Page 43 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

She turned before they could see her. She walked back toward the rose trellises, away from the fountain, away from the laughter. The garden swam. The foxgloves blurred purple against green. She breathed through her nose, counted the steps on the gravel, focused on the crunch beneath her shoes.

She found a bench at the far end of the garden, half-hidden behind a trellis of climbing jasmine. She sat. She set the untouched champagne on the bench beside her. She pressed her palms flat against her knees.

Ordinary.

Plain little Louisa Fairchild.

She must be cleverer than she looks.

“You are hiding.”

She looked up. Oliver stood at the edge of the jasmine trellis, his coat unbuttoned, his hands in his pockets. The afternoon sun caught the gold in his hair. He was watching her with quiet, steady attention.

“She unclenched her hands. “How long have you been watching me?”

“Long enough.” He stepped around the trellis and sat beside her on the bench. Not too close. Close enough that she caught the familiar scent of cedar and clean linen. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Louisa.”

The way he said her name undid something in her throat.

“I overheard a conversation,” she said. “Two ladies near the fountain. They were discussing my good fortune in capturing your interest.”

“And?”

“And they concluded that I must be cleverer than I look, because I am far too ordinary to have attracted a duke through any other means.” She kept her voice even. She was proud of how steady it came out. “They also observed that my family’s finances would benefit considerably from the connection, which is true, and that you may have chosen me because I am too plain to exhaust you, which I suppose is a compliment of sorts.”

Oliver said nothing for a moment. The jasmine stirred above them. A bee moved between the white flowers with single-minded industry.

“Which ladies?”

“It does not matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“Why? What would you do? March across the garden and inform them they are wrong? That would rather defeat the purpose of our arrangement.”

He turned on the bench to face her. His knee brushed hers. She did not move.

“They are wrong,” he said. “About all of it.”

“They are not wrong about everything. I am here because of you. These invitations arrived because of you. Lady Tyndale greeted me at her gate today as though we had been friends for years. She seated me behind a fern last Season, Oliver.”

His mouth twitched. She saw him fighting it. “A fern.”

“Do not laugh.”

“I am not laughing. I am horrified on your behalf. The indignity of being seated behind foliage is not something I take lightly.”

Despite herself, she felt the tightness in her throat loosen. “You are impossible.”

“I am truthful.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Listen to me. You received those invitations because you have spent the last fortnight proving that you belong in every room you enter.”

She looked at him. The hazel of his eyes was warm in the afternoon light, flecked with green. He was close enough that she could see the faint line of the scar above his eyebrow, the slight unevenness of his smile.

“You say that,” she said, “as though I should believe it.”