Page 46 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

Louisa smiled. Sir John was harmless. He required nothing from her beyond the occasional nod, and he supplied his own enthusiasm in such generous quantities that the dance passed quickly.

Mr. Fitzwilliam was less easily managed. He materialized at her side the moment the set ended, his collar damp, his forehead glistening beneath the chandeliers.

“Insufferable,” he announced, as though resuming a conversation they had not been having. “Twenty-eight degrees at minimum. I enquired of the footman. He could not confirm. No thermometer, Miss Fairchild. A gathering of this size and no thermometer. One shudders to think.”

“One does.”

“At Lord Waverley’s last autumn, they had the foresight to open every window on the eastern side. Dropped the temperature considerably. I made a note of it.”

“You keep notes on room temperature?”

“Somebody must. The negligence with which most hostesses approach ventilation borders on the criminal.”

She danced with him, smiled, and when the music ended she curtsied easily.

Between dances, she stood with Eleanor near the tall windows, accepting glasses of lemonade from passing footmen. Frederick stood with Lord Ashton discussing, from the animated movement of his hands, either horses or architecture. Oliver had been absorbed into a circle of gentlemen near the fireplace where Sebastian Hawthorne was holding court with a story that produced eruptions of laughter at regular intervals.

Oliver had not approached her.

She danced the cotillion with Frederick. His hand was warm through her glove. “Lord Ashton has mentioned a garden party that they are planning,” he mentioned.

“Oh, is he?”

“It promises to be a delightful gathering,” he said, guiding her through the turn. “Lord Ashton has excellent grounds. The shooting is very fine.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“I believe he is hoping to assemble a small group. Select company. Those whose presence would genuinely enhance the occasion.” He met her eyes as they came together in the figure. “I understand an invitation may be forthcoming.”

Her pulse quickened. A house party. Frederick, mentioning her name in connection with an invitation. This was progress. This was precisely what the arrangement with Oliver had been designed to achieve.

“How kind of Lord Ashton,” she said.

Frederick smiled. “I rather suspect his wife is behind it. Lady Ashton has taken quite a liking to you. She told me last Thursday that you were the most sensible young lady she had met all Season.”

“Sensible.” She kept her voice light. “What a thrilling compliment.”

“I meant it as high praise. Sensibility is an undervalued quality.”

The dance separated them. When they came back together, his hand found hers with an assurance that felt deliberate. He was looking at her differently tonight.

The quadrille came next. Frederick again. He spoke about his family’s estate in Kent, the improvements he planned, the gardens his mother had designed before her death. His voice carried a warmth she had not heard from him before.

“I should very much like to show you the gardens at Langley Park,” he said during a pause in the figures. “My mother planted a rose walk that is at its finest in August.”

“I would like that,” she said.

The quadrille ended. Frederick bowed over her hand, his lips brushing her knuckles a fraction longer than custom required. Louisa curtsied. She returned to Eleanor beside the windows.

“Well?” Eleanor’s fan moved with urgent precision.

“He mentioned a house party. Lord Ashton’s estate in Wiltshire. He said an invitation may be forthcoming.”

“And?”

“He mentioned his family’s rose garden in Kent. He said he would like to show it to me.”

Eleanor’s fan stopped moving. “Louisa. That is very nearly a declaration.”