Chapter 22
It was hard to think of anything else.
“It’s very late, Your Grace,” Elinor said, easing the pins from Maria’s hair. “Tilt your head, there. I’ll not pull.”
Maria watched the mirror. The pearls were already put away; the blue gown hung quietly on its stand. Her cheeks still held a faint, treacherous color.
“Elinor,” she said, “what does it mean when a man is jealous?”
Elinor’s hands paused a moment in the dark fall of hair. “Do you wish for a kind answer or a sharp one?”
“The true one.”
“Then it means he cares,” Elinor said, resuming the braid. “Sometimes it means he is foolish; sometimes it means he is frightened. Often it means both. But he only gets to that feeling if something matters to him.”
Maria kept her eyes on her own reflection. “Matters how?”
“As in… he wants to be chosen,” Elinor said. “By you. He wants it more than he meant to.”
Maria let out a breath that tried to be a laugh. “And if he dislikes the feeling?”
“He may still have it,” Elinor said simply. “Jealousy does not ask permission.”
Another pin clicked into the dish. The room was quiet except for the small sounds of the house settling and the low grate of cinders in the hearth.
“Elinor,” Maria said again, softer, “how does one know if one is… in love?”
Elinor’s hands were careful and steady.
“You’ll know because the ordinary things stop feeling ordinary,” she said.
“You’ll be pleased by a look you would have missed last month.
A small sentence will sit with you all day.
You will wait for someone’s steps in the corridor and not admit that you are waiting.
You will forgive sooner than you thought you could. ”
Maria swallowed. “And if it is only gratitude? Or habit? I am new at this. I worry I am mistaking things.”
“You might be,” Elinor said. “Everyone does at first. But gratitude fades when the favor ends. Habit is easy to break when no one’s feelings are involved. Love…” She tied the end of the braid and smoothed it down. “Love keeps arguing its case even when you try to be sensible.”
Maria smiled without meaning to. “That sounds troublesome.”
“It is,” Elinor said dryly. “Worth the trouble, if the person is.”
Maria turned a little on the stool. “How does one know if the person is?”
“You watch how you are with them,” Elinor said. “Do you speak more carefully because you are afraid, or more carefully because you want to be kind? Do you like yourself in the room with them? If the answers are the good ones, the person is likely worth the trouble.”
Maria looked down at her hands. The gloves were folded, a small, calm bundle beside the mirror. “And how does one know if he feels the same?”
Elinor’s mouth tipped.
“He will make room for you,” she said. “He will tell you where he’s going and come back when he says.
He will remember to ask, not only to tell.
He will take your part when it costs him something.
He will not talk over your words. When he is wrong, he will try to put it right without making a speech of it. ”
Maria nodded slowly. “He did some of those this evening.”
“I thought as much,” Elinor said mildly. “The footmen talk, and I have eyes.”
“Is jealousy part of that list?” Maria asked. “Does it prove anything?”
“It proves he is human,” Elinor said. “It proves you matter to him. It does not prove he is good for you. That part is shown by what he does with the jealousy. If he uses it to scold and cage, it’s no good. If he owns it and behaves better, then perhaps.”
Maria laughed under her breath. “That is very plain.”
“It should be,” Elinor said. “We make ourselves silly when we dress these things up.”
“Why do we make it so complicated when it could be simple?”
“Because we are human,” Elinor said, slipping out another pin. “We second-guess ourselves. We fear being fools. So we add steps to avoid a small hurt and end up tripping over the extra ones.”
Maria huffed a quiet laugh. “I am very good at extra steps.”
“I have noticed,” Elinor said, not unkindly. “You weigh every word until it is thin.”
“What should I do instead?”
“Say smaller things sooner,” Elinor replied. “If he meets you there, you go another step. If he does not, you have not risked your whole heart in a single throw.”
Maria considered that. “And if I panic?”
“Excuse yourself and drink water,” Elinor said. “Then try again tomorrow. Love allows for tomorrow.”
Maria smiled. “You are very sensible.”
“I am paid to be,” Elinor said, a corner of her mouth lifting. “And I have watched enough couples to know that the ones who do well keep things plain.”
Maria breathed in, steadier. “Plain, then. Small, honest things.”
“Elinor nodded. “Start there.”
“What would you start with, if you were me?”
“Something plain.”
Maria laughed.
“Of course, yes. As you said before. She rose, the braid settling against her shoulder. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Elinor set the brush aside and drew the coverlet back. “Sleep now, Your Grace.”
Maria slipped into bed. “Plain things,” she murmured into the pillow. “Tomorrow.”
Stephen did not go straight to his bedchamber. Habit took him to the study.. He shut the door softly and stood a moment with his hand still on the latch.
God. He could not stop replaying his dance with Maria.
Possessive. Eager. Jealous. The kind of adjectives he had quietly despised in other men who mistook heat for right.
He had gone too far.
None of this was supposed to happen. He was never to admit such a thing in front of Maria, no matter how he felt.
Distance.
He would put a little distance back between them.
And at this moment, the last thing that he wished to be was alone. So he grabbed his cloak and set off into the night.
His horse did not have to travel far before he reached the estate of the person whom he knew would not turn down a drink at this hour.
The butler opened before Stephen could knock twice. “Your Grace.”
