The Duke of Olympia Meets His Match by Juliana Gray

certainly outshone us all.”
    â€œI wasn’t invited. I am a bastard, you see, and while my father’s money could buy me an education at the finest Swiss academy, it couldn’t buy me an invitation to the wedding of the Prince de Sauveterre.”
    â€œBut surely Margot—”
    Miss Harris shrugged. “Oh, she couldn’t help it. And we weren’t bosom friends or anything like that, so there was no reason to remember me. Anyway, I was back in New York by then. We only met up again recently. I had no idea she was living stateside.”
    â€œHer husband’s death, of course.”
    â€œVery tragic.” Miss Harris levered herself off the railing and adjusted her battered straw hat, which had become a little lopsided in the draft. The ash-brown hair beneath crackled with static electricity. “Anyway. Just thought I’d say hello. Raise the flag for old Hellenic.” She lifted her fist.
    Penelope lifted her own. “Hurrah.”
    â€œI’ll see you again at lunch, I expect. We’re on B deck, stateroom twelve. If you want to find me, that is.” Miss Harris managed a dour grin and turned away. Her plain navy skirt was a little crumpled and over-mended beneath an ill-cut jacket that didn’t quite match. From across the deck, Miss Crawley’s voice carried toward them like a screeching gull, and Penelope realized she was shouting Harriet’s name.
    The din quite drowned out the peal of Miss Ruby Morrison’s well-dressed laughter as she stood elbow-to-elbow with the Duke of Olympia, tucked in the shadow between lifeboats nine and ten.
    ***
    He tracked down his quarry in the library, that refuge of ladies aboard ship. She sat on one of the long sofas lining the massive table of opaque glass in the center of the room, reading a small leather-bound book that engrossed her so completely, she seemed not to notice his entrance at all.
    He came to a stop before her. “Why, Mrs. Schuyler. What a pleasant surprise.”
    She didn’t look up. “Perhaps you expected to find me in the gentlemen’s smoking room, sir?”
    â€œNo. But I understand there’s a rousing game of charades taking place in the main saloon. Your young friend is carrying all before her.”
    â€œI’ve never liked charades.”
    He studied the part of her hair, neat and sharp in the exact center of her head. As if Moses himself had stood at the top of her forehead and commanded the angels to separate the two rich waves. “Neither have I.”
    â€œReally, sir?” Mrs. Schuyler looked up at last, eyes bright, brows pointed with amusement. She laid a long finger in the crease of the book and closed it in her lap. “I had the impression that you enjoy such games above everything else.”
    He flicked a speck of dust from his cuff. “I can’t imagine why.”
    She smiled. “To what do I owe this honor, sir? A summons from the Morrisons? I wouldn’t have thought they’d dare to send you.”
    â€œAmericans will dare anything, I find. But no. I came of my own accord. May I sit?”
    She made a gesture with her hand. They spoke in hushed library voices, even though the room was otherwise empty. The allure of charades, he supposed; God knew why. There was only one parlor game he enjoyed, and he was playing it now.
    â€œMy thanks.” He settled himself on the sofa, a few correct feet away. “Ah, what a relief.”
    â€œA relief?”
    â€œTo sit down for a moment’s conversation with someone rational.”
    â€œOh, Miss Morrison is pretty rational, most of the time.”
    â€œYes, for a girl of her age. But then, one knows everything one needs to know about her in five minutes.” He released a sigh of ennui.
    â€œWhat’s this? I thought the two of you were making progress.”
    â€œWhy, my dear Mrs. Schuyler. Dare I hope to detect a note of jealousy?”
    â€œYou can hope whatever you