Page 13 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

“To anyone watching. Which will be everyone, the moment word spreads.”

She walked on, her boots pressing neat tracks into the path’s gravel. He followed, matching her pace. A pair of swans drifted past on the Serpentine, ignoring them with the studied indifference of creatures who had survived centuries of human foolishness.

“Very well,” she said. “Three visits. Though I must warn you that our drawing room is small. You will have to sit close to my mother, who will almost certainly interrogate you about your estates.”

A hint of a smile caught on his lips.

“I have survived worse interrogations.”

“You have not met my mother when she is determined.”

“I met Lady Blackwood at the Bancroft ball. I believe your mother will find me adequately prepared.” He consulted the list again. “The second rule. I shall escort you to selected events throughout the Season. Balls, musicales, suppers. We attend together. We are seen together. The gossip columns do the rest.”

“Selected by whom?”

“By me.”

She stopped walking. “I beg your pardon?”

“I know the Season’s calendar. I know which hostesses command the most influence over public opinion. Lady Tyndale’s ball carries twice the weight of Lady Holt’s afternoon tea. If we are strategic in our appearances, we achieve maximum effect with minimum exposure.”

“Maximum effect,” she repeated. “You speak of courtship as though it were a military campaign.”

“Most successful ones are. The difference is that the artillery is verbal.”

She looked at him for a long moment, her expression caught between irritation with his confidence and reluctant acknowledgement that he was making sense. “I would like to have a say in which events we attend.”

“Naturally. This is a partnership, not a dictatorship.”

“You just told me that you would select the events.”

“I said I would select them. I did not say you could not object. Or suggest.”

Her mouth pressed flat. Then the corner twitched. She resumed walking.

“Then,” he continued, falling into step beside her again. “Dancing. I will claim your hand for two dances at every ball we attend together. The first, to establish our presence. The second, later in the evening, to reinforce it.”

“Two dances feel significant. People will talk.”

“People will talk regardless. We may as well give them the correct story.”

“The correct fabricated story.”

“All stories are fabricated, Miss Fairchild. The only question is who holds the pen.” He folded the list, returned it to his pocket. The breeze carried the scent of cut grass across the water. “Now. Your turn. What are your terms?”

She blinked. “My terms?”

“You did say you had given considerable thought to the arrangement. I assume that thought produced conditions.”

Color touched her cheeks. She looked ahead, toward the bridge that arched over the Serpentine in elegant white stone. “I do have conditions. The first is that you will not treat me as though I am incapable of conducting myself in public.”

“I have never suggested any such thing.”

“You told me last evening that you would teach me confidence. As though confidence were a skill I had failed to acquire.”

He weighed his response. She was watching him with that steady, dry-eyed directness that made him feel as though his usual arsenal of charm was about as useful as a parasol in a storm. “That was poorly phrased on my part. You do not lack confidence, Miss Fairchild. You lack the habit of displaying it.”

“That distinction sounds charitable but feels identical.”