“Is your master awake?” Stephen asked.
“I believe so, sir.” The man stepped aside without surprise. “This way.”
Peter appeared at the head of the stairs in a housecoat.
“Well,” he said, pleased and curious. “To what do I owe a duke at midnight?”
“I needed someone to share a drink with,” Stephen said.
“Shouldn’t you be home with your wife?”
“I would rather not talk about her,” Stephen said, moving past into the small sitting room Peter preferred for late conversation.
“Why not?” Peter asked.
“Because you have already caused enough trouble,” Stephen said. “Best not ask about her.”
Peter laughed outright and turned to the sideboard.
“Then we shall drink to my restraint.” He poured two measures, handed one over, then leaned a hip against the table. “To what shall we pretend to talk, if not your wife?”
“Horses,” Stephen said.
“Absolutely not,” Peter replied. “I like you too well for that.” He lifted his glass.
Stephen shot him a look.
“Very well. We will begin with something harmless. How are your nerves?”
“Awful,” Stephen said.
“Ah,” Peter said, satisfied. “So the evening went well.”
Stephen took a swallow. “I behaved like a man I do not admire.”
“Which one?” Peter said. “There are so many categories.”
“The sort who believes that wanting excuses behavior,” Stephen said.
“And did you excuse yourself?” Peter asked.
“No,” Stephen said. “But I came close to enjoying the excuse.”
“You told a man to mind his words.”
“I did.”
“In a reasonable tone.”
“Yes.”
“And you danced with your wife. That is hardly a crime. You are a man who has remembered he has a heart and is furious about it.”
Stephen sat, because refusing would have looked theatrical.
“I am not furious. I am…” He searched and found the plain word. “Unsettled.”
“Good,” Peter said. “It suggests you might become something better than neat.”
“I prefer neat,” Stephen said. “Neat does not hurt anyone.”
“Neat also does not warm anyone,” Peter countered.
Stephen stared into the glass.
“I am not qualified for warmth.”
“You managed fifteen minutes of it in a crowded room,” Peter said.
“I must put distance back,” Stephen said. “It is obvious.”
Peter’s mouth twitched.
“Why obvious?”
“Because I went too far,” Stephen preferred to keep his words brisk.
“You are planning to punish yourself by being cold,” Peter translated. “And hope she thanks you for your prudence.”
“I am planning not to be ridiculous,” Stephen said. “Which is close enough.”
“Did she look harmed by your warmth?”
“No,” Stephen said. The memory tugged at him despite himself: the way she had looked up when he had said the words he had not intended to say. “Startled. Then…no.”
“Always a good thing…”
“Peter.”
“Very well,” Peter said, surrendering the joke. “Tell me why you came.”
Stephen rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Because if I had remained in that house, I would have looked at her door until morning.”
In earnest, he was scared that he would admit even more to her if he was close enough.
“Ah,” Peter said softly. “You are afraid of being seen wanting.”
“Yes.”
It should irk him how well his friend had guessed, but he always knew. So it was no surprise.
“You want your wife.”
Stephen stared at him. “Is it necessary to be so bald?”
“It saves time,” Peter said. “And embarrassment is cheaper in small doses. You want her. You respect her. You dislike yourself when you are reckless. You are also not twelve. Pick three of those statements and make a plan that does not involve fleeing your own house.”
Stephen’s mouth flattened.
“I have a plan.”
“Distance is not a plan.”
“If I pull back, everything returns to its proper scale.” At least that’s how it was in his head.
“You mean you return to a scale you can manage,” Peter said. “She will be left wondering what sin she committed for you to be so cold.”
“She has committed none,” Stephen snapped. “Which is precisely why I must not warm her into expecting what I cannot give.”
“You think a kind evening becomes a promise.”
“It may,” Stephen said tightly. “And I cannot give her false hope.”
“Why must it be false?” Peter asked, entirely reasonable, which Stephen found intolerable.
“Because,” Stephen said, “I can never love her.”
“Never,” he said. “A strong word.”
“Do not be clever,” Stephen muttered.
“I am trying to be plain,” Peter said. “You believe you cannot love her. On what evidence?”
“On thirty-odd years of not loving anyone I ought,” Stephen said. “On the fact that I know what happens when a man mistakes appetite for virtue, and I refuse to be that man.”
“Mm,” Peter said. “And yet tonight you were careful with her. You did not take a liberty; you took a place beside her.”
“Yes, I lost my head for a quarter hour.”
“You look like a man who found it,” Peter returned. “But very well. Suppose you are right. Suppose you can never love her. What will distance give you that decency would not?”
“Control,” Stephen said at once.
“And fewer chances at anything meaningful,” Peter said.
Stephen frowned.
“You are not protecting her. You are isolating yourself.”
“Better that than training her to expect warmth that will not last.”
“You keep saying it will not last, as if you have been given a prophecy. What if the only reason it would not last is because you intend to suffocate it?” Peter’s gaze sharpened.
“Do not dress my caution as cowardice,” Stephen sighed. “It would be best if we did not have this conversation anymore.”
“Running away from the truth will not do you any good,” Peter said.
“Well, it will at least buy me time,” he replied. “Which is something I need.”
The more Stephen thought about things, the more apparent it became to him what he was to do next. He was to maintain his distance. That was the only way things could work.