Chapter 20
Charity waited until Stephen was out of earshot and then turned on Maria, gentle but frank. “What was that?” “I do not know,” Maria said softly. “He would not look at me.”
“Because you look like that,” Charity muttered, scandalized on Maria’s behalf.
“Do not start,” Maria said, flustered.
“Why can’t you simply accept that he is attracted to you?”
“Because the thought is absurd,” Maria whispered. “Why should he be?”
“Because you are his wife,” Charity stared.
“Ours was a marriage of convenience,” Maria said quickly.
“And?” Charity lifted a brow. “Do you imagine convenience bars the door against feeling? Half the marriages in this room began as arrangements and then wandered into affection when no one was looking.”
Maria shook her head. “That is a lovely story for a book.”
“It is a common story for life,” Charity countered. “He looks at you as if the room has started making sense. That is not convenient.”
“He refused to look at me at all,” Maria pointed out.
“Because he is a man,” Charity said, exasperated, “and men are strange when something matters. He feared that if he looked directly, you would catch on. I suspect both of you are in denial about your feelings.”
“Charity…”
“Very well, it is true. You fluster him.”
“I do not,” Maria protested. “He is composed.”
“He is composed around other people,” Charity said. “Around you, he forgets how to hold his gaze properly.”
Maria tried not to smile. “You are inventing.”
“I am observing,” Charity said. “He avoided your eyes like a boy who has brought the finest sweet to market and is terrified you will not want it.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“It is accurate.” Charity softened, squeezing her hand. “Why must it be so impossible, the idea that he finds you beautiful?”
Maria looked down at the little spoon melting in her lemon ice.
“Because I do not know what to do with it if it is true.”
“You do not have to do anything with it,” Charity said. “Let it be true.”
Maria was quiet for a moment. “You think marriages can change?”
“Since people are capable of changing, I can only assume that marriages can too,” Charity said simply. “Surely that would make the most sense.”
“You make it sound easy,” Maria replied. “I think two people can be different on their own, but then when in a marriage, they can be entirely different.”
“Hmm, I see,” Charity said. “But I can only think that just as one can work on themselves, they might be able to work on their marriage as well.”
“He told me to make my mark,” Maria let out a breath as she admitted the words. “And that I should speak to more people.”
“And you shall,” Charity said briskly. “We will find three harmless subjects and two friendly matrons, and you will practice being seen. Meanwhile, allow me to keep one fact on the table: he is attracted to you.”
Maria looked up, nervous and a little hopeful. “You are very sure.”
“I am,” Charity said. “If you cannot accept it yet, borrow my certainty until you can.”
Maria laughed under her breath. “Very well. I will borrow it. Temporarily.”
Stephen told himself to plant his eyes on Peter and leave them there. It lasted a count of three.
“Stop pretending you are attending to me,” Peter said cheerfully, swirling the champagne in his glass without drinking it.
“I am attending to you,” Stephen replied, and then let his gaze slide past Peter’s shoulder toward the French doors, where Maria stood with Charity and two ladies of a harmless, kindly sort.
She had not moved much in the last quarter hour; she did not need to.
People moved around her, adjusting as if she were a piece of furniture the household had been rearranged to honor.
Peter glanced behind him, followed the line of Stephen’s attention, and smiled with satisfaction.
“Ah,” he said. “That.”
“It is a dress,” Stephen said unhelpfully.
“It is your wife,” Peter corrected mildly. “In a dress that has made you forget your own name.”
“Do not be absurd,” Stephen muttered.
“I never am,” Peter said. “I am frequently accurate in a tone that sounds like mockery. That is different. Why do you not go to her, since remaining here sets your neck at such an odd angle?”
“Because I have already gone once and made a fool of myself,” Stephen said. “I did not look at her.”
Peter’s brows rose. “On purpose?”
“By incompetence. It is worse.”
“Indeed,” Peter agreed. “It suggests you forgot how eyes function. That is difficult to forgive.”
Stephen considered the floor. “She looked—” He shut his mouth, because there was no way to complete the sentence that did not sound adolescent.
“Like someone you have married,” Peter supplied. “One does hear it is allowed to look at one’s own wife.”
“I am aware,” Stephen said dryly. “I am also aware that staring like an oaf is not recommended.”
“You are not staring like an oaf,” Peter said. “You are glancing like a man pretending not to stare like an oaf. It is a different choreography, though scarcely less obvious.”
