Page 55 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

“And disappoint Lady Ashton’s hospitality? I would sooner renounce the title.” Oliver took her hand and bowed over it with practiced grace. “Your home is magnificent. I noticed a rather spectacular copper beech on the approach.”

“It has been here longer than the house. My husband threatens to cut it down every autumn. I threaten to cut him down in return.”

Oliver’s laugh was easy, genuine, the kind that made other people want to laugh along. He greeted Lord Caldwell, exchanged a few words with Mrs. Fenton, accepted a cup of tea from a footman. His progress through the room was unhurried, natural, the practiced ease of someone who understood that social gatherings were performances and had perfected his.

Louisa watched him move. She could not help it. Beside her, Frederick was telling her about the lake, about a rowing boat Lord Ashton kept moored at the eastern bank. She heard the words as though from a great distance.

Oliver’s gaze found hers across the room. He inclined his head. The gesture was brief, correct, the greeting of a duke to a young lady in a crowded drawing room.

“Miss Fairchild.”

“Your Grace.”

His eyes held hers for a fraction longer than the greeting required. Then he turned to Sebastian and murmured a remark that made his friend bark a laugh, and the moment dissolved.

Frederick’s hand touched her elbow. “Shall I show you the grounds before dinner? The light is still good.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, that would be lovely.”

They walked the south terrace as the afternoon softened into early evening. Frederick pointed out the formal gardens, the ornamental lake, the folly on the distant hill that Lord Ashton’s grandfather had built to impress a mistress he never managed to secure.

“He spent three thousand pounds on it,” Frederick said. “She married a naval captain instead.”

He offered his arm when the path narrowed. He stopped to pick a spray of jasmine from the border and tucked it into the ribbon of her bonnet with a flourish that drew an approving glance from Lady Caldwell, who was watching from the terrace with Mrs. Fenton.

“They are watching us,” Louisa said.

“Let them.” Frederick’s voice carried a quiet confidence that was new, or perhaps had always been there and was only now emerging. “I have nothing to hide, Miss Fairchild. I rather enjoy your company.” He turned to face her. “I hope that does not alarm you.”

“It does not alarm me.”

“Good.” He smiled. “I should hate to think I had been too forward.”

The declaration hung between them, warm and sincere. Louisa looked at the jasmine in her bonnet ribbon. She thought about the years she had spent dreaming of a moment like this: Frederick Langley choosing her, pursuing her, making his admiration plain in front of witnesses.

“You are very kind,” she said.

His brow creased, briefly. “Kind” was evidently not the response he had been hoping for.

They returned to the house. The dressing gong sounded. Louisa went upstairs and sat at the vanity in her borrowed room while her maid unpinned her hair. The jasmine sprig lay on the table beside her gloves, already wilting.

At dinner she sat between Frederick and Lord Dalton. Frederick claimed her attention throughout the first course, leaning toward her to share observations about the wine, the roast, Lord Caldwell’s remarkable ability to sleep through an entire meal. He asked about her family. He asked about Surrey. He told her about his estate in Kent, assembling the details of a future with careful precision.

“The morning room faces east,” he said, as the second course was laid. “My mother always said it was the finest room in the house. The light in the mornings is quite extraordinary. I have kept everything exactly as she arranged it.”

“It sounds beautiful.”

“It rather is. Perhaps you shall see it soon.”

Across the table, Oliver was making Lady Ashton laugh. Louisa could not hear what he was saying, but Lady Ashton’s shoulders shook with deep, unconstrained laughter, the kind that came from being genuinely surprised rather than merely polite. Sebastian sat beside him, adding a dry remark that made Oliver grin and shake his head.

Oliver caught her watching. He did not smile. He simply looked at her, steady, and the warmth of it moved through her ribs like a note struck on a piano in a quiet room.

Frederick was still speaking.

“Do you enjoy roses?” he asked.

“I do.”