Chapter 4
“You are late. Your Grace.”
Louisa Fairchild stood beneath the elm at the Serpentine’s edge, her gloved hands clasped before her with rehearsed composure.
A straw bonnet shielded her face from the mid-morning sun.
Her pelisse was buttoned to the throat despite the warmth, as though she expected the weather itself to behave improperly.
Oliver slowed his stride across the grass, tucking his pocket watch back into his waistcoat. “I am three minutes late. Hardly a scandal.”
He stopped a respectable distance from her, close enough for conversation, far enough for propriety.
A nursemaid with two small children occupied a bench nearby, providing the bare minimum of chaperonage that a public park allowed.
“Shall we walk? I find that negotiations benefit from forward motion.”
She fell into step beside him without argument, though the glance she gave him carried enough skepticism to furnish a lecture hall.
The Serpentine glittered to their left. Hyde Park at this hour belonged to the governesses, the riding set cantering along Rotten Row in the distance, the elderly gentlemen with their newspapers folded under their arms. The fashionable hour was still some time away.
Oliver had chosen the timing with care. The fewer witnesses to this meeting, the better. At least until they were ready.
“I have given considerable thought to the terms of our arrangement,” he began.
“As have I.”
He lifted a brow.
“I was going to suggest that I speak first, given that this was my proposal.”
“That seems rather autocratic for a man who claims to dislike being managed.”
He stopped walking. She stopped two paces ahead, turning back with a sigh.
“Miss Fairchild. If we are to spend the Season deceiving London’s finest gossips, we will need structure.
Clear rules. A framework that prevents either of us from fumbling our way into a catastrophe.
” He reached into his coat pocket, produced a folded sheet of paper, and held it up. “I have prepared a list.”
Her lips parted. “You wrote a list.”
“Indeed.”
He unfolded the paper, squinted at his own handwriting, which even he would admit had grown somewhat cramped toward the bottom. “Rule the first. I shall call upon you three times per week. Tuesdays, Thursdays, with a third visit to be determined by the social calendar.”
Louisa’s brow creased. “Three times per week seems excessive.”
“A man courting in earnest calls frequently. Fewer visits suggest lukewarm interest. More would imply desperation. Three is convincing without being alarming.”
“To whom?”
“To anyone watching. Which will be everyone, the moment word spreads.”
She walked on, her boots pressing neat tracks into the path’s gravel. He followed, matching her pace. A pair of swans drifted past on the Serpentine, ignoring them with the studied indifference of creatures who had survived centuries of human foolishness.
“Very well,” she said. “Three visits. Though I must warn you that our drawing room is small. You will have to sit close to my mother, who will almost certainly interrogate you about your estates.”
A hint of a smile caught on his lips.
“I have survived worse interrogations.”
“You have not met my mother when she is determined.”
“I met Lady Blackwood at the Bancroft ball. I believe your mother will find me adequately prepared.” He consulted the list again.
“The second rule. I shall escort you to selected events throughout the Season. Balls, musicales, suppers. We attend together. We are seen together. The gossip columns do the rest.”
“Selected by whom?”
“By me.”
She stopped walking. “I beg your pardon?”
“I know the Season’s calendar. I know which hostesses command the most influence over public opinion. Lady Tyndale’s ball carries twice the weight of Lady Holt’s afternoon tea. If we are strategic in our appearances, we achieve maximum effect with minimum exposure.”
“Maximum effect,” she repeated. “You speak of courtship as though it were a military campaign.”
“Most successful ones are. The difference is that the artillery is verbal.”
She looked at him for a long moment, her expression caught between irritation with his confidence and reluctant acknowledgement that he was making sense. “I would like to have a say in which events we attend.”
“Naturally. This is a partnership, not a dictatorship.”
“You just told me that you would select the events.”
“I said I would select them. I did not say you could not object. Or suggest.”
Her mouth pressed flat. Then the corner twitched. She resumed walking.
“Then,” he continued, falling into step beside her again. “Dancing. I will claim your hand for two dances at every ball we attend together. The first, to establish our presence. The second, later in the evening, to reinforce it.”
“Two dances feel significant. People will talk.”
“People will talk regardless. We may as well give them the correct story.”
“The correct fabricated story.”
