Page 7 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke
She glanced over the protection of his broad shoulder. The ballroom shimmered with candlelight and the slow turn of dancers. Faces tilted in their direction, then glanced away, then tilted back. Fans moved with increased urgency. Near the orchestra, two matrons leaned together, their eyes fixed on the alcove.
Frederick Langley stood near the marble pillar where she had left him, his champagne untouched, his gaze trained directly on Louisa and the duke.
Her breath caught.
“He is watching,” Oliver said quietly.
“He is confused.”
“He is interested. Believe me, Miss Fairchild. I have spent a decade reading ballrooms. Five minutes ago, Lord Langley was speaking with Lord Williston about horses. Now he cannot look away from you.”
She pulled the coat tighter around her shoulders without meaning to. “Frederick is a gentleman. He noticed a commotion. That is all.”
“That is not all.” Oliver’s voice dropped. “You spoke with him just now. I saw it from across the room. It went well for a time. Then it went badly. Then you walked away feeling small. Am I wrong?”
The accuracy of it stung. She said nothing.
“He is kind,” Oliver continued. “I am sure of it. But kindness alone does not make a man notice a woman. Competition does, curiosity does. The sudden, bewildering possibility that someone he has filed comfortably under pleasant acquaintance might be wanted by someone else entirely.”
“That is a cynical view of human nature.”
“That is an accurate view of the Season.” He paused, watching her face. “Tell me. How many balls have you attended with Lord Langley present?”
“That is none of your concern.”
“A great many, then. And in all those balls, has he ever sought you out? Has he ever crossed a room to speak with you first?”
Her silence answered him.
“Yet right now,” Oliver said, “he cannot stop looking.”
She hated him for being right. She hated the casual confidence, the easy posture, the way he stood in the alcove as though the whole of London society were a game whose rules he had memorized years ago.
She hated, most of all, the small treacherous spark of hope that flickered behind her ribs.
“Why do you care?” she asked. “You do not know me. You do not know Frederick. What possible interest could the Duke of Ashford have in my social failures?”
He was quiet for a moment. The amusement left his face, replaced by candor.
“I have a proposal.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“An arrangement.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the ballroom, where three women in emerald silk were advancing toward the alcove with maternal purpose. His jaw shifted. “Every Season I am hunted. Mothers with eligible daughters. Debutantes with ambitious fathers. Titled families who see my bachelor status as an affront to decent society. It is exhausting and entirely without charm.”
Louisa blinked. “You wish me to feel sorry for you? You are a duke.”
“I am a target. And a duke without a shield is a duke who spends every ball dodging invitations to supper from women he has never met.” He looked back at her. “If society believes I am courting you, the pursuit lessens. The mothers retreat. The debutantes redirect their efforts. I gain a Season of peace.”
“And what, precisely, do I gain?”
He smiled. The real one, the one that cracked through the practiced surface and made his hazel eyes brighten. “You gain Frederick Langley’s attention. I saw how he looked at you when I brought you here. He is intrigued. He does not understand why a duke has noticed the woman he has seemingly overlooked. Let him wonder. Let him sit with that wondering. Let the ballrooms talk.”
“You are suggesting a charade.”
“I am suggesting we trade. Your company for my assistance. You help me avoid the Season’s marriage market. I help you win the man you want.”
The audacity of it robbed her of breath. She stared at him, searching for mockery, for hidden cruelty. His expression was open. He watched her patiently, cards laid on the table, knowing what he offered, understanding it sounded absurd.
