Chapter 8 #2
She pushed forward through a dry throat. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” she managed to get out. “It is just… that people do not speak about your kindness much.”
“My kindness?”
She nodded bravely. “Indeed, you have been kind to me. More than most.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I have not thought about it,” he admitted. “I believe I am merely honest. But please, I implore you, do tell me what it is that people claim about me. Seeing as you have mentioned my reputation. I was not aware I had one.”
Louisa nodded slowly. “Well,” she got out, “I have heard that you are rather… sullen at times. You keep to yourself, and people are not certain whether it is haughtiness or something else entirely.”
“And what could that something else be?”
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Perhaps some think that you are shy.”
A short laugh left his lips, and he shook his head. “I am most certainly not shy,” he insisted. “Nor do I believe myself to be haughty.”
She kept her eyes on him. “What do you believe it is then? That causes you to avoid people? After all… you are using me as a hedge.”
She could not keep the teasing tone out of her voice, and he let out a laugh.
“You, my lady, are not as timid as you would have me believe,” he accused with a smile. “Never before has anyone spoken to me quite so candidly.”
Louisa laughed. “I do not think I am mistaken,” she pressed, and he nodded slowly.
“I do tend to avoid overbearing mothers and eager daughters,” he admitted. “Perhaps because I do not wish to get married.”
“Why?”
He paused. “My parents,” he admitted, and she could see how hard it was for him to form the words. “Suffice it to say that their marriage was turbulent.”
“Do you fear that yours will be too?”
“I do,” he admitted. “I do not wish to be unhappy, nor do I wish to cause unhappiness.”
She nodded slowly. “While I do understand that… it is not merely the mothers and daughters you are said to avoid.”
He laughed again, then shook his head. “I… do not favor idle talk. Now, perhaps it is my turn to inquire about your family.”
Louisa averted her eyes, then sighed. “There is not much to say.”
“Do your parents have a happy marriage? One that you would want to emulate with Langley?”
She thought for a minute, quiet. “No,” she admitted at last. “They used to. Papa brought Mama flowers often; we had breakfast and supper together and spoke about so many things. But then…”
She swallowed with difficulty. “Then, Papa lost the money. And he became different.”
Oliver sat up a bit straighter. “Did… is he angry?”
She shook her head quickly. “Perhaps anger would have been easier,” she admitted. “Had he yelled, had he screamed, even cursed… he’d be talking, he’d be acknowledging us. But he does not. He has…”
She shook her head, and felt her cheeks grow hot again. “I do not wish to speak ill of him,” she said then, and Oliver nodded.
“Naturally.”
“It is just that he is rather withdrawn,” she said, then forced a smile. “I wonder sometimes if he blames us.”
Oliver leaned forward then and covered her hand with his. His hands were cool against the warmth of her own.
“I am certain he does not,” he insisted softly. “I think sometimes men withdraw… because we fear or blame ourselves.”
“Do you?”
The twinkle in his eyes disappeared at this, and he sighed. “Perhaps,” he admitted, but left it at that and steered her toward another painting.
“I trust that you are ready for the ball tomorrow,” he said, effectively ending all vulnerability between them. Alice nodded.
“I… am.”
“And yet I sense some hesitation.”
She let out a sigh. “No. None at all. I just… It is nothing.”
His hand brushed against her sleeve. “You can tell me.”
She turned her head toward him, meeting his eyes. “You also find these events not only tedious, but often… tiring, do you not?”
“I do.”
“I suppose I am exhausted by standing against a table, sipping at horrible lemonade, and watching the derision on people’s faces.”
“Alice.” His voice was soft. “If you see derision, turn your gaze to me. I promise that you will never see it in my eyes.”
She flashed him a tired smile, one he returned with more enthusiasm. “I will dance with you as well,” he promised. “You will not stand against a table sipping horrible lemonade all night. I will dance with you twice.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Twice might be too much,” she teased, but he shook his head.
“Twice is just enough.”
The afternoon pressed close. Around them, visitors moved between paintings, their voices rising and falling. A shaft of sunlight caught the gold frame of the small landscape, the painted dog still waiting at its gate.
Louisa looked at Oliver. He looked back at her. The moment held, stretched, filled with the low hum of the gallery.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Do not thank me.” His voice was rough at the edges, stripped of its usual polish, almost impatient. “Just stop hiding.”
He offered his arm. She took it. His forearm was warm beneath her fingers, solid, steady. They walked through the gallery without speaking, past oils, watercolors, marble busts, past crowds who glanced at the Duke of Ashford with polite, consuming interest.
Louisa replayed the afternoon. The Dido painting. Lady Fitzwilliam’s sharp approval. Frederick’s surprised admiration. Three encounters, each more astonishing than the last.
But the moment she kept returning to, the one that sat lodged beneath her ribs with a warmth she could not account for, was Oliver crouching beside a small landscape hung too low for anyone to notice, looking up at her and saying: Some things are positioned badly. That does not diminish their worth.
She tightened her grip on his arm. Just slightly. Just enough that he might feel it through the wool of his coat.
He did not look at her. But his pace slowed, half a step, a fraction, the smallest possible adjustment.
Outside, the afternoon sun hit the courtyard of Somerset House. Carriages waited along the Strand. The Season continued around them, relentless, oblivious, concerned only with who had been seen with whom.
Louisa released his arm. Oliver hailed the carriage. They climbed in on opposite sides, the leather seat cool beneath her skirts.
She looked at him across the narrow space of the cab. He was looking out the window, his profile sharp against the passing buildings.
“Oliver,” she said.
He turned. His name in her voice surprised them both.
“Same time Thursday?” she asked softly. “For the Harrington ball.”
“Thursday,” he agreed.
The carriage pulled into traffic. Louisa folded her hands in her lap, her mended gloves pressed together, her pulse beating hard in the hollow of her throat.
Frederick had asked her to dance. The plan was working. Everything was falling precisely into place.
She told herself the warmth in her chest was triumph. She told herself it had everything to do with Frederick’s compliment. Nothing at all to do with the man sitting three feet away, who had looked at her in a gallery full of masterpieces yet seen the painting no one else had bothered to notice.