“All stories are fabricated, Miss Fairchild. The only question is who holds the pen.” He folded the list, returned it to his pocket. The breeze carried the scent of cut grass across the water. “Now. Your turn. What are your terms?”
She blinked. “My terms?”
“You did say you had given considerable thought to the arrangement. I assume that thought produced conditions.”
Color touched her cheeks. She looked ahead, toward the bridge that arched over the Serpentine in elegant white stone. “I do have conditions. The first is that you will not treat me as though I am incapable of conducting myself in public.”
“I have never suggested any such thing.”
“You told me last evening that you would teach me confidence. As though confidence were a skill I had failed to acquire.”
He weighed his response. She was watching him with that steady, dry-eyed directness that made him feel as though his usual arsenal of charm was about as useful as a parasol in a storm.
“That was poorly phrased on my part. You do not lack confidence, Miss Fairchild. You lack the habit of displaying it.”
“That distinction sounds charitable but feels identical.”
“It is not identical. A woman who lacks confidence would not have accused a duke of using her as a hedge at the Bancroft ball. What you do is quieter. You diminish yourself before anyone else can. It is a defense, not a deficit.”
She was quiet for several paces. The gravel crunched beneath their feet in a steady, companionable rhythm. A small brown dog raced past them, pursued by a red-faced footman calling a name that sounded unfortunate.
“Second condition,” she said, her voice steadier now. “You will not interfere directly with Frederick. Whatever progress occurs must happen naturally. I will not have him manipulated.”
“Agreed. I have no interest in managing Lord Langley’s affections. I merely intend to ensure he notices the opportunity he has been ignoring.”
“By making him jealous.”
“By reminding him that you exist. Jealousy is his decision.”
She shot him a look. “You are alarmingly good at splitting hairs.”
“Years of practice. It is the primary qualification for a seat in the House of Lords.”
Her laugh escaped before she could catch it, bright, unguarded, ringing across the water. Two ducks startled from the bank. She pressed her gloved fingers to her mouth, eyes wide, as though the sound had betrayed her.
Oliver felt his own smile widen before he could govern it. He looked away, toward the Row, where a pair of riders cantered past in a blur of black coats. The laugh had settled under his ribs in a place he had not expected.
“Third condition,” she continued, recovering. “When the Season ends, we part without complications. No lingering obligations. No debts between us.”
“Agreed.”
“You accepted that alarmingly quickly.”
“Because it aligns with my own intentions. I am not in the market for entanglements, Miss Fairchild. I require a single Season of peace. You require a single Season of visibility. We serve each other’s purposes, then we are finished.”
She nodded. The bonnet’s brim dipped. For a moment he could not see her expression.
They had reached the bridge. Oliver paused, resting his forearm against the stone balustrade, watching the sunlight fracture across the Serpentine’s surface.
Louisa stood beside him, her gloved hands folded over the railing, her gaze fixed on the far shore where a family of geese processed with immense self-importance through the reeds.
“We should establish a signal,” he said.
“A signal.”
“For when one of us needs rescuing at an event. If I am trapped by Lady Blackwood’s latest campaign, I require a means of extraction. If you are cornered by a bore, or notice your Frederick staring beyond you, I shall do the same for you.”
“What sort of signal did you have in mind?”
He considered. “A fan. You could raise your fan to your left shoulder. Subtle enough. Easily overlooked by anyone not watching for it.”
“I do not carry a fan.”
He turned his head. “You attend London society events in the height of summer without a fan?”
“They are cumbersome. I spend the entire evening worrying about dropping them.”
“Well,” he offered, “then I suppose that we can only hope that when you need your Frederick’s attention, I notice, and that…”
Her lips pressed together. Her body heaved with a sigh, then she turned back to the water.
“Fine,” she said. “I will carry a fan. And stop referring to him as my Frederick.”
He grinned. “Excellent. Left shoulder for rescue. Right shoulder for run.”
“When would I need to run?”
“When Lady Blackwood begins discussing her daughter’s watercolors. Trust me. You will understand.”
She laughed again. Softer this time, less startled, more willing. It moved through her face slowly, changing the set of her mouth, the line between her brows, her shoulders easing from their habitual guard. She looked younger when she laughed.
“There is one more rule,” he said.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. How many rules can one fraudulent courtship require?”