“Thank you,” Stephen said. “Your help is, as ever, indefatigable.”
Peter lifted his glass in salute. “I am attempting to prevent you from injuring your neck. The thing is bending like a reed.”
Stephen forced himself to attend to his senses. “Very well. Talk to me about something ordinary.”
“Horses,” Peter suggested. “You could bore even yourself with horses.”
“I have already been bored with horses three times this evening,” Stephen said. “Anything else.”
“Politics?”
“I am not so cruel to either of us.”
“Your library catalogue.”
“I would rather be strangled with it.”
Peter regarded him with affection and a little pity. “You are lost. You might as well admit it. It does not lessen the condition, but it often improves the company.”
Stephen made a sound that was nearly a laugh and did not try to disguise it. “If you call me sentimental, we shall not be friends by morning.”
“I would not dare,” Peter said. “I will call you married, which is both more accurate and more dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Stephen repeated, amused despite himself.
“Certainly. All changed men are dangerous to their own plans.”
“I had very few plans for this evening,” Stephen said. “Beyond not disgracing either of us.”
Peter’s gaze sharpened. “Then you must go to her and ask for a dance.”
“I am not certain she wants a spectacle made,” Stephen said. “She is learning the room.”
“Then go to her and stand at her side while she learns it,” Peter said. “You are very nearly useful when you stand and say nothing.”
“I did that before,” Stephen said. “Except for the useful part.”
Peter considered him for a moment. “And?”
“And I told her she must be seen. That she should speak to more people. Gardeners, even.”
Peter groaned. “Gardeners? Stephen.”
“It seemed safe,” Stephen said, defensive and wretchedly aware of it.
“It seems idiotic,” Peter corrected, not unkindly. “You took your awkwardness for prudence and offered her horticulture.”
Stephen rubbed at his jaw. “I know.”
“What you meant,” Peter said, “was: I am proud to be seen with you. I hope the room notices you. If it does not, I will set it on fire.”
“That is an extravagant paraphrase.”
“It is the only kind worth making in a ballroom,” Peter said. “Say it. Or some milder version.”
Stephen stared again across the press of coats and lace. Maria had turned a little, making space for an older lady to pass. The light caught at the tiny stitched stars, yes, but it sat on her face more generously than on silk. She was smiling, uncertain, courteous, and genuine.
“I will try,” he said, mostly to himself.
“Try before someone else does,” Peter advised lazily.
“Someone else?” Stephen repeated, and then saw precisely what Peter meant. A gentleman had approached Maria and bowed to her hand. Charity had the look of a friend attempting to be useful and failing because the moment did not belong to her. Maria glanced toward Stephen.
He did not remember putting the glass down. But he was moving swiftly.
“Stephen,” Peter called after him, half-laughing, “try not to cause a scene.”
Stephen did not intend to trample anything. He did intend to arrive in time.
The gentleman had already said something, and Maria had not refused. Why would she? She was learning, as he had told her to. He had instructed her to be seen. He had told her to speak to more people. There was nothing improper in any of it. He knew that. He disliked it anyway.
He arrived as the man extended his hand for Maria’s. Stephen took in the other’s face in a single trained glance: younger than himself by a handful of years.
“Your Grace,” the gentleman said, turning with a smile that mistook itself for charm. “I have asked the duchess for the next.”
“Have you,” Stephen said.
Maria’s eyes went at once to Stephen’s—not pleading, not defiant; simply asking what he wished to do with the moment. It was a courtesy he did not deserve, given the idiocy of his previous one. He had a half-second to decide whether he would be the duke or the man.
He stepped to Maria’s side and, without touching, took possession of the space there. “I shall have the next with my wife,” he said.
The gentleman’s smile did not flicker. “Then the one after?”
Charity, hovering like a spark, looked ready to put herself between them. Maria had not moved her hand nearer to either man; she held it neutrally, the glove a bright ribbon in the air between courtesies.
Stephen felt the ridiculous, juvenile heat of jealousy run up his spine and forced his words through the bridle of civility. “No, sir,” he said. “I shall have the one after as well.”
“I had not expected such… eagerness,” the gentleman said. “From a man of your reputation.”
Stephen heard the blood in his ears and the very distinct hinge on which this could turn into a scene. He was not going to give the room a scene. He was not going to give this man anything worth repeating, except a lesson.
He regarded him levelly. “I advise you,” he said, the softness in his tone more dangerous than volume would have been, “to watch your words when you address a duke.”