Page 17 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

“I refused. I thought he was mad. But at Lady Hartley’s the following evening, Frederick kept glancing toward us. Oliver pointed it out. Frederick had never looked at me that way before, Eleanor. Not once in two years.” She set the cup on the saucer. “So I agreed. This morning we met in Hyde Park to settle the specifics. He will call three times a week. He will escort me to selected events. We dance together at every ball, twice. He handles the performance. I benefit from the visibility. At the end of the Season, we part without obligation.”

Eleanor had gone very still. Her cup sat forgotten in her hand, tilted at an angle that threatened the upholstery. Her dark eyes moved across Louisa’s face, narrowing by degrees.

“And the purpose of all this,” Eleanor said slowly, “is Frederick Langley.”

“Yes.”

“You are pretending to be courted by a duke to attract the attention of a man who has barely noticed you for two Seasons.”

Louisa’s fingers twitched in her lap. “That is a rather blunt summary.”

“I am a rather blunt person. You have always claimed to appreciate this about me.”

“I appreciate it less when I am the subject of the bluntness.”

Eleanor leaned forward. The afternoon light caught the curve of her cheekbone, the sharp line of her jaw. Everything Louisa wished she could carry into a ballroom without fumbling.

“Louisa. I have watched you orbit Frederick Langley for two years. I have watched you rehearse conversations you never had, admire him from corners you never left, build an entire cathedral of hope on the foundation of a few kind smiles. I adore you. You know I adore you. But this plan is reckless.”

“It is not reckless. It is strategic.”

“It is a duke’s idea of strategy, which means it serves a duke’s interests.” Eleanor picked up the biscuit again, broke it in half, and ate neither half. “What does the Duke of Ashford gain from this arrangement? He is wealthy. He is titled. He is handsome enough that half the mothers in London would sell their china to secure him for their daughters. Why on earth does he need you to protect him from attention he could dismiss with a single word?”

Louisa had asked herself this question. She had asked Oliver this question, in fact, standing beside the Serpentine while swans drifted past with the dignified indifference of creatures who had never once worried about their social standing. His answer had been delivered with the casual precision of a man who understood exactly how much truth to offer.

“He wants peace,” Louisa said. “One Season without being hunted. He said the most effective deterrent is the appearance of an existing attachment.”

“And you believed him.”

“I had no reason not to.”

“You had every reason. He is a duke, Louisa. Dukes do not make arrangements with young ladies of modest fortune out of a desire for peace. They make arrangements because the arrangement serves them in ways they have chosen not to explain.”

The words prickled. Louisa smoothed the fabric of her skirt across her knees, a gesture she recognized as her mother’s. She did it whenever she needed her hands to be busy while her thoughts rearranged themselves.

“He has been kind,” she said. “He gave me his coat when I was humiliated in front of the entire Bancroft ballroom. He did not mock me when I told Frederick that roses were determined. He listened when I spoke. He laughed at my jokes.”

“You made jokes?”

“Apparently I am funnier than I realized. Or he is very generous with his laughter.”

Eleanor’s expression shifted. The sharpness softened into worry. Louisa recognized it. She had seen it when Eleanor’s younger sister had nearly eloped with an officer of questionable prospects, and again when Eleanor herself had refused Lord Fitzwilliam’s proposal on the grounds that his conversation bored her senseless.

“Louisa.” Eleanor’s voice dropped. She reached across the space between their chairs and took Louisa’s hand. Her grip was warm, certain, steady. “I am not questioning your intelligence. You are cleverer than half the drawing rooms in London, and you manage your household with more skill than most men manage their estates. But I need you to hear me when I say this. Powerful men rarely make simple promises. And the simplest promises are the ones that leave the deepest marks.”

Louisa pulled her hand free gently. “You are being dramatic.”

“I am being honest, which you will recall we agreed to be with each other long before you started making agreements with dukes.” Eleanor sat back, arms folded. “Tell me truthfully. When you are with Oliver Sinclair, does your stomach do that wretched fluttering thing?”

“No.”

“You answered too quickly.”

“Because the answer is obvious. He is a means to an end. Frederick is the end.” Louisa straightened her spine. The boning of her stays pressed reassuringly against her ribs. “I have spent two years watching Frederick Langley from across ballrooms, rehearsing conversations I never had the courage to begin. This arrangement gives me what I could not give myself. Visibility. Proximity. A reason for Frederick to look in my direction.”

“And if Frederick looks in your direction and you discover you would rather be looking in someone else’s?”

“That will not happen.”