Prudence’s eyes flicked to Maria’s hands and back again.
Peter did not push. That should have comforted her; it did. It should also have opened her. It did not. Somehow, she found herself wanting more.
He did not take offense. He accepted the limits she offered as if they were a token.
It was at that moment that the Duke of Verwood entered the room.
A handful of ladies glanced; a handful of gentlemen stiffened. The change was hardly anything, but it did not go unnoticed by her.
He had the presence to change the mood of a room when he walked in, should he wish.
Stephen came no nearer than the far side of the table. At first, there was no interaction between them. In fact, she tried her hardest not to glance in his direction.
But then he looked; she felt it; he looked away, and she hated that there was any part of her that wanted to be found again just to be sure she had been seen.
“Miss Havenford,” Peter said, returning from exchanging a word with Prudence. “Would you walk when you have done with your tea? The east lawn is rather handsome at this hour.”
“Yes,” Maria said, and then heard how the word sounded. It did not signal too much of an interest. “If you like.”
“I do,” he said, which somehow did not make the invitation press upon her. “But not if you have letters to write.”
“That is very gallant of you,” Prudence murmured into her coffee.
Peter offered a rueful little smile. “Gallantry should be unnoticeable, Miss Fairchild, or it ceases to be gallantry and becomes performance.”
“Then you are not doing it very well,” Prudence said.
Maria should have laughed with them. Instead, she took a sip of her tea, which she did not need, and said, “Perhaps, Mr. Morton, later in the morning. I find I have… correspondence.”
She was not sure whether Peter heardcorrespondenceorcowardicein the words. He only bowed.
“Then I hope your letters are received with joy,” which was so gentle that she found she had to swallow twice.
Maria could not endure another second of being a person who might shatter.
She rose and said her farewell.She managed three steps past them when someone called out her name again.
“Miss Havenford.”
She turned…
Stephen stood ten feet away, hands linked behind his back. In the morning light, he looked too much like himself. She discovered, to her irritation, that she preferred him less well in daylight. The night gives a rake the right to be dangerous; morning makes him look like a choice.
“You left your breakfast,” he observed. “Mr. Morton looked bereft.”
“He did not.” Maria arranged her face into something courteous. “He looked perfectly well.”
“Of course, he did,” Stephen said placidly. “He is too well-mannered to look otherwise. You, however, resemble a woman who has escaped an unpleasant parson.”
“I have escaped nothing,” she said. “I am going to write a letter.”
“To whom?”
“That is hardly your business.”
“On the contrary,” he said, entirely without shame, “this week almost everything about you is my business.”
She stiffened at his words.