“He refused to look at me at all,” Maria pointed out.
“Because he is a man,” Charity said, exasperated, “and men are strange when something matters. He feared that if he looked directly, you would catch on. I suspect both of you are in denial about your feelings.”
“Charity…”
“Very well, it is true. You fluster him.”
“I do not,” Maria protested. “He is composed.”
“He is composed around other people,” Charity said. “Around you, he forgets how to hold his gaze properly.”
Maria tried not to smile. “You are inventing.”
“I am observing,” Charity said. “He avoided your eyes like a boy who has brought the finest sweet to market and is terrified you will not want it.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“It is accurate.” Charity softened, squeezing her hand. “Why must it be so impossible, the idea that he finds you beautiful?”
Maria looked down at the little spoon melting in her lemon ice.
“Because I do not know what to do with it if it is true.”
“You do not have to do anything with it,” Charity said. “Let it be true.”
Maria was quiet for a moment. “You think marriages can change?”
“Since people are capable of changing, I can only assume that marriages can too,” Charity said simply. “Surely that would make the most sense.”
“You make it sound easy,” Maria replied. “I think two people can be different on their own, but then when in a marriage, they can be entirely different.”
“Hmm, I see,” Charity said. “But I can only think that just as one can work on themselves, they might be able to work on their marriage as well.”
“He told me to make my mark,” Maria let out a breath as she admitted the words. “And that I should speak to more people.”
“And you shall,” Charity said briskly. “We will find three harmless subjects and two friendly matrons, and you will practice being seen. Meanwhile, allow me to keep one fact on the table: he is attracted to you.”
Maria looked up, nervous and a little hopeful. “You are very sure.”
“I am,” Charity said. “If you cannot accept it yet, borrow my certainty until you can.”
Maria laughed under her breath. “Very well. I will borrow it. Temporarily.”
Stephen told himself to plant his eyes on Peter and leave them there. It lasted a count of three.
“Stop pretending you are attending to me,” Peter said cheerfully, swirling the champagne in his glass without drinking it.
“I am attending to you,” Stephen replied, and then let his gaze slide past Peter’s shoulder toward the French doors, where Maria stood with Charity and two ladies of a harmless, kindly sort. She had not moved much in the last quarter hour; she did not need to. People moved around her, adjusting as if she were a piece of furniture the household had been rearranged to honor.
Peter glanced behind him, followed the line of Stephen’s attention, and smiled with satisfaction.
“Ah,” he said. “That.”
“It is a dress,” Stephen said unhelpfully.
“It is your wife,” Peter corrected mildly. “In a dress that has made you forget your own name.”
“Do not be absurd,” Stephen muttered.