Chapter 19
“It’s too much,” Maria said, stopping a safe arm’s length from the gown. “I’m almost afraid to touch it.”
“Your Grace, if you do not wear such a thing, who will?” Elinor, the maid, hid her smile.
The day of the ball had arrived, and Maria was looking at the dress that Stephen had gotten for her. It was exquisite, of course. So much so that she felt scared to even touch it.
“That is exactly what frightens me,” Maria murmured. “It looks as if one must earn the right to breathe near it.”
Elinor stepped to the stand and lifted a corner of the skirt with practiced care.
“You breathe very well in silk, Your Grace. See? It behaves if you do.” She let the fabric fall again, the folds settling like a curtain.
Maria drew closer. The dress was pale blue with a quiet sheen, the bodice scattered with tiny embroidered stars, the skirt edged with a narrow band of silver.
The sleeves were short, the gloves long and impossibly smooth.
It was better than any gown she owned. Better, in truth, than anything she had imagined on her back.
“It would make the evening easier,” the maid continued.
“Easier,” Maria repeated under her breath. “As if a gown could do that.”
“It can help,” Elinor said. “People see a fine dress and behave as if the wearer is fine too. It gives you a step on the floor before you take the first one.”
“Then we will accept its help.” She glanced at the mirror and grimaced. “Do I look like a woman who belongs to such a dress?”
“You are a woman to whom such a dress belongs. That is the point, Your Grace,” the maid said quickly.
It was hard for Maria to believe it, of course. But she nodded anyway. “Very well. We begin with hair.”
Elinor moved easily, setting combs and pins on the table, untying ribbons, brushing out the dark weight of Maria’s hair until it lay smooth over her shoulders. The room was quiet except for the brush and the occasional clink of a pin against glass.
“Will there be dancing?” Elinor asked.
“There will be invitations to dance,” Maria said. “Whether I accept all of them is another matter.”
Elinor’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “You will accept at least a few. If you wish the room to be kind, you must give it something to do.”
“Such as watching me not fall,” Maria said dryly.
“Exactly,” Elinor said. “Head up. There.”
Maria did as told. Her neck felt longer, her breath easier. “Do you think he will approve?” she added, too casual to be casual.
“The duke?” Elinor’s mouth twitched. “He approved when he ordered it, ma’am. He will only approve again.”
“He did not order me,” Maria said, more tartly than she intended, then shook her head. “That was unkind. He has ordered nothing but the gown.”
“And the carriage,” Elinor said. “And the footmen’s gloves. And the flowers, which arrived an hour ago and made Mrs. Collins mutter kind things under her breath.”
“Flowers?”
“In the hall,” Elinor said. “White and pale blue. They will not compete with you.”
“That is considered?” Maria asked.
“Everything is considered,” Elinor said. “That is why you have me.”
Maria smiled. “True.” She lifted her hands in surrender as Elinor arranged the first section of hair. “Pins as you please.”
Elinor worked quickly—two sections twisted and set low, a thin silver ribbon threaded through, a few soft curls left to ease the line around Maria’s face. When she stepped back, Maria barely recognized herself. She looked like a version of herself that belonged more easily in rooms with mirrors.
“Jewels?” Elinor asked.
“There is a box,” Maria said, opening the second drawer. Inside, a simple necklace: a row of small pearls with a single drop. “From Stephen?”
Elinor nodded. “The footman said the note and the box arrived together.”
Maria fastened the necklace, feeling the cool against her throat. “He is determined to make the evening easy.”
“Let him,” Elinor said. “Men very rarely improve evenings. Best encourage them when they try.”
Maria laughed again, surprised at how much better it felt to be amused than anxious. She turned to the dress. “All right. I will stop being afraid of it.”
“Good,” Elinor said. “Arms up.”
The silk slid like water. Elinor closed the tiny hooks with quick, sure fingers. The bodice held without squeezing, the skirt fell without weight. Maria stood still while Elinor smoothed the seams and tugged the waist a fraction into place.
“Breath?” Elinor asked.
“I have it.”
“Turn.”
Maria turned. The mirror took her in—blue and silver, a clean line of shoulder, the pearls steady at her throat.
“It suits you,” Elinor said, not flattering, simply stating.
Maria touched a star on the bodice with a careful fingertip. “It suits him, too,” she admitted. “His idea of me, I mean.”
Elinor pretended to adjust the fall of the skirt while she considered that. “Ideas change,” she said. “Let him have this one tonight. Tomorrow you may show him another.”
“That sounds like work.”
“It is, sometimes,” Elinor said. “But you are good at work.”
Maria looked down at the gloves on the chair. “Help me?”
Elinor eased the first glove up, smoothing over the wrist and forearm, then the second. The kid’s leather was cool and then warm.
