Page 29 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

CHAPTER 9

“That is a rather elaborate choice of waistcoat for a man who does not like attention.”

Oliver glanced down at himself. The waistcoat was blue silk, embroidered with silver thread at the edges. Perkins had selected it while still grieving the coat Oliver had surrendered at the Bancroft ball.

“I wore it because my valet laid it out,” Oliver said. “There are far grander things to care about than what I wear.”

Sebastian leaned against the marble pillar at the edge of Lord Thornbury’s ballroom, champagne in hand. The room was a crush. Four hundred guests packed beneath a ceiling of painted cherubs that looked vaguely alarmed by the crowd below. Candle smoke drifted above the assembly in thin blue ribbons.

“The waistcoat reminds me rather of the color of Miss Fairchild’s eyes,” Sebastian observed.

“An absurd notion.”

Sebastian laughed. “I am simply noting the coincidence.”

“You are noting nothing. You are inventing significance where none exists.” Oliver accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman. The crystal was warm already from the heat of so many bodies. “I have danced with Miss Fairchild precisely four times across three events. It is a performance, Sebastian. We discussed this.”

“You discussed it. I listened with polite skepticism while watching my closest friend walk headfirst into a wall.” Sebastian took a slow sip. “She arrives, by the way.”

Oliver did not turn.

He told himself he did not turn because turning would draw attention, because the entire purpose of the arrangement depended on appearing natural rather than eager, because a duke did not crane his neck across a ballroom like a schoolboy at his first assembly. These were all excellent reasons.

At last, he turned.

Louisa stood near the entrance beside Eleanor Whitmore, her gloved hands clasped in front of her. Her gown was ivory, trimmed with lace at the sleeves. Her hair was gathered up, a few loose curls resting against the curve of her neck. She wore no jewelry except a small pearl on a chain, and the simplicity of it caught the candlelight differently from the diamonds blazing on every other woman in the room.

Eleanor whispered to her. Louisa’s lips moved in reply. Then she looked up, scanning the crowd, and found him.

Her expression shifted into a small smile. She had been looking for him, he realized. She had walked into a ballroom of four hundred people, and her first instinct had been to locate the one face she trusted.

The thought sat beneath his ribs with a warmth he did not examine.

“I shall claim my first dance before the card fills,” he said to Sebastian.

“By all means. I shall remain here and observe the performance with great admiration.”

Oliver set down his champagne and crossed the ballroom. The crowd parted for him the way it always did, bodies shifting with barely conscious deference. Eleanor saw him first as he reached the pair, and she flashed him a knowing smile.

“Your Grace,” Eleanor said. “How delightful.”

“Miss Whitmore. You look well.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Eleanor’s gaze flickered between them. “I shall go find Mrs. Lennox before she corners Lady Fitzwilliam about the seating arrangements again.”

She vanished into the crowd before either of them could respond, the tactical retreat perfected to an art.

Louisa watched her go. “She is not subtle.”

“I believe that she simply chooses not to be.” Oliver offered his arm. “May I have the honor of the first dance, Miss Fairchild?”

Louisa placed her gloved hand on his sleeve. The weight was light, barely there, but he felt it settle against his forearm with a clarity that had no business existing through two layers of fabric.

“You may,” she said. “Though I must admit, I have been lying to Mr. Cavendish about having hurt my ankle.”

He lifted a brow. “You have?”

She blushed. “He… might not be the best dancer in the world,” she sighed. “I often step on his foot, and I must admit that I feel rather guilty for it.”