Page 9 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

The breakfast room was small, its wallpaper fading where sunlight found the seams. Their rented Mayfair townhouse shrank a little more each Season, the mathematics of her father’s investments working their slow, quiet subtraction. Fewer candles. Plainer gowns. Fewer servants.

I am suggesting we trade.

She pressed the heel of her hand against her eye. Oliver Sinclair’s voice lived in her skull now, low, stripped of the charm he wore for ballrooms. A duke, proposing they pretend to court so that Frederick Langley might finally see her. The premise was absurd, manipulative even. It treated affection as a mechanism to be gamed, jealousy as a lever to be pulled.

She picked at the cold toast. Tore a corner off, set it back down.

Two years she had admired Frederick. Two years of watching him smile at her with the same pleasant warmth he offered every woman at every gathering, his kindness distributed so evenly it never quite landed. She had rehearsed conversations, planned approaches, chosen gowns with his preferences in mind. She had done everything except make him see her.

Yet, he never had, and she had often wondered if his affection and attention would one day be aimed at one of the many other ladies who vied for it. One more beautiful. One with a coquettish laugh, a slender figure, an impressive dowry.

Then, last night…

Last night, a duke had given her his coat, walked her through the Bancroft ballroom on his arm, spoken with her in an alcove while the whole of London’s gossip apparatus whirred into motion around them. Frederick had stood near the marble pillar with his champagne untouched, his gaze fixed on the alcove, wearing an expression she had never once managed to put on his face in two years of patient, invisible devotion.

He cannot stop looking.

The worst part was not that Oliver had been right. The worst part was how quickly it had worked. A single evening. One gesture from the wrong man had accomplished what two years of longing from the right one could not.

“Mama,” she said. “I believe I shall attend Lady Hartley’s supper this evening.”

Her mother glanced up from the post. “Lady Hartley’s? You told me yesterday you would rather organize your cousin’s stamp collection.”

“I have changed my mind.”

Her mother’s mouth curved, just slightly. She had recognized the shape of resolve in her daughter’s voice, however carefully Louisa tried to disguise it.

“Well, my dear… I suppose that a mind is no good if a lady cannot change it. I encourage you to attend and have a marvelous time.”

The hours that followed dragged. Louisa dressed for the evening with more care than she had given a society event in months, choosing the ivory muslin over the safer grey, pinning her hair with the good tortoiseshell combs. The carriage delivered them to Brook Street at half past eight. Louisa surrendered her wrap, smoothed her skirt, pressed her gloved fingers against her collarbone where her pulse had begun to misbehave.

She saw him before she had taken four steps into Lady Hartley’s drawing room.

Oliver Sinclair stood near the mantelpiece, a glass of claret in his hand, half-listening to Lord Ashworth discuss what appeared to be either horse breeding or parliamentary reform. He wore dark blue this evening, and she had to admit that he looked rather dashing. He looked entirely at home beside the fireplace, claiming the space without appearing to try.

His gaze found hers across the assembled guests.

He smiled.

Her stomach dropped. She turned quickly toward the nearest cluster of guests, desperate for cover, but he was already moving, crossing the drawing room with a stride so unhurried it appeared accidental.

“Miss Fairchild.” He arrived at her elbow as though the crowd had parted for him by prior arrangement. “What a pleasure. I was beginning to think you would not attend.”

“Your Grace.” She curtsied. Kept her voice steady. “I must return your coat. I will have it sent to Ashford House in the morning.”

“Keep it. I have many others.” He fell into step beside her, guiding them toward the far end of the room where two chairs stood near the tall windows. “You look well rested.”

“I slept perfectly, thank you.”

“So did I.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “Shall we both stop lying now, or do you prefer another round first?”

She pressed her lips together against the pull at the corners of her own mouth. He gestured toward the chairs. She sat, because refusing would draw more attention than accepting, because she could feel eyes on them already, because some treacherous instinct in the base of her spine told her she wanted to hear what he would say next.

He settled into the opposite chair, unhurried, as though he expected the conversation to last.

“I have been thinking about your proposal,” Louisa said.

“Have you? I am glad to hear that you are one to honor your promises.”