Page 47 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

“It is not a declaration. It is a rose garden.”

“It is a rose garden belonging to an unmarried gentleman’s deceased mother, offered to an unmarried lady over the course of their second dance at Lady Acker’s ball. That is a declaration wrapped in petals.”

Louisa pressed her lips together. The orchestra was tuning for the next set. Around them, partners were being collected, hands offered, positions assumed. The candles in the chandelier burned with a steady, golden insistence.

“There are two dances remaining,” Eleanor said. “The Scotch reel and the final waltz. Both unclaimed.”

“I know.”

“Oliver has not danced once this evening.”

Louisa had noticed. She had noticed. He had remained near the fireplace for most of the evening, talking with Sebastian, accepting drinks from the footmen, laughing at observations she was too far away to hear. He had not approached any young lady. He had not asked for any card. He had crossed the room twice: once to speak with Lady Acker, once to greet Lord Dalton. Both times he had passed within a few feet of where Louisa stood, close enough that she caught the scent of cedar on his coat.

Both times, he had not stopped.

The Scotch reel was claimed by a cheerful young man with red hair who appeared at her side with the breathless enthusiasm of someone who had been working up his courage for the better part of an hour. Louisa accepted. They danced. He talked about his sister’s upcoming wedding with such genuine affection that she found herself laughing properly for the first time all evening.

When the reel ended, she returned to her place near the windows. Eleanor had been claimed for the next set, which left Louisa standing alone, her card open in her hand, the final waltz the only empty line.

“Miss Fairchild.”

She looked up. Oliver stood before her. His expression was pleasant, composed, the public face she had learned to distinguish from the real one. His hands were clasped behind his back. His eyes moved to the card in her hand, then back to her face.

“Your Grace.” She curtsied.

“I trust you are enjoying the evening.”

“Very much. Lady Acker’s hospitality is exceptional.”

“It is. Her champagne, I am relieved to report, is considerably better than Lady Tyndale’s.”

The reference to their shared afternoon behind the jasmine trellis sent heat spreading beneath her collarbone. She fought to keep her face neutral.

“I should hope so. France would not survive another assault.”

His mouth curved.

“I notice your card is nearly full.”

“It is.”

“I also notice that I failed to claim a single dance, owing to my unfortunate habit of arriving everywhere too late to be useful.”

“A fault you might consider correcting.”

“I might. If I believed correction were possible.” He glanced at the card again. “Is there anything remaining? Or have I been thoroughly outmaneuvered by every gentleman in the room?”

“The final waltz,” she said. “It is the only line unclaimed.”

His eyes returned to hers. The pleasant expression shifted, fractionally, like light moving behind glass. She saw what lived beneath it: an intensity he was working to contain, a focus that did not belong in polite conversation between a duke and an unmarried woman at a public ball.

“Then I shall claim it,” he said. “If you will have me.”

“I will have you.”

The words came out before she could arrange them into their proper, formal shape. She heard the second meaning she had not intended, felt the flush climb her throat.

“For the waltz,” she added. “I will have you for the waltz.”