Page 4 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

Lady Blackwood was still talking. Two more mothers had joined the queue. Oliver smiled and bowed and said the right things in the right order and thought about a woman in an ill-fitting blue gown who had wanted absolutely nothing from him and walked away without looking back.

I hope you survive the evening.

He had survived twenty-nine years of evenings far worse than this one. And yet.

He glanced toward the corner where she had disappeared. The crowd had closed behind her. She was gone.

“Your Grace?” Lady Blackwood’s voice sharpened with the delicate menace of a woman losing her audience. “My daughter was asking about your estate in Hampshire. I understand Ashford Hall has the most extraordinary gardens.”

Oliver turned back to Miss Blackwood. Smiled. Began speaking about gardens he could not remember planting, for someone whose name he would not recall by morning.

But his gaze drifted once more toward the far corner of the ballroom, searching for a flash of pale blue among the crowd.

She was nowhere to be found.

Which, he could not help but think, was exactly where she believed she belonged.

CHAPTER 2

“Oh, Louisa, you must go at once. Else… I shall push you.”

Eleanor’s fingers closed around Louisa’s wrist. Three Seasons of watching her dearest friend orbit the same man from across the same ballrooms had evidently worn her patience to nothing.

“Eleanor, I cannot simply walk over there and...”

“You can. You will. He has been standing near the pillar for five full minutes with no one beside him. Miss Cavendish has gone to the retiring room. Lord Williston is dancing. This is the clearest path you will have all evening. If you do not take it, I shall tell Lady Booth that you wish to discuss her collection of pressed ferns, and you will spend the remainder of the ball trapped in a conversation about lichen.”

Louisa’s stomach dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.” Eleanor released her wrist. “Louisa. You have admired this man for two years. Two years of watching from corners and rehearsing conversations you never have. For once in your life, walk across a room toward what you want.”

The words landed between her ribs, sharp and accurate. Louisa looked across the ballroom. Frederick stood alone near the marble pillar, his dark hair catching the chandelier light, a glass of champagne held loosely in his fingers. He was studying the orchestra with a quiet half-smile, his weight settled comfortably on one heel.

Her pulse hammered against her collarbone.

“What shall I say?”

“Ask him about the music. He played the pianoforte at Lady Booth’s musicale last month, remember? Tell him you admired his performance.”

“I told him I admired the weather.”

“Then tell him you admired his performance instead. Louisa.” Eleanor caught her eyes. “He is kind. He will be polite. The worst that can happen is a dull conversation.”

The worst that could happen was far more creative than Eleanor imagined, but Louisa pressed her gloved fingers against her skirt, drew a breath that filled her lungs without steadying a single nerve, and walked.

The crowd parted with the indifferent ease of people who did not notice her passing. She counted the steps. Fourteen from the refreshment table to the marble pillar. Fourteen steps to cross the distance she had spent two Seasons measuring from the safety of shadowed corners.

Frederick saw her at step eleven.

His smile widened. Genuine, warm, the kind of smile that made his brown eyes crease at the corners. Louisa’s knees softened.

“Miss Fairchild. How lovely.” He inclined his head. “I was hoping to see you this evening.”

He was hoping to see her. The words scattered through her body, bright and disorienting. She curtsied. Her balance held. A small mercy.

“Lord Langley. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your performance at Lady Booth’s.” The sentence left her mouth intact, every word in the correct order, and she could have wept with relief.

“That is very kind.” Frederick’s expression softened. “I confess I was rather nervous. The Booth pianoforte has a temperamental middle C, and I spent half the sonata praying it would cooperate.”