Page 45 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

“He was quite attentive,” Louisa said.

“He was more than attentive. He looked at you as though he had only just realized you were in the room. Which, frankly, is years overdue.” Eleanor paused. She tilted her head. “Why do you not look happier about this?”

“I am happy.”

“You look as though you have been asked to catalogue a library. By alphabet. In Latin.”

“That is how I look when I am happy. You have known me long enough.”

Eleanor studied her for a long moment. Louisa met her gaze, keeping her face arranged into a pleasant expression she had been practicing since the carriage.

“Your card,” Eleanor said, reaching for it.

Louisa surrendered the small booklet. Eleanor opened it, scanning the penciled names.

“Lord Langley for the cotillion. Lord Langley again for the quadrille. Lord Hathaway, Sir John, Mr. Tyndale, Lord Barrett, Lord Dalton for the supper dance.” She looked up. “That leaves two empty spaces. The Scotch reel and the final waltz.”

“I am aware.”

A ripple moved through the room. Louisa felt it before she saw it: a shift in the music of conversation, the turning of heads, the subtle recalibration that occurred whenever someone of consequence entered late. She did not need to turn toward the door. She knew, from the way Eleanor’s expression changed, from the quickening murmur that passed through the nearest cluster of guests.

Oliver had arrived.

She turned. He stood in the entrance, scanning the room. His gaze moved across the assembled guests with practiced ease, accustomed to rooms full of people who wanted to be near him.

His eyes found hers. He held her gaze for a beat that lasted longer than it should have, long enough that the heat crept up the back of her neck. Then he smiled, the slow, lopsided curve that started in his eyes, and turned to greet Lady Acker.

“He is late,” Eleanor observed. “Half an hour, at least.”

“I had not noticed.”

“Oh, is that the truth?”

Louisa did not respond. She watched Oliver bend over Lady Acker’s hand with a grace that made three young ladies near the refreshment table exhale in audible unison.

Lord Hathaway appeared at Louisa’s elbow as the first dance was called, bowed, and led her onto the floor before she had quite finished setting down her lemonade.

“Miss Fairchild. A pleasure. I trust you are well this evening?”

“Very well, thank you, my lord.”

“Capital. Capital.” He guided her through the opening figure with the stiff competence of a man who had learned his steps forty years ago and resented every one since. “Warm tonight, is it not?”

“It is.”

“They will insist on lighting every candle in the room. I have said as much to Lady Acker. Half the candles would do. Saves wax. Nobody would notice the difference.”

“I expect you are right.”

“I am invariably right. It is my curse.” He delivered this without a trace of humor and handed her off at the turn.

The country dance brought Sir John Everett, who was young, cheerful, and determined to discuss his new mare for the duration of every figure.

“Sixteen hands, Miss Fairchild. Sixteen. My man says she is the finest animal he has seen come out of Leicestershire in a decade.”

“That is high praise.”

“He wept, Miss Fairchild. A grown man. I could not look at him for the rest of the afternoon.”