Chapter 5
Midnight had struck, and somehow Maria had snuck away into the corridor. She paused outside the library, hand wrapped around the handle.
Very slowly, she opened the door. Stephen was inside, waiting for her already.
He looked up, found her in the doorway, and smiled the slightest amount.
“You are late.”
“I am right on time,” she said, frustrated immediately.
“It is a minute past twelve,” she replied. “You need not be this strict.”
“You do not get to decide that,” he shrugged his shoulders. “But good, you are here now.”
“Were you expecting me not to?” she asked, scared of his answer.
“You would not dare not show up,” he replied, and she was thrown off by his confidence again. Perhaps she should learn to get used to it by now. “This is for your own good.”
She shut the door behind her.
“What is the lesson?”
“Keeping a gentleman’s interest,” he said, without preamble. “That will be the first lesson of the day.”
Ah, yes. Maria thought that she could find that quite useful, though she would not admit it out loud to him.
“You are not required to win his soul. Only to keep his attention long enough to decide if you want it.”
“Shouldn’t I pick him first?”
“You cannot pick every man who shows interest in you,” he replied, seeming offended. “You must have standards of your own, as well.”
As pathetic as that sounded, it was an unknown concept to Maria. She had only known the desperation of wanting to get married. In such a state, it becomes hard to have preferences of one's own.
“That sounds rather complex.”
“That sounds practical,” he corrected and gestured to the long table. “Sit.”
She crossed to the table and sat. When she glanced up, he was watching with an expression that made her feel both examined and protected.
“First principle,” he said, stepping closer, “a man notices a woman’s appearance before anything she says.”
Her stomach tensed. Here it came, the thing she dreaded hearing every time anyone spoke of how a woman looks. She braced for it.
Curvy. Too much.
She was used to being scrutinized like this. As soon as she had stepped into society, she had heard whispers about the plumpness of her figure from ladies of the ton. Even in the nunnery, she had been teased about her appearance endlessly.
So it would come as no surprise if Stephen were to do the same.
“Blue,” he said thoughtfully. “And red.”
She blinked, surprised that he had made no mention of her figure. Rather, he was here discussing… colors?
“I beg your pardon?”
“Wear blue when you want quiet men to listen,” he went on. “The right blue. Wear red when you want the room to choose you without understanding why.”
“That is all you notice?”
“For the first ten heartbeats,” he said. He considered her head. “And hair. Not because I care how many pins it requires, only because a severe line across a kind face is an offense to good judgment.”
Her hand flew up to defend her coiffure.
“It is not severe.”
“It is dutiful,” he said. “And duty is admirable at breakfast, but a tiresome chaperone at midnight. May I?”
She hesitated but then nodded.
He came near, and the room shifted around him. He lifted his hands not quite to her hair and paused again, inviting refusal. She did not refuse. Two fingers found the hair just above her temple and coaxed loose a curl, then another on the other side.
Her pulse tripped at the contact.
Stephen leaned back a little to study the effect, then let the smallest smile appear. “Much better.”
She scowled to cover the flutter in her chest.
“I’m glad that you think so,” she said, or stuttered perhaps. That would be the right way to describe it.
“You do not sound so glad.”
“This is just the way that I speak.”
“Then perhaps the second lesson should be to speak in a gentler tone,” he remarked. “You sound as though you are angry at all times.”
“I suppose life has given me enough to be angry about,” she said, surprising herself with her own honesty. But she chalked it down to the lateness of the hour, and not that it was just easy to be honest to him.
“Possibly,” he agreed and did not probe further. She felt grateful for that.
“Second principle: manner before content. The way you look at a man will tell him whether you wish to speak long before you find a subject worthy of the effort.”
“I do look,” she said, indignant. “I have eyes.”
“You do not keep them,” he said. “You check the door for escape routes between every sentence. We will practice. Pretend I am a suitor. You may decide later whether that is an insult.”
“Pretend,” she repeated faintly.
“Conversation,” he said, “Begin.”
Her mind presented her with a parade of useless thoughts. The lamp is lovely. I like currants. Do you think lemons are the superior fruit? She grabbed for something less ridiculous and came up with: “Did you… Enjoy the weather today?”
“No one enjoys the weather. They endure it. Next.”
She bristled at his tone.
“Do not be cruel.”
“I am saving you from a week of cruelty,” he said. “Men are adept at delivering it. We must make you interesting enough that they forget to try.”
She folded her hands in her lap so he would not see them clench. “
Very well. What would you like me to say?”
