Page 49 of The Sainted Duchess
“It matters that he is capable of both things,” Prudence said. “Leaving and looking. We will make him do more of the second.”
“We?” Maria asked, amused despite herself.
“I am very bossy,” Prudence said. “And I am tired of men thinking they can decide the shape of a room and then go away. If he wants to be the wall, he can at least keep the rain out.”
Maria barked a laugh. “Fine. Tonight, I ask for specifics. Tomorrow, fittings. The next day, cake.”
“And the day after,” Prudence said, “Alethea arrives to tell us we have done everything wrong and to love us regardless.”
“She will,” Maria said, and the thought slotted into place like a piece in a puzzle that had been missing and now made the picture clear. “I want her here.”
“She will be,” Prudence promised.
They walked back toward the morning room. The chaos had reshaped itself in their absence: fewer pins, more ribbon. Temperance held up two options for a sash and demanded a vote. Charity vetoed both and produced a third that had somehow hidden under the scone tray. Violet swept in like weather and pronounced all three acceptable if the hem behaved.
Work resumed. The house moved around them, a big creature with many small hearts. Maria kept her eyes on the next task. It was the only way she knew to keep from breaking apart.
By late afternoon, the dress had consented to be a dress, and the lists had agreed to be manageable. Temperance collapsed into a chair and declared herself dead. Charity patted her hair and told her to be quiet while deceased. Prudence made Maria drink more water.
“Tonight,” Prudence said again, soft enough for only Maria to hear.
“Tonight,” Maria echoed.
“And if he’s stupid?”
“I will not marry a stupid man,” Maria said.
Prudence’s smile went crooked.
“Good girl.”
They left her at her chamber door with promises to return after dinner. Maria stood alone a moment, hand on the latch.
Well, her life was about to change.
CHAPTER 10
Boxing with the boys. It was something to get his mind off the mess that his life was quickly becoming.
“Two-minute rounds,” the boy announced, chin high.
“Three,” Oliver corrected. “Keep us honest.”
The boy saluted with the watch.
“You sure?” Peter lifted his brows at Stephen.
“About starting?” Stephen slid his mouthguard between his teeth. “Or about anything else.”
“Either,” Peter said.
“Start,” Stephen said, and touched gloves.
They moved. Peter came in clean. Stephen liked him best in the ring. He slipped a jab, blocked the follow, answered with a left that Peter caught on his shoulder.
“You’re slow,” Peter said.
“Thinking,” Stephen muttered.
