Page 2 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

Louisa looked away, her throat tight.

Enough.

She turned toward the refreshment table because it was the only destination that required no courage and no pretense of enjoying the evening. The crowd parted reluctantly. She navigated past two matrons discussing a scandal she had not heard of, sidestepped a young officer who had consumed too much champagne, and was within four steps of the lemonade when the floor seemed to tilt beneath her.

She collided with a chest.

A broad, unyielding, extremely well-tailored chest.

Her lemonade pitched forward. A hand caught her elbow. Another caught the glass, righting it casually.

“Steady.”

The voice was low, warm, laced with the faintest thread of amusement. Louisa looked up.

The man holding her elbow was tall. That was the first thing. Tall and broad-shouldered in the way that made the evening coat across his frame seem insufficient to the task of containing him. Dark blond hair, slightly disordered, as though he had run his fingers through it recently and not bothered to repair the damage. A strong jaw. An easy, practiced smile that reached his hazel eyes and stopped just short of sincerity.

She knew who he was. Every woman in this ballroom knew who he was.

Oliver Sinclair. The Duke of Ashford.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” Louisa managed, stepping back and nearly colliding with a potted fern. “I was not watching where I was going.”

“Clearly.” He released her elbow, but his fingers lingered on the glass for a moment before surrendering it back to her. “Though in your defense, the Bancroft ballroom was designed by a man who believed that adequate space between furniture was a sign of moral weakness. One can hardly cross the room without assaulting a fern or a matron.” He paused. “I recommend avoiding both.”

A startled laugh escaped before she could stop it. She pressed her lips together immediately, horrified, but the Duke’s smile widened.

“I really am sorry, Your Grace. I should have been paying attention.” She clutched the lemonade to her bodice. Her pulse was doing an alarming thing against her stays. “If you will excuse me, I was just”

“Fleeing?”

Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

“You have the look of a woman in full retreat. Trust me, I recognize it. I have perfected it myself on numerous occasions.” He rocked back on his heels, hands clasped behind him, surveying the ballroom with studied ease, as though he belonged everywhere and cared about nothing. “The trick is to walk slowly. Rushing only draws attention.”

“I was not fleeing. I was going to fetch a drink.”

He glanced at the glass already in her hand.

Louisa felt heat climb her throat. “A fresh one.”

“Ah.” His gaze swept back to her face and held there with an intensity that felt disproportionate to the conversation. “Well, do not let me detain you. The Bancroft lemonade is famously terrible, and no one should be forced to endure it at less than full strength.”

She should have walked away. Every instinct told her to curtsy, murmur a pleasantry, and disappear back into the safety of the crowd. Dukes did not make conversation with wallflowers at opening balls. It was not how the evening was arranged. There were hierarchies, expectations, invisible lines drawn across every ballroom floor that separated people by rank and fortune and the subtle, unspoken currency of social worth.

But his eyes were kind. And his smile, beneath the polish, held the faintest crack of genuineness. And so, she stayed.

“Is the champagne any better?” she asked, blushing immediately at the question.

“Worse. But the glasses are smaller, so you, I do believe, suffer less per serving.” He turned slightly, angling his body toward hers, and she noticed his gaze flicker past her shoulder. Brief. Deliberate. The smile tightened at its edges. “Tell me. Are you enjoying your evening?”

“Immensely,” Louisa said, and his eyes twinkled at the dryness in her voice.

His laugh was genuine this time. Quick and startled out of him. “Good Heavens. Honesty at a society ball. I had heard rumors such things existed but never witnessed one firsthand.”

She felt her face turn rather warm,

“I fear the lemonade has loosened my tongue.”