“I would like you to say something you mean,” he said. “Barring that, use a structure. Three questions that do not sound like interrogation. One truth about yourself that a man may carry away as a prize. Try again. Ask me a question that would make your life easier if you knew the answer.”
She imagined the ballroom. Men approaching like tasks.
“What is your favorite book?” she said.
He brightened. “Better.”
“Do not praise me like a child.”
“Very well.” He pretended to consider. “My favorite book is whichever one is at hand when I need it. When I am angry, Plutarch. When I am bored, Horace.”
“You are a lover of philosophy?” Her brows drew together.
“Now, ask why that is my answer. Not in those words. Something like: Does reading make you less angry, or does it only give you new words for it?”
“That is very particular.” She blinked.
“Language is particular,” he said calmly. “Try it. See if it fits.”
“Does reading make you less angry, or only give you new words for it?”
“That depends on the day,” he answered. “Next question.”
“If you were to leave London tomorrow,” she said, gathering courage from the way the game worked, “where would you go and what would you hope not to find there?”
“North. I should hope not to find invitations.”
“And the truth about yourself?” he prompted, before she could congratulate herself for surviving three questions.
She stared at him.
“I… collect sentence endings,” she blurted. “When people are interrupted, I finish what they meant to say in my head.”
“You are a menace.”
“I am orderly,” she said.
“Keep that,” he advised. “A man prefers a woman with a mind busy enough to miss him in useful ways. Now, again. This time, while you speak, tuck your hair behind your ear.”
“Why?” She frowned.
“Because it reminds a man you have a pulse.” He positioned two fingers near his own temple to demonstrate. “Do it as if the movement had not occurred to you until it had.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“Everything that works looks ridiculous when described,” he said blandly. “Try.”
She rolled her eyes and obeyed. Her fingers found the curl he had loosened and slipped it back. It immediately fell forward again along her cheek.
“Better,” he murmured. “Again.”
“Do you have a favorite… composer?” she asked, relieved to discover her lungs had not closed after all.
“Vivaldi, when I require order,” he said. “Corelli, when I require sin.”
“You cannot say that.”
“I just did.”
She floundered, then snatched at safety.
“What color do you think suits you?”
“You are meant to reveal yourself, not interview my tailor. Tell me something with color in it. For instance: ‘Blue makes me brave.’ Is it true?” He groaned.
“Perhaps.”
“Say it.”
“Blue makes me brave,” she said.
“Then wear blue tomorrow,” he said. “And red the day after, if you wish to test a theory.” He leaned his elbows on the table, folding himself nearer. “Now, look at me.”
“I am looking at you.”
“Yes, but do it softly,” His voice stayed lazy, “It makes more of a difference.”
Maria tried to do as she was told. How does one soften their gaze? She added the barest hint of a smile, and then the corners of her eyes wrinkled.
“Lovely,” Stephen smiled. “That is lovely, and exactly what I mean.”
“I...” she faltered a bit.
“Now, hold my gaze and count to two.”
She tried. Instinct made her glance at the lamp, and she dragged herself back.
One. Two.
Heat came up her neck without her permission, and she looked down, furious with her own blood. Stephen’s mouth edged into a smile.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Blushing is honest,” he said. “Men like honesty that they can pretend to have caused.”
“That is unflattering to your entire gender.”
“It is accurate.” He tipped his head. “Your blush is a declaration: This matters. That is the only interesting thing either gender ever says.”
She had not meant to laugh, but could not help herself.
“You speak as if you have spent years taking notes.”
“I have spent years trying to avoid boredom,” he said. “It leaves one with an education.”
“Convenient,” she said. “For a rake.”
“Ah. At last, she says the word.”
“Am I not permitted?”
“You may call me whatever the house calls me,” he said, amused. “I will endeavor to be worse by breakfast.”
“I am already scandalized,” she said primly, for the pleasure of seeing his smile spread a fraction. “You appear to know very well what gentlemen want.”
“Professional courtesy,” he said. “It is useful to know the habits of one’s competitors.”
She wrinkled her nose.
“If you are competing with other men for a woman, how are we to know which one is the gentleman and which is the… other?”
“Ask yourself who listens,” he said simply. “Also: who stops when you say ‘enough.’ We tend to reveal ourselves long before we intend to. Again. Keep me.”
She wanted to groan. Instead, she said, “What do you do when you cannot sleep?”
“Read,” he said. “Or sharpen things.”
“You cannot mean knives,” she said.