Page 59 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

He smiled easily at this. “You were scowling at that book as though it owed you money.” He crossed the garden and dropped onto the far end of the bench. “What are you reading?”

She held up the cover.

“The Sorrows of Young Werther.” His brows rose. “A rather heavy endeavor after Belinda.”

Her eyes lit up. “You… you remember?”

He smiled. “Indeed. I remember… books.”

“Have you read this?”

“I have. I must admit, though it was tedious at times, it was a rather apt exploration of individuality.” She nodded. “I am enjoying it thus far.”

He nodded, then smiled. “I am not surprised.”

She rested the book against her knees. The thrush on the garden wall sang into the quiet between them.

“You did not join the hunt,” she said.

“I find shooting pheasants unsporting. The pheasant is merely going about its business, harming no one, when a group of men in expensive boots arrive to ruin its afternoon.” He examined the pear tree above him. “I sympathize with the pheasant.”

A giggle escaped her lips. “You sympathize with the pheasant?”

“Deeply. We have a great deal in common. Both well-dressed. Both sought after. Both perpetually alarmed by large groups of people advancing toward us with intent.”

She pressed her lips together. The laugh pushed at her ribs.

“Besides,” he said, turning his face toward her with studied innocence, “Frederick chose a very interesting day to pursue pheasants. Here he is at a house party, courting you. First opportunity he gets, he trades your company for a gun and muddy boots.” A pause. “One might argue the pheasants hold more appeal.”

“Oliver.”

“I am merely observing.”

“You are provoking.”

“Provoking is a form of observing. I observe, then I share. It is a public service.”

“It is a menace.”

He grinned. She shook her head, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her.

“Tell me about this morning,” he insisted, turning his gaze away from her.

She sighed. “He told me about his horse.”

Oliver pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “His horse. Did he ask about you?”

She looked at the lavender. A bee moved from one purple spike to the next.

“He told me I was graceful under scrutiny.”

“That is not a question, Louisa.” He waited. “What else?”

“I told him about Mrs. Hewitt’s school. The leaking roof, the fifteen girls, the shortage of slates.” She paused. “He told me not to trouble myself.”

Oliver went still. “He said that?”

“He meant it kindly.”