Page 57 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

Frederick was already reaching for the tongs. The morning room at Hartfield faced south, flooding the breakfast table with light that turned the china to pearl. White roses stood at the center of the table, heavy with dew.

“Two lumps.” He dropped the sugar into her cup. “And milk.”

He remembered the sugar. He did not know she took her tea without milk. She accepted the cup from his hand, her fingers brushing his, and her stomach fluttered at the contact. His smile broadened. He had a wonderful smile when he meant it, open, boyish, the smile she had watched across a dozen ballrooms for years while wishing he would turn it in her direction.

Now he had. He was turning it toward her every morning.

“I thought we might walk the lake path today,” he said. “Lord Ashton mentioned the views from the eastern bank. I should like to show you the folly from the far side.”

“I would enjoy that.”

“Excellent.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I must confess, Miss Fairchild, I have been looking forward to this week for some time. London does not afford the kind of time a house party does.” His eyes held hers. “I am immensely enjoying getting to know you.”

Her pulse quickened. The old, steady warmth spread through her chest, the warmth of being noticed by the man she had admired for four years. She held it close.

She couldn’t help but smile. “Getting to know me?”

He nodded at this, and shifted in his chair.

“I pride myself on being a careful observer.” He sat back. “For instance, I noticed you dislike aspic.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“At dinner. You moved it to the edge of your plate. Very subtle.” He looked pleased. “I notice everything.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “You are correct. I cannot bear aspic.”

“I shall remember that.” He flashed her another dazzling smile.

At the far end, Lady Caldwell watched them over her cup. Mrs. Fenton murmured to her behind a raised hand.

They walked the lake path after breakfast. Frederick offered his arm. He pointed to a pair of moorhens drifting near the bank.

“I finished a novel on the journey,” Louisa said. “Belinda. Miss Edgeworth.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “I am not much of a reader myself, though I admire those who are.” He steered her around a puddle. “As I was saying about the horse, the temperament is what convinced me. A calm horse is worth twice a spirited one.”

“Your horse sounds more decisive than most of the gentlemen at Lady Ashton’s card table.”

His brow furrowed. A beat passed. He offered a laugh that arrived a moment too late.

“Very droll,” he said.

She tried again. “I have been thinking about a charity school near Farnham. Mrs. Hewitt runs it. Fifteen girls, and the roof leaks so badly they lose days of lessons whenever it rains.”

“That is a shame.” He patted her hand on his arm. “You need not trouble yourself with such concerns, Miss Fairchild. Those are matters best left to the parish.”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“I suppose you are right,” she muttered, casting her eyes down.

He nodded with certainty. “Of course I am. Now, Lord Ashton tells me the fishing here is very fine. I have told him about Langley Park’s lake. Smaller, but the trout are superior.”

She listened. She nodded. She held his arm, conscious of the strength of it beneath the broadcloth, conscious of how many years she had imagined doing precisely this. Walking on a country gentleman’s arm. Being shown the grounds. Being chosen.

He stopped to pick a wildflower from the verge and tucked it behind her ear. The gesture was tender, and she felt herself soften toward it, toward him, toward the earnest determination in his face.

“I am glad to finally have you to myself,” he said. “Away from London. Away from all the noise.”