“You are a woman to whom such a dress belongs. That is the point, Your Grace,” the maid said quickly.
It was hard for Maria to believe it, of course. But she nodded anyway. “Very well. We begin with hair.”
Elinor moved easily, setting combs and pins on the table, untying ribbons, brushing out the dark weight of Maria’s hair until it lay smooth over her shoulders. The room was quiet except for the brush and the occasional clink of a pin against glass.
“Will there be dancing?” Elinor asked.
“There will be invitations to dance,” Maria said. “Whether I accept all of them is another matter.”
Elinor’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “You will accept at least a few. If you wish the room to be kind, you must give it something to do.”
“Such as watching me not fall,” Maria said dryly.
“Exactly,” Elinor said. “Head up. There.”
Maria did as told. Her neck felt longer, her breath easier. “Do you think he will approve?” she added, too casual to be casual.
“The duke?” Elinor’s mouth twitched. “He approved when he ordered it, ma’am. He will only approve again.”
“He did not order me,” Maria said, more tartly than she intended, then shook her head. “That was unkind. He has ordered nothing but the gown.”
“And the carriage,” Elinor said. “And the footmen’s gloves. And the flowers, which arrived an hour ago and made Mrs. Collins mutter kind things under her breath.”
“Flowers?”
“In the hall,” Elinor said. “White and pale blue. They will not compete with you.”
“That is considered?” Maria asked.
“Everything is considered,” Elinor said. “That is why you have me.”
Maria smiled. “True.” She lifted her hands in surrender as Elinor arranged the first section of hair. “Pins as you please.”
Elinor worked quickly—two sections twisted and set low, a thin silver ribbon threaded through, a few soft curls left to ease the line around Maria’s face. When she stepped back, Maria barely recognized herself. She looked like a version of herself that belonged more easily in rooms with mirrors.
“Jewels?” Elinor asked.
“There is a box,” Maria said, opening the second drawer. Inside, a simple necklace: a row of small pearls with a single drop. “From Stephen?”
Elinor nodded. “The footman said the note and the box arrived together.”
Maria fastened the necklace, feeling the cool against her throat. “He is determined to make the evening easy.”
“Let him,” Elinor said. “Men very rarely improve evenings. Best encourage them when they try.”
Maria laughed again, surprised at how much better it felt to be amused than anxious. She turned to the dress. “All right. I will stop being afraid of it.”
“Good,” Elinor said. “Arms up.”
The silk slid like water. Elinor closed the tiny hooks with quick, sure fingers. The bodice held without squeezing, the skirt fell without weight. Maria stood still while Elinor smoothed the seams and tugged the waist a fraction into place.
“Breath?” Elinor asked.
“I have it.”
“Turn.”
Maria turned. The mirror took her in—blue and silver, a clean line of shoulder, the pearls steady at her throat.