Page 60 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

“Kindly.” He repeated the word as though it had gone sour. “You described a leaking roof. You told him children are losing days of lessons. His response was rather condescending.”

Louisa sighed.

“I suppose like most, he believes those are matters for gentlemen to manage.”

“And you believe?”

“I believe Mrs. Hewitt’s roof does not care who pays for it, so long as it stops raining on the girls.”

He was quiet. Then he smiled, slowly, the kind that started in his eyes before it reached his mouth.

“How much would a new roof cost?” he asked.

“Forty pounds. Perhaps fifty.”

“Send me the direction.”

“Oliver, I was not asking⁠—”

“You were not asking. I am offering. There is a difference.” He nodded toward the lavender. “Direct your pride elsewhere. The bees are better listeners.”

The laugh broke free. It rose from her stomach, shook her shoulders, stole the air from her lungs. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the book in her lap. The movement unbalanced her on the narrow bench. Her weight shifted, and the book slid from her knees.

His hand caught her arm. Fingers closed around her elbow, pulling her upright before she had time to register the fall. The book tumbled into the grass. Her shoulder pressed against his chest. His face was very close, so close that she could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. She could smell cedar, clean linen, sun-warmed skin.

He did not let go.

“Steady,” he said. His breath grazed her temple.

Her pulse hammered in her throat. His thumb rested against the inside of her arm where the muslin was thin, and the warmth of his touch spread upward through her shoulder, her neck, the backs of her ears.

“Thank you,” she managed.

He released her. He retrieved the book from the grass, brushed a blade from the spine, and handed it back. Their fingers met around the cover. He let go first.

The distance returned. He leaned against his end of the bench.

“Otranto or Udolpho?” he asked.

“What?”

“Gothic castles. If you were trapped in one, which would you choose?”

“Otranto.”

“Dreadful choice. Udolpho has superior scenery.”

“Otranto has a giant helmet that falls from the sky and crushes people. I find that more compelling than scenery.”

His laugh rang across the garden and startled the thrush into flight.

“Tell me about Mrs. Hewitt,” he said, once the thrush had resettled on the far wall. “The school. How did you come to know her?”

“She taught me needlework when I was nine.” Louisa turned the book over in her hands. “My mother could not afford a governess that year, so Mrs. Hewitt took me on alongside her village girls. She has fifteen pupils now. They walk two miles each morning to learn their letters.”

“Two miles.”

“Some of them have no shoes.”