Chapter 8
The ball shifted around her in slow currents of sound and motion, dances beginning and ending, laughter rising and falling somewhere beyond the shelter of her little corner, but Nora scarcely marked any of it.
Lamplight flickered across the page as she turned it, wholly absorbed once again in Adèle’s mounting troubles and the increasingly questionable intentions of the viscount pursuing her.
“Madam.”
Blinking, she lifted her gaze from the page and found the mysterious Mr. Jonathan Hatcher standing before her. Where the younger Mr. Hatcher possessed an easy warmth that turned his somewhat ordinary features into something arresting, the elder seemed designed to discourage closer acquaintance.
The gentleman was tall and broad, making him appear fearsome from the outset—something that wasn’t helped by his strong nose, which listed to the left as though he had gone more than a few rounds of fisticuffs in his life.
And though clearly cleaned and polished to be presentable enough to the public, there was a disorder to his dark hair and beard.
Both were properly trimmed but lacked any sign of the fastidious grooming that fashion dictated, maintained only to the degree necessity required.
Perhaps the facial hair was merely a matter of convenience, for even without Mr. Adam Hatcher’s warning, it was clear this was the sort of man who did not tolerate wasting his time.
Even for something as reasonable as shaving.
The whole effect was striking in a rougher, more formidable manner than his younger brother’s polished charm.
Yet at present, this hulk of a man looked profoundly uncomfortable.
Every line of him was held too tightly, from the set of his shoulders to the way his hands clasped behind his back as though he feared they might betray him if left unattended.
Even his expression seemed braced for impact, his composure stretched taut beneath the strain of whatever effort had finally brought him across the ballroom to her side.
Nora closed her book slowly, her interest sharpening at once. “Good evening, sir.”
Shifting in place, Mr. Hatcher glanced over his shoulder. Just the quickest flick of movement that would’ve been unremarkable in other circumstances, but Nora stifled a smile for the tables had turned on the gentleman: now he stood before the lady whilst Mr. Adam Hatcher watched from a distance.
The gentleman before her nodded toward the chair, hardly waiting for Nora to accept the unspoken request before he sat; it looked far too spindly for such a solid man, but he settled into it without so much as a groan in protest from the furniture.
Mr. Hatcher rested a hand on his knee, his fingers tapping a rapid beat, and though he glanced at Nora, his eyes darted about in a manner that made her wonder if he were blushing, though his complexion was sun-kissed enough that it helped to hide any tell-tale flash of red.
In truth, his face was far more burnished than she would’ve expected from a man of business; their lives were so often found in studies and offices.
Those fingers continued their restless tapping against his knee before stilling abruptly, as though he had realized the movement betrayed him. But a moment later, they resumed.
Nora watched him for a heartbeat longer, taking in the rigid set of his shoulders and the effort with which he maintained his composure, and then, with all the calm indifference in the world, she reopened her novel.
The pages parted beneath her fingers with a whisper.
Lowering her gaze to the text, Nora settled once more into Mademoiselle Adèle’s ill-fated midnight rendezvous with the viscount.
Beside her, the gentleman remained a solid but uneasy presence, all broad shoulders and restrained motion, while the ballroom swelled and softened around them in waves of music and distant conversation. Still he said nothing. So neither did she.
But it was increasingly difficult to ignore the fretful figure.
“You could introduce yourself,” she said, not looking up from the page.
Mr. Hatcher stiffened, his fingers tapping faster.
“You came over with such determination, yet you have only spoken a single word,” she added. “You could begin by introducing yourself.”
Of course, they both knew who the other was, but that was unimportant. Ceremony wasn’t a terrible place to start.
Clearing his throat, he nodded at her. “Mr. Jonathan Hatcher.”
Nora closed her book, though she kept her finger wedged between the pages. “Miss Nora Eden.”
“How are you this evening?”
The question emerged with such rigid formality that Nora nearly smiled.
“I am quite well, thank you,” she replied with equal politeness.
“Good.”
Silence returned, broken only by the distant swell of the orchestra, and Mr. Hatcher shifted once more, his imposing frame increasingly ill-suited to both the delicate chair and the expectations of polite conversation. So Nora returned her attention to her book.
After a strained pause, he cleared his throat again. “Have you attended many balls this Season?”
She lifted her eyes from the page. “The Season that has only just begun?”
Mr. Hatcher shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, his discomfort radiating in great waves that engulfed the world around him.
What followed scarcely deserved to be called conversation.
Each question arrived after a visible effort of will, stiffly delivered and painfully practical, as though Mr. Hatcher were determined to make his way through a prepared list with grim determination.
Every answer Nora supplied was met with a sharp nod before another equally imposing inquiry stumbled forth to take its place.
The pauses between them stretched long enough to grow uncomfortable, filled by the scrape of shoes upon the floor and the distant rise of laughter from those far better suited to such evenings.
After several minutes of enduring the gentleman’s assault upon the art of conversation, Nora found herself no longer merely amused but genuinely curious. Surely no man could remain so painfully out of sorts forever.
Closing her book once more, she turned slightly in her chair, allowing her attention to settle fully upon him.
Mr. Hatcher noticed at once, his spine drawing even straighter, as though bracing for impact.
The poor man. Nora softened her expression into something far warmer than the conversation warranted and leaned just a touch nearer, close enough that her perfume could not help but reach him.
“You know,” she said lightly, her gaze fixed upon him with deliberate steadiness, “I find your company quite diverting.”
