Page 53 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

“You do not.”

“I have correspondence.”

“You have a secretary.”

“I have a great many responsibilities that do not involve house parties.”

“You have a great many excuses that do not involve honesty.” Sebastian set his glass on the window ledge. “Oliver. I have known you since we were fourteen. I am not going to pretend I do not see what is in front of me.”

“There is nothing in front of you. There is a man who is tired, who drank too much claret, who would very much like to go home.”

Sebastian watched him for a long moment. The supper room was nearly empty now. A footman was clearing the tables, stacking plates with practiced efficiency. The candles had burned to stubs in their silver holders.

“Very well,” Sebastian said. “Go home. Get some sleep. But I will say one thing, and then I will leave it alone.”

“I doubt that.”

“Be careful.” Sebastian’s voice was quiet. “Be careful that you do not mistake arrangement for armor. You built this scheme to protect yourself from the Season’s matchmakers. Perfectly sensible. But I have watched you for weeks now, and the person you are protecting yourself from has changed. You are not shielding yourself from ambitious mothers anymore, Oliver. You are shielding yourself from her.”

He squeezed Oliver’s shoulder. He left.

Oliver stood at the window. The lanterns swayed between the lime trees. The mist thickened above the garden wall. Below, a carriage clattered past on the wet street, its lamps cutting two bright lines through the dark.

He was tired. That was all. The evening had been long, the dances numerous, the champagne indifferent. Sebastian was being dramatic. The arrangement was working. Everything was fine.

He collected his coat from the footman at the door. He found his carriage on the lamplit street.

He sat in the dark. The horses moved. London passed outside the glass.

He thought about Wiltshire. He should go. Declining would raise questions. Besides, Louisa might need his guidance during the house party. Frederick’s friends would be assessing her. She would want to make a good impression. She might need him to steady her nerves, to catch her eye across a drawing room, to remind her with a glance that she belonged in every room she entered.

She might need him.

The carriage turned onto Park Lane. He loosened his cravat, the one Sebastian had correctly identified as flawless. He pressed his head against the seat.

Louisa did not need him anymore. That was the truth of it. She had handled Lady Arden alone. She had charmed Lord Ashton’s wife without coaching. She had filled her dance card before he arrived. She had managed the entire evening with the confidence he had spent weeks trying to show her she already possessed.

She did not need him. The arrangement was nearing its purpose. When Frederick proposed, when she accepted, the transaction would be complete. She would move to Kent. He would return to Ashford Hall. The Season would end. Another would begin.

A frown formed between his brows. He would still need her, however. The arrangement was for the Season, and Frederick could wait. Would wait.

He lifted his chin. The arrangement was that they would help each other. She had no right to find fulfilment in the arrangement and run off with the man of her dreams before finishing her part.

The carriage stopped before Ashford House. He stepped out. The night air smelled of damp stone and honeysuckle. The house was dark except for a single lamp in the entrance hall.

He climbed the stairs. He sat on the edge of his bed, still dressed, coat still on. The longcase clock in the study below ticked through the silence.

He was tired. He was simply tired. Any sensible man would be tired after an evening of dancing, champagne, conversation. The tightness behind his ribs was fatigue. The hollow feeling in his chest was hunger. The fact that he could still feel the warmth of her waist beneath his palm, two hours after the waltz had ended, was simply a matter of the body remembering what the mind had already dismissed.

The clock struck one.

He pulled off his coat. He lay back. He stared at the ceiling.

He was tired. He was fine. The arrangement was working. Everything was fine.

He pressed his eyes shut and told himself this until the words lost their meaning, which took considerably less time than he expected.

CHAPTER 16