Page 102 of The Sainted Duchess
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.”
The gentleman’s lids lowered a fraction, as if he had found a point on the floor to be amused by. “Of course, Your Grace. Far be it from me to forget your consequence.”
“Remember it,” Stephen said. “And remember hers.”
He did not mean the title. The other man took it that way anyway, which was fine; he was not invited to understand anything deeper.
The gentleman bowed, performed an apology shaped like deference, and withdrew at exactly the speed that rescued dignity without admitting fear. The watching edges of the room, disappointed, resumed their prior occupations.
