“You shouldn’t,” he said at once. He glanced at the card, then at her face. “And you should stay. It is nearly nine.”
“For the hour?” she asked, unable to stop the little rise of pleasure that came with saying it.
“For the hour,” he said.
She crossed to the fire and sat, turning the card once between her fingers before she slipped it into her pocket.
“Violet will be insufferable when she sees them,” she said, trying for lightness and almost managing it. “Are you drinking?”
“A little,” he said. “The day insisted.”
“What did it insist upon?”
“That I answer several tedious letters with more courtesy than I felt.” His mouth twitched. “Whisky assists in softening the edges.”
She considered the decanter for a moment.
“Will you pour me some?”
“You are sure?” He hesitated.
“No,” she said honestly. “But I should like to try.”
He rose, unhurried, and took up the decanter. And then measured a sensible portion and brought the glass to her.
“Thank you,” she said, and lifted it in both hands. She sniffed cautiously. Drawing a breath, she drank.
It hit her at once, and her face betrayed her before she could command it into good behavior: eyebrows, eyes, and mouth all conspired into a wince and a cough that was not ladylike at all.
Stephen laughed.
“That,” he said, recovering, “is very much the face of a person trying whisky for the first time.”
“It tastes like the inside of a carpenter’s revenge,” she said, breathless. “With smoke.”
“It improves,” he offered.
“Does the person improve with it?” she asked, narrowing one eye as if that would hold the heat still.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Other times the whisky merely reveals what was already improved.”
She tried the smallest second sip. It still burned, but this time she could tell where it would go. She set the glass on the little table beside her and let out a breath she had not realized she was holding.
“Why these gowns?” she asked, because she could not keep the question in any longer and because she would not let the moment turn to mere politeness.
“Because you needed them,” he said. “And because I wanted you to have them.”
“That is two answers,” she said, watching him.
“They are both true,” he returned.
She laced her fingers and stared into the heart of the fire. “I am very excited about them,” she said quietly. “And I am also a little terrified of the ball.”
“You need not be,” he said.
“I know that is the proper thing to say,” she replied. “But there are days when I feel as if I am playing at being a lady. I don’t always know what to do. I’m clumsy with the rules. And—” She stopped, the last admission snagging on pride. She tried again. “And I am not easy with myself in rooms full of looking.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, as if he did not trust the question to anyone else.