He had not seen her; he had dressed in his own chambers and come downstairs to find Godfrey waiting with the carriage, and Godfrey had informed him that Her Grace would follow in the second carriage with Hattie. Evander had agreed because it was practical, and because some part of him knew that seeing Mary before the ball would undo the composure he needed to survive it.
The butler’s voice boomed from the top of the stairs. “The Duke and Duchess of Blackholm.”
Evander turned.
Mary stood at the entrance to the ballroom in the sapphire silk, and the room tilted.
“Extraordinary,” Evander whispered.
The gown fit her as though Madame Laurent had stitched it to her skin. The bodice sat close and square across her collarbones, exactly as the modiste had promised, and the skirt fell in a sweep of deep blue that caught the candlelight and held it.
Her hair was pinned in an arrangement Hattie must have spent an hour perfecting, with a few strands left loose at her temples, and the pearls at her throat were simple and right, and she was beautiful.
She had always been beautiful.
Evander had known this from the moment she barged into his parlor in a ruined wedding dress. But knowing and seeing were different things, and seeing Mary in sapphire silk, standing at the top of the Atherton ballroom stairs with her chin lifted and her shoulders bare, was a blow he had not prepared for.
He crossed to her. Offered his arm. Kept his face still.
“You look well,” he said.
Quentin, passing behind them with his champagne, muttered, “Extraordinary was the word you used, I believe.”
Evander ignored him. Mary took his arm, her cheeks a tint redder now, and they descended the stairs together.
“Your Grace. A pleasure.”
Lord Langham appeared at Mary’s side within minutes, his face flushed with the anxiety of a man who had been dreading this evening for a week. He bowed to Evander with mechanical precision and turned to his daughter.
“You look lovely, my dear. Lovely.” He patted her hand. “The gown is excellent. Very appropriate.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
“And the child? He is well?”
“Tommy is well. Mrs. Bridwell is with him.”
Lord Langham nodded several times too many, his gaze darting around the ballroom as though cataloging who was watching. “Good. Good. We should speak with the Heathcotes before supper. Lady Heathcote has been sympathetic. And the Penlocks?—”
“We will manage the evening, Langham.” Evander kept his voice low and even. “Go and enjoy yourself.”
Lord Langham bowed again and retreated into the crowd with visible relief. Mary watched him go.
“He means well,” she said.
“He means to survive. There is a difference.”
Mary’s mouth twitched, and Evander felt the minor victory of making her smile in a room designed to make her anxious.
Her friend Isabella materialized from the crowd in a gown of pale gold, her dark eyes sweeping Mary from hem to hairline with appraising thoroughness.
“The sapphire,” Isabella said. “I knew it.”
“You did not know. I only told you yesterday.”
“I knew the moment you said he chose the fabric.” Isabella squeezed Mary’s hands and dropped her voice. “You look magnificent. Every woman in this room is staring, and their husbands are pretending not to.”
Evander stepped back to give them a moment, and Quentin appeared at his elbow with a fresh glass.
