Page 114 of The Sainted Duchess
Maria sighed and set the cup aside. “Two days. That is all it took for me to become invisible.”
“Not invisible,” Elinor said. “Only unseen for the moment. He will come round, I am certain.”
“And if he does not?”
Elinor smiled faintly. “Then you will make yourself impossible to miss.”
Maria blinked. “How does one do that?”
“By being what you are already, Your Grace. A woman worth noticing.”
The words, simple as they were, reached a tender place. Maria looked toward the closed door and straightened her spine.
“Very well,” she said. “If he will not see me, he will at least hear me.”
Elinor’s brow lifted. “In what manner, if I may ask?”
“He shall find out,” she muttered. “Do you know where the Duke is?”
Elinor looked up, careful. “In his study, I believe, Your Grace. He gave orders not to be disturbed.”
“Then it is a fortunate thing that I have never been very good at following orders.”
“Your Grace….”
But Maria was already gone.
The study was only a short distance from her bedroom. She paused before the door, hand hovering over the latch. There were sounds within.
Yes, he was here indeed.
Stephen. He was not seated behind his desk, as she had imagined, but standing before the great oil painting that dominated the wall.
Maria closed the door behind her. “So this is where you have been hiding.”
“Maria,” He turned, startled at first, then wary. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Trust him to be so all too cavalier about everything, even now.
“You made a promise,” she said quietly. “You said you would dine with me. Yet I have eaten two suppers alone.”
“I have been busy,” he said, shrugging mildly.
It incited a strong reaction out of her. How was he so calm when she had been stuck in her own overthinking mind for the last two days? Was she the only one wounded by his absence?
But there was a crack in his demeanor as well. Something alerted her that perhaps he was not as calm as he appeared. But since she did not have a confirmation for it, she opted to ignore it.
“Yes,” she replied instead, “that is what everyone says when they wish to excuse cruelty.”
“I am not cruel.”
“Then what are you?” she demanded, stepping forward. “Indifferent? Forgetful? You tell me which word fits better, because I am struggling to choose.”
Stephen looked at her, then at the painting behind him. It was a painting of his father, and it felt as though he was still judging.
“There are matters that require my attention,” he said at last.
“And none of them involved me.”
