Page 40 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

He leaned back. He crossed his arms behind his head. The posture was boyish, younger than his years, as though the question had unlocked a door he rarely opened.

“I had a pony called Sovereign. He was too fat for his name. He bit the stable master twice a week without fail. I loved him desperately.” He tilted his head toward her. “I tried to teach him to bow. I saw a circus horse do it once, at a fair my mother took me to. I spent the entire summer in the paddock, pushing his head down with both hands while he tried to eat my coat.”

“Did he ever learn?”

“He learned to steal apples from my pockets. Which I chose to interpret as affection.”

“A generous interpretation.”

“I am a generous man.”

She smiled. He smiled. The silence between them was not the kind that needed filling. It sat comfortably, occupied by the drone of bees in the lavender border, the distant splash of oars on the lake, the rustle of poplar leaves in the warm breeze that moved across Hartfield’s grounds like a slow exhalation.

“This is easy,” she said.

He turned his head. “What is?”

“This. Talking to you.” She set down her glass on the bench between them. “I never run out of words. I never rehearse what I am going to say next. I never worry that I have said the wrong thing.” She hesitated. “I do not know why it is so different.”

The observation hung in the air. She had not meant to voice it. She had been thinking it for weeks, turning it over during carriage rides, examining it in the quiet of her bedroom at night. The ease of him. The way she could say the first thought that entered her mind without filing the edges smooth.

Oliver did not answer immediately. She watched him process her words, watched the careful neutrality assemble itself across his features.

“It is because we have nothing at stake,” he said. “There is no courtship. No performance. You are not trying to impress me.”

“No,” she agreed. “I suppose I am not.”

He held her gaze for a beat longer than the sentence required. Then he looked away, toward the lake, where the sunlight broke across the surface in scattered coins of gold.

“Frederick is finishing his game,” he said, suddenly curt. “He will be looking for you.”

She followed his gaze. Frederick had set down his mallet. He was scanning the lawn, searching for her among the blankets.

“Yes,” she said. “I suppose he will.”

She did not move. Neither did Oliver. Frederick’s eyes found them on the bench. He raised a hand in greeting, a smile forming. Louisa lifted her hand in return.

She stood. She smoothed her dress. She picked up both empty glasses.

“Oliver.”

He looked at her, then flashed a small smile. “Yes?”

“Thank you. For the lemonade.”

She walked toward Frederick. The grass was warm beneath her shoes. Frederick met her halfway across the lawn, apologizing for the delay, explaining that Lord Ashton had been impossible to refuse, that croquet had never been his strong suit, that he hoped she had not waited too long.

“Not at all,” she said. “I was well looked after.”

She took his arm. They walked toward the refreshment tent. He told her about the croquet, about Lord Tyndale’s ruined shoes, about the afternoon’s remaining entertainments. She listened. She nodded. She made the appropriate sounds in the appropriate places.

Behind her, on the bench beside the tree, Oliver sat alone with two empty glasses. She did not look back.

CHAPTER 12

“Three invitations in one morning, Louisa. Three.”

Eleanor held the cards between her fingers, fanning them like a winning hand at whist. The morning room at the Fairchild townhouse was bright with June sunlight, dust motes turning lazy circles in the air above the tea tray.