Page 104 of The Sainted Duchess
“I noticed,” she said, and there was no malice in it, only a kind of practical curiosity. “Is that… common with you?”
“No,” he said. “It is common with men I do not admire. I am not particularly admired by myself this moment.”
“Then do not make a habit of it,” she said. “But—” She hesitated, then made her mouth say the thing. “I did not hate it.”
He looked at her as if she had put a hand on his shoulder. “No?”
“No,” she said. “So long as you remember I am not a prize.”
“I remember,” he said. “You are a person who has chosen to be here.”
“I am trying,” she said.
“I see you trying,” he said. “And I see you.”
She held his gaze and did not flinch. “Better.”
He nodded once, an admission and a promise both.
From the corner of his eye, Stephen saw the disappointed gentleman—still within the room, pretending delight in another conversation, the way a man pretends a misstep was intended choreography. Peter, drifting like a benevolent hazard, intercepted the fellow and engaged him at once with a question that required an answer, thereby removing the temptation of further impertinence.
“Peter is useful,” Maria said, following Stephen’s glance.
“He is indispensable,” Stephen agreed.
“Like all good friends,” she said.
“Like all good friends,” he echoed.
The music lifted. Couples took their places. He had told a man to watch his words when addressing a duke. He had nearly made a mess of his own. He had done one thing right, belatedly: he had looked at his wife and said something true.
“Will you…” He began and stopped. “Will you dance with me?”
CHAPTER 21
Stephen’s hand settled on her back. She felt it through, and she hoped he could not hear the small, startled sound that rose in her throat and was swallowed by the violins.
“Look at me,” he said quietly, as the first figure brought them close.
She did, because he asked it that way. His eyes were steady now.
“You are no longer avoiding me,” she murmured, forcing ease she did not feel. “That is a relief.”
“My earlier stupidity has been corrected,” he answered. “Peter administered the cure.”
“I should thank him,” she said, taking the turn and giving her hand as the step required.
“You may,” he said. “Later.”
They turned again. For four measures, they said nothing.
“Stephen,” she said at last, low enough that the words belonged only to them, “why did you behave so…” She sought a word that was not ungrateful and not untrue. “...so decidedly just now?”
“Decidedly,” he repeated, as if tasting it. “I prefer that to any of the other names you might choose.”
“I should like to know the reason for it,” she insisted, gentler than the sentence looked from a distance.
“Because I am your husband,” he said simply, “and another man reached for your hand.”
