Page 12 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

Frederick held her gaze a moment longer. Then he turned to Lord Williston, who had appeared at his side. But his chin angled back toward their alcove twice in the space of a minute.

Oliver extended his hand.

“One Season,” he said.

The drawing room glittered. Lady Hartley’s laughter rang from the pianoforte. Forty guests carried on their conversations, oblivious to the quiet negotiation beside the tall windows.

Louisa looked at Oliver’s hand. She looked at Frederick, who was watching them from across the candlelit room with the expression she had spent two years praying for.

She placed her hand in his.

His fingers closed around hers, warm, steadier than her own. His palm was rougher than she expected, callused at the edges. He held her gaze.

“Very well,” she said.

Oliver smiled. The real one, the one that cracked through the polish.

“Deal.”

He released her hand. The warmth of his grip lingered against her glove, stubborn, impossible to ignore.

CHAPTER 4

“You are late. Your Grace.”

Louisa Fairchild stood beneath the elm at the Serpentine’s edge, her gloved hands clasped before her with rehearsed composure. A straw bonnet shielded her face from the mid-morning sun. Her pelisse was buttoned to the throat despite the warmth, as though she expected the weather itself to behave improperly.

Oliver slowed his stride across the grass, tucking his pocket watch back into his waistcoat. “I am three minutes late. Hardly a scandal.”

He stopped a respectable distance from her, close enough for conversation, far enough for propriety. A nursemaid with two small children occupied a bench nearby, providing the bare minimum of chaperonage that a public park allowed. “Shall we walk? I find that negotiations benefit from forward motion.”

She fell into step beside him without argument, though the glance she gave him carried enough skepticism to furnish a lecture hall. The Serpentine glittered to their left. Hyde Park at this hour belonged to the governesses, the riding set cantering along Rotten Row in the distance, the elderly gentlemen with their newspapers folded under their arms. The fashionable hour was still some time away. Oliver had chosen the timing with care. The fewer witnesses to this meeting, the better. At least until they were ready.

“I have given considerable thought to the terms of our arrangement,” he began.

“As have I.”

He lifted a brow.

“I was going to suggest that I speak first, given that this was my proposal.”

“That seems rather autocratic for a man who claims to dislike being managed.”

He stopped walking. She stopped two paces ahead, turning back with a sigh.

“Miss Fairchild. If we are to spend the Season deceiving London’s finest gossips, we will need structure. Clear rules. A framework that prevents either of us from fumbling our way into a catastrophe.” He reached into his coat pocket, produced a folded sheet of paper, and held it up. “I have prepared a list.”

Her lips parted. “You wrote a list.”

“Indeed.”

He unfolded the paper, squinted at his own handwriting, which even he would admit had grown somewhat cramped toward the bottom. “Rule the first. I shall call upon you three times per week. Tuesdays, Thursdays, with a third visit to be determined by the social calendar.”

Louisa’s brow creased. “Three times per week seems excessive.”

“A man courting in earnest calls frequently. Fewer visits suggest lukewarm interest. More would imply desperation. Three is convincing without being alarming.”

“To whom?”