“There,” Elinor said. “Take a turn about the room.”
Maria obeyed, learning the dress by walking in it—how the skirt moved, where the hem caught the air, how much space she needed to turn.
“Better,” Elinor said. “Stand near the window. The light is honest there.”
Maria went to the window. The pale afternoon made the blue clearer. She could hear the carriage being brought round, the muffled orders in the yard, the faint agitation that follows any house preparing to send its people into public.
“I am still nervous,” she said.
“Keep a small piece of it,” Elinor said. “It will stop you from running. Give the rest to the dress. It can carry it.”
Maria looked at her in the mirror. “You make very odd speeches for a maid.”
“I make very useful ones,” Elinor said, unbothered. “Now. You will need your fan, your card case, and the pin if the bodice shifts. And a handkerchief, because ladies always need one when they swear they will not.”
Maria picked up the fan and tried to snap it open, but the fold closed. “If I forget how to talk to anyone, do I wave this as a signal?”
Elinor’s eyes sparked. “If you forget how to talk to anyone, look at the duke as if he were the only person who could hear you. He will do the rest.”
Maria went quiet at that. “He has been doing the rest lately.”
“Then you may let him,” Elinor said. “Sometimes.”
A knock sounded at the door. “Your Grace?” came the footman’s careful voice. “The carriage is ready.”
Maria drew a breath. “Thank you. Two minutes.”
Elinor moved to the dressing table, lifted the small vial of scent, and held it out. “Here. Not too much.”
Maria held out her wrist. “If I smell like a garden, tell me.”
“You smell like a woman who knows where she is going,” Elinor said, dabbing once at each wrist and once at the base of Maria’s throat.
Maria turned to the mirror one last time. “Do I look like her?”
“Yes,” Elinor said. “And if anyone doubts it, they will learn.”
Maria nodded, steady now. “Very well.”
Elinor opened the door. “Your cloak,” she said softly, settling the light wrap around Maria’s shoulders. “For the steps.”
Maria reached for her reticule, then paused and went back to the note on the table. She touched the single initial with her glove and smiled.
“Ready,” she said.
Elinor dipped a quick curtsey, pleased. “Have a good night, Your Grace.”
“I intend to,” Maria said, and walked out to meet it.
“Maria, you look, oh, hush, let me say it, you look stunning,” Charity breathed as she greeted Maria at the ball. Maria was just happy to see a familiar face. She glanced down at the pale blue silk and the small stars sewn across the bodice.
“I hardly feel like myself in it,” she admitted, cheeks warming. “It’s as if the dress belongs to someone braver.”
“Then borrow her for the night,” Charity said, grinning. “You’re turning heads.”
“I cannot believe that.”
“Believe it,” Charity insisted. “I’ve counted at least four gentlemen tripping over their own feet since you walked in. And that was before the candles were snuffed on the west side.”
“Charity,” Maria laughed, then bit her lip. “Please do not make me self-conscious.”
“I am trying to make you confident. There’s a difference.” Charity tipped her head, appraising. “I suppose His Grace has already told you as much.”
“We barely had a chance to speak in the carriage,” Maria’s blush deepened.
“What do you mean by barely? It is a carriage.”
“He seemed… busy with his thoughts,” Maria said carefully. “Avoiding me, perhaps.”
“I do not believe that for one minute,” Charity said at once. “He does not avoid you.”
“You make it sound very dramatic,” Maria murmured, though her mouth twitched.
“Because it is,” Charity said, amused. “Ah, prepare your polite smile.”
A lady approached with the smooth certainty of one well-accustomed to corridors of admiration.
“Your Grace,” she said, curtseying with perfect form. “Lady Dalrymple. May I say you carry your new honors very handsomely?”
“You are kind,” Maria answered, returning the courtesy. “The credit belongs to the seamstress.”
“To the wearer, rather,” Lady Dalrymple said. “And to the gentleman who had the sense to secure her. London enjoys a new duchess who does not need to shout to be seen.”
“I am only trying not to trip,” Maria said, aiming for lightness.
“Then you are succeeding,” Lady Dalrymple replied. “Welcome to the game, Your Grace. Do not let it play you.” With another small curtsey, she moved on into the crush.
Charity exhaled.
“That was not nothing. You see?”
“Perhaps she meant the dress,” Maria said, flustered.
“She meant you,” Charity said. “And she is right. Now, about His Grace avoiding you. Where is he?”
Maria scanned the room. The ballroom swam with color: white shoulders, dark coats, flashes of orders and jewels. “Near the French doors, I think.”
“Then go and be unavoidable,” Charity said. “Or shall I fetch him?”
“Charity, no.”