Elinor dipped a quick curtsey, pleased. “Have a good night, Your Grace.”
“I intend to,” Maria said, and walked out to meet it.
“Maria, you look, oh, hush, let me say it, you look stunning,” Charity breathed as she greeted Maria at the ball. Maria was just happy to see a familiar face. She glanced down at the pale blue silk and the small stars sewn across the bodice.
“I hardly feel like myself in it,” she admitted, cheeks warming. “It’s as if the dress belongs to someone braver.”
“Then borrow her for the night,” Charity said, grinning. “You’re turning heads.”
“I cannot believe that.”
“Believe it,” Charity insisted. “I’ve counted at least four gentlemen tripping over their own feet since you walked in. And that was before the candles were snuffed on the west side.”
“Charity,” Maria laughed, then bit her lip. “Please do not make me self-conscious.”
“I am trying to make you confident. There’s a difference.” Charity tipped her head, appraising. “I suppose His Grace has already told you as much.”
“We barely had a chance to speak in the carriage,” Maria’s blush deepened.
“What do you mean by barely? It is a carriage.”
“He seemed… busy with his thoughts,” Maria said carefully. “Avoiding me, perhaps.”
“I do not believe that for one minute,” Charity said at once. “He does not avoid you.”
“You make it sound very dramatic,” Maria murmured, though her mouth twitched.
“Because it is,” Charity said, amused. “Ah, prepare your polite smile.”
A lady approached with the smooth certainty of one well-accustomed to corridors of admiration.
“Your Grace,” she said, curtseying with perfect form. “Lady Dalrymple. May I say you carry your new honors very handsomely?”
“You are kind,” Maria answered, returning the courtesy. “The credit belongs to the seamstress.”
“To the wearer, rather,” Lady Dalrymple said. “And to the gentleman who had the sense to secure her. London enjoys a new duchess who does not need to shout to be seen.”
“I am only trying not to trip,” Maria said, aiming for lightness.
“Then you are succeeding,” Lady Dalrymple replied. “Welcome to the game, Your Grace. Do not let it play you.” With another small curtsey, she moved on into the crush.
Charity exhaled.
“That was not nothing. You see?”
“Perhaps she meant the dress,” Maria said, flustered.
“She meant you,” Charity said. “And she is right. Now, about His Grace avoiding you. Where is he?”
Maria scanned the room. The ballroom swam with color: white shoulders, dark coats, flashes of orders and jewels. “Near the French doors, I think.”
“Then go and be unavoidable,” Charity said. “Or shall I fetch him?”
“Charity, no.”
“Very well. I shall merely drift in his general direction and see whether the tide brings him back.” She squeezed Maria’s hand. “Stay put. Smile at no one you dislike.”
“I shall try.”