“Do not thank me for simple truth,” she said, recovering a little of her lightness.
“I must,” he said, and if the thanks were for something larger, neither of them said so.
They turned; their hands parted, met, rested again.
“Earlier,” she said, because she wanted it spoken aloud, “you told him to watch his words when he addressed a duke.”
“I did,” Stephen said.
“Was that for you?” she asked. “Or for me?”
“Both,” he said. “But mostly for you.”
“I liked it,” she confessed, surprising herself with the simplicity of the admission.
“Good,” he said. “I liked it too. I liked it very much.”
“You must not get used to being jealous,” she warned him.
“I will not,” he promised. “I will get used to saying what is true before I ruin it with silence.”
“And what is true?” she asked, reckless now that she was already at the edge.
“That when I first saw you,” he said, eyes steady on hers, “It was hard to think of anything else.”
CHAPTER 22
It was hard to think of anything else.
“It’s very late, Your Grace,” Elinor said, easing the pins from Maria’s hair. “Tilt your head, there. I’ll not pull.”
Maria watched the mirror. The pearls were already put away; the blue gown hung quietly on its stand. Her cheeks still held a faint, treacherous color.
“Elinor,” she said, “what does it mean when a man is jealous?”
Elinor’s hands paused a moment in the dark fall of hair. “Do you wish for a kind answer or a sharp one?”
“The true one.”
“Then it means he cares,” Elinor said, resuming the braid. “Sometimes it means he is foolish; sometimes it means he isfrightened. Often it means both. But he only gets to that feeling if something matters to him.”
Maria kept her eyes on her own reflection. “Matters how?”
“As in… he wants to be chosen,” Elinor said. “By you. He wants it more than he meant to.”
Maria let out a breath that tried to be a laugh. “And if he dislikes the feeling?”
“He may still have it,” Elinor said simply. “Jealousy does not ask permission.”
Another pin clicked into the dish. The room was quiet except for the small sounds of the house settling and the low grate of cinders in the hearth.
“Elinor,” Maria said again, softer, “how does one know if one is… in love?”
Elinor’s hands were careful and steady.
“You’ll know because the ordinary things stop feeling ordinary,” she said. “You’ll be pleased by a look you would have missed last month. A small sentence will sit with you all day. You will wait for someone’s steps in the corridor and not admit that you are waiting. You will forgive sooner than you thought you could.”
Maria swallowed. “And if it is only gratitude? Or habit? I am new at this. I worry I am mistaking things.”