Page 89 of My Deal with the Wrong Duke

A frown formed between her brows.

“Your parents did not have friends in London?”

He shrugged. “My mother had acquaintances. She managed them by correspondence.”

Louisa looked at her plate.

“What about Eleanor?” she asked after a long silence.

“Miss Whitmore is welcome to visit. I have already said so.”

“Twice a month, according to the schedule.”

Frederick’s knife paused against the plate. He looked at her, and she recognized the expression. The mild, patient surprise of a man who believed he was being generous and could not fathom why generosity was insufficient.

“Twice a month is reasonable, Louisa. More frequent visits become disruptive to the household routine.”

Still, she pushed forward.

“Eleanor is my closest friend. She has been my closest friend since I was fourteen years old.”

“And she will remain so.” He cut a precise slice of lamb and placed it in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, dabbed his lips with the napkin. “Friendship does not require proximity. My mother maintained her connections for decades from Langley Park. She found the quieter pace of the country far more suited to meaningful correspondence than the chaos of London.”

“Your mother may have preferred it. I have not been asked whether I prefer it.”

She spoke without considering it. Lord Barrett glanced in their direction. Lady Cresswell’s laughter dimmed by a fraction.

Frederick set his knife and fork together on his plate and turned to face her patiently.

“I am not imposing a preference, Louisa. I am describing what is practical. Langley Park requires management. The household requires attention. The tenants require a visible mistress of the estate. These are not punishments. They are responsibilities.”

“And my interests outside the household?”

“Which interests?”

“Lady Fitzwilliam invited me to her Thursday salon. I have attended three times. She introduced me to Sir Humphry Davy’s widow, who is doing extraordinary work collecting his papers for publication. I had hoped to continue.”

Frederick sighed deeply. He reached for his wine.

“Lady Fitzwilliam’s salon is a London fixture, Louisa. You will be in Kent.”

“I could come up for Thursdays. The coach takes four hours.”

“Four hours each way for an afternoon of conversation.” He set down the glass. “That is not practical. You will find the local society in Kent more than adequate. The vicar’s wife holds a very respectable reading circle.”

The vicar’s wife. A reading circle. He was offering her a replacement the way one offers a child a wooden horse after taking away the living one.

“Lady Fitzwilliam considers my opinions worth hearing,” Louisa insisted. “She told me so at the Academy.”

“I am sure she was gracious. Lady Fitzwilliam is generous with encouragement.” He smiled. “You will not miss it as much as you imagine. The country has a way of clarifying one’s priorities.”

She stared at him. He had reduced Lady Fitzwilliam’s invitation, the first time a woman of genuine influence had looked at Louisa and seen a mind worth cultivating, to a pleasantry. A kindness extended out of generosity rather than genuine regard. He had not been in the gallery when Lady Fitzwilliam called her the most refreshing voice in the room. He had not seen the six faces turning toward her when she spoke about Dido. He did not know because he had never asked, and he was not asking now.

“I have also written to the vicar at Langley Park about the parish charities,” Frederick continued, moving past the subject smoothly. “He assures me there are opportunities for a woman of your sensibility. Visiting the poor, that sort of thing. You will find it fulfilling. It is a responsibility the mistress of an estate is expected to assume. My mother found it very rewarding.”

“Did your mother choose to find it rewarding, or did she simply run out of alternatives?”

Frederick’s hand stilled on his wine glass. For a moment the table shrank to the narrow distance between his chair and hers. Lord Barrett had turned to his other neighbor. Lady Cresswell was occupied with the footman.