Page 61 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And the building?”

“The walls are sound. But the roof has needed replacing for three years, and every time it rains they lose a full day because the water comes through above the reading corner.” She caught herself. “I am boring you.”

“You are not boring me. Go on.”

“There are not enough slates. The girls write on the backs of old handbills.” She looked at her hands. “It is a small school. Nobody important cares about it.”

“You care about it.”

Louisa shrugged. “I am nobody important.”

“That is the most absurd thing you have ever said.”

She laughed. Her shoulders dropped an inch.

“What about Ashford Hall?” she asked. “Frederick describes Langley Park as though reading from a catalogue. The acreage, the trout, the morning room facing east. Do you speak about your home like that?”

Oliver stretched his arms behind his head. “Ashford Hall would resist a catalogue. The second-floor corridor whistles in winter no matter how many times we patch the casements. Mrs. Aldridge, my housekeeper, has a kitchen garden she would fight a duel to protect. Last autumn she chased a footman across the yard with a wooden spoon because he stepped on her cabbages.”

Louisa gasped. “She did not!”

“She absolutely did. He resigned the following morning. She was not sorry.”

Louisa pulled her knees up onto the bench. “What is your favorite room?”

“The library.” He picked a blade of grass from his knee and turned it between his fingers. “There is a window seat that overlooks the south lawn. When it rains, the sound against the glass is better company than most people.”

“That sounds rather lovely,” she sighed, turning her head towards him.

He looked at her. The grin was gone. “It is the only room in the house that was never his. My father used the study, the drawing room, the dining room. He never once set foot in the library. Considered reading a waste of a man’s time.” He flicked the blade of grass into the lavender. “So I claimed it. Filled it with books he would have hated. Poetry, philosophy, every novel I could find. My own rebellion, bound in leather.”

“You love it,” she said.

“I do.” His voice was barely above the bees. “It was not always a place worth loving. I have spent years making it one.”

The sound of hooves carried from the front of the house, and Oliver stood. He brushed grass from his trousers, offering his hand. She took it without hesitation, and he pulled her to her feet. For a moment they stood in the garden, the pear tree overhead, late sun turning the brick wall to gold.

“Frederick is back,” he said. “He will be looking for you.”

“Yes.”

She did not move.

“Louisa.” The teasing had gone from his voice. “Are you happy?”

Her pulse kicked beneath her collarbone. “Of course. Frederick has been very attentive.”

He held her gaze. He did not push. He looked at her with those hazel eyes that never missed a single thing about her, then nodded once.

“Enjoy the aspic at dinner,” he said over his shoulder. “Cook has prepared an ambitious one.”

She watched him go through the arch. She stood alone with the book against her chest, the lavender buzzing, the sun on her face.

At dinner, Frederick sat beside her. He recounted the hunt with relish. The coverts, the dogs, Lord Ashton’s impressive shot.

“How was your afternoon?” he asked.

“I read in the garden.”