, had substantial estates of their own.
Announcing that she had lost her dance card, she chose her partners on purely idiosyncratic grounds. She smiled coolly at men who were shorter than she and pleaded a filled dance card, even though no such card was in evidence. She was friendly to those of her own height, but declined to dance with them. She accepted only men who could be depended not to characterize her as a tower, a haystack, or a tall drink of water.
Except for the Duke of Pole. Had she turned down a duke’s request for a dance, her mother would have had a cataclysmic fit.
So when this short, pompous duke bowed before her, with all the air of a man bestowing the utmost favor, she smiled down at him prettily enough. He straightened, which put her eyes level with the wave of his hair. It was thick, and styled up from his forehead, rather like a unicorn horn. Only one as
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