Page 27 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I have not thought about it,” he admitted. “I believe I am merely honest. But please, I implore you, do tell me what it is that people claim about me. Seeing as you have mentioned my reputation. I was not aware I had one.”

Louisa nodded slowly. “Well,” she got out, “I have heard that you are rather… sullen at times. You keep to yourself, and people are not certain whether it is haughtiness or something else entirely.”

“And what could that something else be?”

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Perhaps some think that you are shy.”

A short laugh left his lips, and he shook his head. “I am most certainly not shy,” he insisted. “Nor do I believe myself to be haughty.”

She kept her eyes on him. “What do you believe it is then? That causes you to avoid people? After all… you are using me as a hedge.”

She could not keep the teasing tone out of her voice, and he let out a laugh.

“You, my lady, are not as timid as you would have me believe,” he accused with a smile. “Never before has anyone spoken to me quite so candidly.”

Louisa laughed. “I do not think I am mistaken,” she pressed, and he nodded slowly.

“I do tend to avoid overbearing mothers and eager daughters,” he admitted. “Perhaps because I do not wish to get married.”

“Why?”

He paused. “My parents,” he admitted, and she could see how hard it was for him to form the words. “Suffice it to say that their marriage was turbulent.”

“Do you fear that yours will be too?”

“I do,” he admitted. “I do not wish to be unhappy, nor do I wish to cause unhappiness.”

She nodded slowly. “While I do understand that… it is not merely the mothers and daughters you are said to avoid.”

He laughed again, then shook his head. “I… do not favor idle talk. Now, perhaps it is my turn to inquire about your family.”

Louisa averted her eyes, then sighed. “There is not much to say.”

“Do your parents have a happy marriage? One that you would want to emulate with Langley?”

She thought for a minute, quiet. “No,” she admitted at last. “They used to. Papa brought Mama flowers often; we had breakfast and supper together and spoke about so many things. But then…”

She swallowed with difficulty. “Then, Papa lost the money. And he became different.”

Oliver sat up a bit straighter. “Did… is he angry?”

She shook her head quickly. “Perhaps anger would have been easier,” she admitted. “Had he yelled, had he screamed, even cursed… he’d be talking, he’d be acknowledging us. But he does not. He has…”

She shook her head, and felt her cheeks grow hot again. “I do not wish to speak ill of him,” she said then, and Oliver nodded.

“Naturally.”

“It is just that he is rather withdrawn,” she said, then forced a smile. “I wonder sometimes if he blames us.”

Oliver leaned forward then and covered her hand with his. His hands were cool against the warmth of her own.

“I am certain he does not,” he insisted softly. “I think sometimes men withdraw… because we fear or blame ourselves.”

“Do you?”

The twinkle in his eyes disappeared at this, and he sighed. “Perhaps,” he admitted, but left it at that and steered her toward another painting.

“I trust that you are ready for the ball tomorrow,” he said, effectively ending all vulnerability between them. Alice nodded.