Page 36 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

“Miss Fairchild.”

Frederick Langley appeared beside her with two glasses of wine, offering one with the practiced ease of someone who had never once wondered whether his company was wanted.

“Lord Langley. Thank you.” She accepted the glass. The wine was warm from the crowded room.

“I was hoping to find you this evening.” He smiled. The candlelight caught the sharp line of his jaw, the careful arrangement of his cravat. He was handsome. He had always been handsome. “I understand you attended the Royal Academy exhibition. Several people mentioned your remarks about the Dido painting.”

“Is that so?”

“Lady Fitzwilliam among them. She described you as ‘the most refreshing voice in that gallery.’” He sipped his wine. “I confess, I have been meaning to ask you about it. What was it about the painting that troubled you?”

Louisa opened her mouth. The old reflex surged, the urge to soften, to deflect, to offer a modest disclaimer and retreat into pleasantries.

She thought of Oliver on the bench. Trust that you are interesting enough.

“The composition troubled me,” she said. “The painter treated Dido as decoration rather than a protagonist. She founded a city through cleverness, not beauty, and the canvas reduced her to a woman pointing at a horizon.”

Frederick’s eyebrows rose. “That is rather a bold assessment.”

“Perhaps. But… It is still lovely. The technique was accomplished. I simply felt the artist misunderstood his subject.”

He regarded her for a long moment. She held his gaze. She did not fill the silence with an apology.

He lifted a brow. “I looked at that painting for twenty minutes and did not see what you saw in thirty seconds. You have a remarkable eye, Miss Fairchild.”

“I have opinions. Whether they are remarkable is debatable, I suppose.”

He laughed. It was a warm sound, genuine, surprised. He shifted his weight, turning his body toward her in a way that excluded the rest of the room.

“Tell me about this botanist I have heard rumors of. Mrs. Chalcott said you spent quite some time in conversation with a gentleman at Hyde Park this afternoon.”

“Mr. Hargrove. He studies ferns.”

“Ferns.” Frederick’s eyes crinkled. “You have hidden depths, Miss Fairchild. I have known you for years, and I am only now discovering that you hold strong opinions about Renaissance painting and maintain friendships with botanists.”

The soprano returned to her position near the pianoforte. Frederick did not look toward the stage.

“Are… are you reading anything at present?” he asked.

“Burney. Camilla.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “My sister admires Burney enormously. She is forever pressing novels upon me. I confess I rarely have time for fiction.”

He tilted his wine glass between his fingers when she did not respond. “What is it about her that appeals to you?”

She spoke without even thinking of it. “The honesty. Burney writes women who make one small mistake and carry the weight of it through every chapter that follows. She understands that ruin does not arrive in grand moments. Sometimes it arrives through a single word chosen poorly at dinner.”

Frederick’s brow lifted. “You are full of surprises, Miss Fairchild. I feel as though I have been introduced to someone entirely new.”

The words pleased her, in the way that sunlight through a window pleased even when the glass was cold. He was looking at her. He was asking questions. He was standing close enough that she could smell the starch in his cravat.

“I have always been this person,” she said. “You are simply asking for the first time.”

Frederick paused. She watched the words settle into his expression. For a moment, his composure slipped, and she glimpsed the faintest edge of discomfort, a man confronted with a correction he had not expected from her.

Then he recovered. “Well,” he said, his smile reassembling itself. “I shall have to ask more often. It seems I have been missing quite the performance.”

The word sat between them. Performance. As though the thoughts she had carried for years, the hours spent over lending catalogues and lesson plans, amounted to an evening’s entertainment he had been fortunate enough to catch.