Start your review of The Duke Is Mine Fairy Tales, 3 Write a review Shelves: dnf-award I ended up DNFing The Duke is Mine a quarter of the way through because of something I found disturbing in regards to how a character is portrayed and handled, including the insensitive comments and actions of the heroine toward this character. Im actually shocked that Eloisa and Avon would allow this character and the way hes treated as a form of comic relief. Because of this, The Duke is Mine is a big fail of a historical romance and one I wouldnt recommend to any historical romance reader. I ended up DNFing The Duke is Mine a quarter of the way through because of something I found disturbing in regards to how a character is portrayed and handled, including the insensitive comments and actions of the heroine toward this character. The heroine here is Olivia Lytton. Olivia is far too sarcastic, witty and not at all gracious.

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Lytton, Esq. Most betrothals spring from one of two fierce emotions: love or greed. In fact, the bride-to-be was liable, in moments of despair, to attribute her engagement to a curse. I would rather sleep for a hundred years. Typically, Georgiana did not pair the positive comment with its opposite: Sleep had attractions… but Rupert had few. Olivia actually had to swallow hard, and sit in the dark carriage by herself a moment, before she was able to pull herself together and follow her sister.

She had always known that she would be Duchess of Canterwick someday, so it made no sense to feel so keenly miserable. But there it was. An evening spent with her future husband made her feel half cracked. Her mother would be horrified—though unsurprised—by her lame jest linking the dukedom with a curse. In short, a blessing. Lytton—had gone to Eton and become best friends with the Duke of Canterwick, who had inherited his grand title at the tender age of five. At age fourteen, the boys had sworn a blood oath that Mr.

Lytton showed giddy enthusiasm in doing his part to ensure this eventuality, producing not one, but two daughters, within a year of marriage. The Duke of Canterwick, for his part, produced only one son, and that after a few years of marriage, but obviously one son was sufficient for the task at hand.

Most importantly, His Grace kept his word, and regularly reassured Mr. Lytton about the destined betrothal. Consequently, the proud parents of the duchess-to-be did everything in their power to prepare their firstborn daughter the elder by a good seven minutes for the title that was to be bestowed upon her, sparing no expense in shaping the future Duchess of Canterwick.

Olivia was tutored from the moment she left the cradle. By ten years of age, she was expert in the finer points of etiquette, the management of country estates including double-entry accounting , playing the harpsichord and the spinet, greeting people in various languages including Latin useful for visiting bishops, if no one else , and even in French cooking, though her knowledge of the last was intellectual rather than practical.

Duchesses never actually touched food, except to eat it. She herself was a firm believer in the benefits of blanching gentility, but long experience had taught her that expressing such an opinion would merely give her mother a headache.

Generally speaking, she tabled that sort of advice for the future, when she hoped to indulge in any number of immodest parleys. Georgiana had never shown the faintest wish to rebel against the rules of propriety. She loved and lived by them. Father would be furious, if he knew.

Just a laugh, now and then. An adulterous abbot? How can an abbot be adulterous? She certainly could play the duchess, but the real Olivia was, dismayingly, never far from the surface.

And Olivia would shrug. Olivia and Georgiana had marched in lockstep through lessons on comportment and deportment, because their parents, aware of the misfortunes that might threaten their eldest daughter—a fever, a runaway carriage, a fall from a tower—had prudently duchified their second-born as well.

She certainly could behave with exquisite grace—but among her intimates, she was sarcastic, far too witty to be ladylike, and not in the least gracious. Lytton would complain. Lytton would say heavily. Lytton would say, wistfully. Over the years Georgiana had built up a formidable array of duchess-like traits: ways of walking, talking, and carrying herself. Lytton recited over and over, turning it into a nursery rhyme. Georgiana would glance at the glass, checking her dignified bearing and affable expression.

The Lyttons were happy, in a measured sort of way. As their girls were growing up, they told themselves that Georgiana would make a lovely wife to any man of rank. The sad truth is that a duchified girl is not what most young men desire. Lytton interpreted the problem differently. To their mind, their beloved second daughter was likely to dwindle into the shadow of a duchess, without becoming even a wife, merely because she had no dowry.

That left their younger daughter without more than a pittance to launch her on the marriage market. Lytton often said. Much though I would like to attain the qualifications of a degenerate, I have no hope of achieving that particular title in this life. Olivia frowned at her sister.

They have all the stories one would really like to hear, like that one about Lord Mettersnatch paying seven guineas to be flogged. All the same, I loved the part about the nursemaid costume. Canterwick stalked up and down the ballroom all night, dragging Rupert and me behind him.

Everyone groveled, tittered behind my back, and went off to inform the rest of the room how uncommonly unlucky the FF is to be marrying me. If someone had stepped on my hem and ripped it, baring my arse to the world, I might have been more humiliated.

I certainly would have been less bored. She looked miserable. Olivia felt a pang of alarm. Far more dignified than a cloud. From what I saw tonight, London is full of virgins desperate to sacrifice themselves, if you think of matrimony as a kind of death, which I do. Her eyes were full of tears. No gentleman paid me attention tonight, any more than they have in the last three years.

We all looked like ghosts, but not transparent. You, of course, were a willowy ghost and I was a particularly solid one. The same streamers appeared on the sides and the backs of the gowns, rippling in the faintest breeze. There was a lesson there…a dismal one. Your ringlets were bouncing as well. More like a little suckling pig, one of those white ones you see in fairs that can stand up on its back legs.

Though no pig would put up with the two hours it took to shape these blasted curls. Besides, if either of us looked like a piglet, Georgie, it was obviously me. That miserable gown flattered your figure, not that you needed it. She brushed away a tear.

A woman has to have a dowry or no man will even consider marrying her. They floated from room to room, diaphanous silk sweeping around their slender bodies. Olivia was not one of them. It was the sad truth, the canker at the heart of the ducal flower, another source of stress for Mrs. Olivia did not disagree. You want me to blow my nose on a chemise? It never would have occurred to me to consider the labor behind an ironed handkerchief versus a chemise.

I suppose he needs an heir. Just imagine, Georgie. You could be daughter-in-law to the most stiff-rumped starch bucket of them all. She would adore you. Besides, I thought that Sconce was married. By the way, Mother has decided that I should try a lettuce diet that someone told her about.

Though to be honest, Olivia, I think you should eat whatever you want. I want quite desperately to marry, and even so, the idea of marrying Rupert makes me want to eat a meat pie.

If you grew rabbit ears, he would still have to marry you. Whereas no one can countenance the idea of marrying me, no matter what my waist looks like. I need money to—to bribe them. There was a moment of silence, and then Georgiana sat bolt upright. But a feeling this overwhelming would imply she had eaten an entire ocean of bad shrimp. Rupert is coming over with his father to sign the papers tomorrow evening. The FF is about to become the BB! It seemed that as each year went by, her parents were less and less interested in their eldest daughter as a person, as opposed to a duchess.

Though really, had they ever expressed interest in anything but her duchess-designed accomplishments? The color of celery, really.


The Duke Is Mine



The Duke is Mine






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