Page 6 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

Two dozen faces swiveled toward her. Three dozen. The matrons by the windows. The young officers near the doors. The cluster of debutantes whose whispers had been carrying all evening. Frederick, who had turned back at the sound, his brow furrowed.

Louisa’s legs locked. The stain darkened across the pale blue muslin. She pressed her hand against it and felt the fabric cling to her fingers, ruined beyond any hope of disguise.

She should move. She should laugh, wave a dismissive hand, say how terribly clumsy she was, how dreadfully these things happened. She should do any of the practiced, graceful recoveries that women with more confidence performed as naturally as breathing.

Instead, she stood frozen, her hand pressed to the spreading stain, while the Bancroft ballroom watched.

Then fabric settled across her shoulders.

Heavy, warm, and scented faintly with cedar and a sharper note beneath it, bergamot perhaps. A man’s evening coat, draped over her.

“There.” Oliver Sinclair stepped around her, positioning himself between Louisa and the widest angle of the ballroom’s collective stare. “That should keep you from catching cold. These Bancroft draughts are murderous.”

His voice carried exactly far enough to reach the nearest cluster of onlookers. He was smiling easily.

The whispers started before Louisa could draw breath.

“Is that the Duke of Ashford?”

“He gave her his coat.”

“Who is she? The one in blue?”

Oliver offered his arm. His hazel eyes held hers with an expression she could not read, steady beneath the easy charm.

“Walk with me,” he said, low enough that only she could hear. “Slowly. As though this were planned.”

Louisa’s fingers closed around his arm because her legs had begun to tremble. He steered her through the crowd as though he expected rooms to rearrange themselves around him. His free hand rose in greeting to Lord Tyndale as they passed. A nod to Lady Booth. A murmured compliment to Mrs. Davenport that made the old woman beam. The crowd parted, but the whispers followed, curling behind them.

He brought her to the alcove near the terrace doors, shielding her from the eyes with his broad shoulders and lowering his voice. The music softened to a distant hum.

Louisa released his arm and turned on him.

“What on earth do you think you are doing?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Rescuing you.”

“I did not need to be rescued,” she lied.

“You were standing in the middle of a ballroom with lemonade on your gown and the expression of a woman contemplating whether the terrace windows are wide enough to climb through. Forgive me for intervening.”

“Your coat.” She gripped the lapels, acutely aware of the warmth still trapped in the wool, the faint scent of cedar pressed against her collarbone. “Everyone saw you give me your coat. The entire ballroom is staring.”

“They were already staring. I merely redirected the narrative.” He leaned against the wall, arms folded, as though scandals in public were restful diversions. “Before I intervened, they were watching a young lady covered in lemonade having the worst evening of her Season. Now they are watching a duke attend a young lady with considerable solicitude. Which version would you prefer circulating at breakfast tomorrow?”

Her face burned. He was right. The fact that he was right made her want to tear the coat from her shoulders and throw it at his head.

“You have made this worse.”

“I have made this interesting. There is a meaningful difference.”

“Interesting.” She practically gasped the word. “Half the ballroom now believes the Duke of Ashford has singled me out. Do you have any idea what that means? The gossip alone will follow me for weeks.”

“Precisely.” He straightened, studying her with an expression that shifted from amusement into calculation. “Miss Fairchild. Look at the room.”

“I would rather not.”

“Indulge me.”