Page 38 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

She glanced toward the croquet lawn. Lord Tyndale was, indeed, wading into the shallows in his stockings while his wife shouted instructions from the bank. Several ladies had turned their parasols to observe the spectacle.

“Go,” Oliver said. “Ask him about the prints he was studying. Ask whether he prefers landscapes or portraits. Build on what he tells you. You know how to do this.”

She went.

She walked across the lawn with the careful composure of someone proceeding toward an examination she had revised for but still feared she might fail. Frederick noticed her approach. He turned from the lake. His smile was warm, genuine, the kind of smile that had lived in her thoughts for four years.

“Miss Fairchild. How fortunate. I was hoping to continue our conversation from Mrs. Alderton’s musicale.”

“As was I. I understand you have been studying Lady Dalton’s prints?”

“I have. A rather fine Stubbs in the library, actually. A mare with her foal in a landscape I could swear is meant to be the South Downs.” He gestured toward the bench beside the lake. “Would you care to sit? The shade here is quite pleasant.”

“You are remarkably knowledgeable about art,” he said. “I had not realized.”

“There is quite a lot you have not realized about me, Lord Langley.”

She had meant it lightly. The words came out with an edge she had not intended, sharper than flirtation, closer to truth. Frederick’s expression shifted. He opened his mouth.

“Langley!” Lord Ashton’s voice cut across the lawn. “We need a fourth for croquet. Tyndale has ruined his shoes, his wife is furious, the whole thing is descending into farce. Come and restore order.”

Frederick glanced toward the croquet lawn. He hesitated. He looked at Louisa.

“I shall only be a moment.”

“Of course.”

He rose. He crossed the grass toward Lord Ashton quickly. Louisa watched him go. She folded her hands in her lap. She waited.

The moment became five minutes. Five became ten. From across the lawn she could hear the crack of mallets against wooden balls, the scattered laughter of spectators. Frederick’s voice carried above the rest, confident, at ease. He had joined the game. He had forgotten her.

She looked down at her hands. The familiar weight gathered behind her ribs: the pressing, heavy sensation of being set aside without anyone noticing they had done it. She breathed through it. She had years of practice.

“Is this seat claimed?”

Oliver stood over her, his coat slung across his arm, his cravat slightly loosened in the heat. He carried two glasses of lemonade. She had not seen him approach.

“It was.” She took the glass he offered. “Briefly.”

He sat beside her on the bench. The wood was warm from the sun. He stretched his legs in front of him, crossed his ankles, tilted his face toward the sky. He said nothing about Frederick. He said nothing about the croquet lawn or the empty seat beside her or the ten minutes she had spent watching another man walk away.

“Lady Dalton’s cook,” he said, sipping his lemonade, “has committed an act of genius with the seed cake. I may propose marriage to her before the afternoon is finished.”

“You would be her fifth husband. She buried the fourth in March.”

“I admire her efficiency.”

Louisa pressed her lips together. A laugh escaped. She covered her mouth with her hand.

“That is wicked.”

“Accurate, though. Lady Dalton told me herself during the first course at the Thornbury dinner. She said four husbands had taught her the importance of short engagements.” He glanced sideways at her. “I believe her exact instruction was, ‘Marry in haste, bury at leisure.’”

The laugh broke free properly this time. She shook her head.

“You are terrible.”

“I am entertaining, I believe.”