Page 107 of The Sainted Duchess
“Convenience,” she said, automatic, defensive.
“Convenience dressed the day,” he said. “It did not choose the step.”
Her breath caught. She looked away, because looking at him felt like standing in direct sunlight—pleasant and terrifying.
“Maria,” he said, catching her gaze back with a tone she could not ignore. “Allow me one vulgarity in a room that remembers every sentence: I wanted you jealous of no man here.”
“Stephen,” she protested, startled and unsteady. “I am not— I do not—jealousy is not a thing I?—”
“Good,” he said. “Keep it that way. It does not flatter you. It does not flatter me. But let me be jealous in peace for a quarter hour. I promise to hand it back before it stains.”
She nearly laughed, the sound trembling. “Very well. A quarter hour.”
“Thank you.” His hand eased, then firmed. “You are trembling.”
“Only a little.”
“Because of the eyes?”
“Because of your words,” she said, then pressed her lips together too late to stop them.
He inhaled as if the room had briefly forgotten to hold air for him. “Ah.” The syllable carried more satisfaction than a shout would have. “Then I will be careful.”
“You will not,” she said, recovering enough to chide. “You will be contrary until I scold.”
“I will be careful,” he repeated, stubbornly. “I am learning what that means with you.”
“You are doing very well,” she said, because it was true and because the urge to reward him surprised her with its strength.
He smiled properly then—no public edge, no ducal restraint, only a man pleased with a small win he had earned by not making a mess of things. It did idiotic things to her sense of balance. She nearly misstepped and then did not, because he adjusted his hand without comment, keeping her upright, keeping everything appearing effortless.
“You frighten me,” she said in a rush, trusting him to hold it.
“Because I could be unkind?” he asked at once.
“Because you could be… enough,” she said, the honesty costing less than it would have an hour ago. “And I do not know what to do with enough.”
“Keep it,” he said. “Spend it slowly.”
They passed the gallery again, and the prickling awareness returned—eyes, intent, a concentration that was not merely curious. She saw only a cluster of dark coats and pale faces, indistinct as a painting in the wrong light.
“It is nothing,” Stephen said, though his jaw had tightened. “If it becomes something, Peter will fetch me.”
“Does he know to watch us?” she asked, startled.
“He knows to watch me,” Stephen said, with the driest of humor. “Which amounts to the same.”
“This is ridiculous,” she said, striving for common sense. “We are two people obeying the figures of a dance.”
“Mm,” he said. “It would be more ridiculous to pretend I did not want to be the only man obeying them with you.”
“You will not always be,” she reminded him, because that was how balls worked and because she had gotten very good at finding the rule when feeling began to misbehave.
“I know,” he said. “But tonight I will be the first.”
“You already were,” she said softly.
He looked as if she had put her hand to his chest and pressed once, gently. “Thank you.”
