Page 30 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

“Evidently, he does not mind. Though I do not think he has much feeling left in those feet.”

Her eyes widened. “Your Grace!”

“The man is seventy-three,” he insisted. “I am surprised that he can still walk, much less dance.”

She shook her head, though she could not suppress a smile. “That is quite unkind,” she accused.

“It is accurate. The man has had gout for at least a decade.” He led her toward the floor as the orchestra struck the opening bars of a cotillion. “You were brilliant last night, by the way.”

The color rose in her cheeks. She kept her eyes forward. “It was hardly Waterloo.”

“Most people find speaking with strangers more terrifying than a French cavalry charge. You managed it without reinforcements.” They took their positions in the set, facing each other across the narrow space between couples. The candlelight warmed her skin. “It is working,” he said simply. “Frederick is quite impressed.”

“You are lying,” she said immediately, though the hope was palpable in her voice. He shook his head.

“He has been watching you all night,” he insisted. “His eyes follow you wherever you go. He has most certainly noticed you.”

She hesitated. “Perhaps he is looking at you.”

He laughed softly. “I doubt he finds me pleasant to stare at in that wide-eyed manner.”

“He is not!”

“I promise you,” he gestured with his head to where Frederick stood against the wall, his eyes indeed observing her with interest. “He is. And might I add, you do look rather lovely tonight.”

She smiled.

“Thank you. That is kind of you to say.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “That is the second time you have called me kind.”

For some reason, the word sat in his chest with a warmth he could not define.

“It is because it is true,” she insisted. “You do not see it, perhaps because you do not realize it… but you are kind, Your Grace. Very kind indeed.”

The music swelled. They began to move.

Oliver had danced at a thousand gatherings. The steps lived in his muscles now, reliable as breathing. He could hold a conversation, assess the room, track three separate social dramas at the edges of the ballroom, all while executing a flawless turn.

Tonight his attention refused to wander.

He watched Louisa’s fingers curl around his when the figure brought them together. He noticed the way she held her chin a fraction higher than she had at the Bancroft ball. He saw the moment she stopped counting steps and simply moved, her body finding the rhythm with an ease that spoke of natural grace rather than rigorous practice.

“You are a liar, Miss Fairchild.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You told me you were a poor dancer. You are nothing of the sort.”

“I said I stepped on Mr. Cavendish’s foot.”

“Which I have just established was not a particularly difficult target.” He turned her through the figure. His hand found her waist for the briefest moment. Through the silk of her gown, he felt warmth. “You move well. You simply refuse to trust it.”

She looked at him then. The ballroom spun past in a blur of color and candlelight, but her gaze held steady on his. “That seems to be your answer for everything. That I am already capable and merely need to stop arguing with myself about it.”

“Because it is true. When you argued about art… People listened. They were captivated.” The set brought them apart. He bowed. She curtsied. They came back together. “And you did all of it without any script or rehearsal.”

“I would have rehearsed, had I the time!”