Mr. Hatcher startled as though she had fired a pistol into the air. “I—well—”
Was he blushing? Oh, the poor soul didn’t know a thing about flirting or ladies, and was so wholly unsuited for this game. Swallowing hard, Mr. Hatcher attempted to gather the ruins of his composure back into something usable.
Across the ballroom, partially obscured by dancers, stood the younger Mr. Hatcher.
Unlike his brother, he appeared entirely at ease now, his hands tucked behind him as he watched the spectacle unfolding from afar.
The moment her gaze found him, his mouth curved with unmistakable amusement.
The rogue. Nora bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing outright.
“It has been unusually mild this spring,” blurted Mr. Hatcher.
The gentleman had spoken truly. Jonathan Hatcher possessed none of his effortless ease.
Where one moved through conversation like a seasoned performer, the other approached it with the awkward determination of a creature wholly unsuited to the task yet stubborn enough to attempt it regardless.
There was something almost endearing in the effort, rather like watching a foal attempting to stand for the first time, moving as though comprehending the proper order of things but halting with each attempt, uncertain how to bend its legs and work its joints.
As much as Nora had intended to needle him, it was impossible to do so when faced with that image.
“Peace, Mr. Hatcher,” she whispered, setting aside her book. “This is simply a conversation. You needn’t approach it like an interview.”
Mr. Hatcher’s eyes focused on her, wary at first, as though uncertain whether she mocked him still. The tension remained in his shoulders, though it no longer seemed quite so severe now that she had abandoned her assault upon his senses.
“I am aware of the difference,” he said after a moment, the words dry enough to surprise her slightly. “I simply function better in interviews than conversations.”
The admission emerged with visible reluctance, dragged from him more by honesty than comfort, and Nora felt something in her soften further at the sight of it.
There was no performance in Mr. Hatcher.
No practiced charm, no calculated ease. If anything, he looked annoyed with himself for failing at something society expected him to do naturally.
That, at least, was real.
Nora shifted in her chair, angling herself to him more fully, and her book remained forgotten in her lap as she regarded him with less mischief than before.
“Your brother indicated that you run a company,” she said. “Certainly, that must call for conversation from time to time.”
“Do you wish to speak about ledgers and land rights?” he asked with raised brows and more than a touch of hope in his tone.
“Not in the slightest, I fear,” she admitted. Seizing upon a simple subject, she asked, “Do you read, Mr. Hatcher?”
“Read?” he parroted, his brows lowering.
Holding up her book, Nora added, “As in, do you enjoy looking at words printed on a page?”
Mr. Hatcher paused only a moment before saying, “Yes. Though I do not generally bring books to a party.”
Studying the fellow, she couldn’t say whether he was teasing or simply stating a fact, and his tone gave no indication one way or the other.
“And what is it that you like to read, sir?” she asked, tucking it back into her lap.
Mr. Hatcher considered that with due diligence, as though it were a terribly serious question that required an equally thoughtful answer.
“Scientific treatises, mostly.” A faint crease appeared between his brows before he added, with what might have been the smallest hint of self-consciousness, “Though I was rather fond of adventure stories when I had more time for them. Expeditions. Shipwrecks. Explorers freezing to death in foreign places.”
Nora blinked. “That is a remarkably grim preference.”
“I find a bit of death and destruction generally improves a story.”
Yet again, Nora could not tell whether the gentleman intended humor or was simply stating his thoughts, and she couldn’t say which she preferred it to be, for both were of interest.
“Though in truth, I rarely indulge anymore. My time is occupied reading newspapers, reports, and legal documents.” The answer carried no self-pity, merely fact. But Mr. Hatcher’s fingers had finally stopped their relentless tapping.
Then, after what looked suspiciously like him gathering his courage once again, he nodded at the yellowback resting in her lap. “And your book? What is it about?”
Nora’s expression brightened at once. “It is a novel I purchased in a railway station in Paris. A romance that is overly dramatic and wildly unreasonable. There are ruined estates, kidnappings, deeply questionable men, at least three secrets that ought to have been revealed a hundred pages ago, and just enough death and destruction to keep it entertaining.”
Glancing at the yellow binding that marked it as one of the railway novels, Mr. Hatcher considered the title. “You read French?”
Smiling, Nora nodded. “I spent a couple of years traveling across Europe and learned a good deal of the languages spoken there. I am fluent in French and Italian, but my German is weak, and I fear my Greek is becoming quite useless as I struggle to keep a grasp on a language when not used regularly.”
Mr. Hatcher gave a small nod at that, his attention settling upon her with more steadiness than before.
“I have traveled some myself. My father’s profession had us living in all different corners of the country, and as a lad we traveled the Continent, but I fear I have no ear for languages whatsoever. ”
“Surely you are not that hopeless.”
“I once proudly announced to a man in Switzerland that I was engaged to a goat.”
Nora stared at him a moment before laughter escaped her outright, and the gentleman’s gaze widened a fraction, as though surprised at her reaction, though it faded quickly. He did not go so far as to smile, but he seemed pleased all the same.
“I still do not know how I managed it,” he added. “The fellow looked deeply concerned on my behalf.”
Mr. Hatcher was not one to volunteer information, yet when prompted, he answered with a bluntness that Nora found oddly refreshing.
Given the circumstances surrounding this meeting, she knew she ought to doubt every word that emerged from his lips, but Jonathan Hatcher did not know how to maneuver conversation toward his advantage or soften his rough edges.
It drew their conversation down paths that others never dared to venture, and Nora found herself leaning further into the exchange, her book forgotten.
Which was, naturally, the precise moment Mama appeared with her younger daughter in tow.
“My dear, your father is ready to leave.”