Chapter 19
The ballroom pulsed with movement and music.
Conversation bubbled in the air beneath the strains of the orchestra, which was stationed upon the raised gallery at the far end of the room.
Silks whispered across the floor in every imaginable shade from rich jewel tones to delicate creams and pale spring pastels, each of which was draped in great folds and twists and gathered at the back in the bustle style that was growing ever larger with each month.
Gentlemen moved amongst the crowd in the black evening coats demanded by fashion, the dour color relieved only by the occasional gleam of a jeweled shirt stud or a particularly daring waistcoat.
The Bexleys had transformed their townhouse into a glittering monument to excess, every floor ablaze with enough gaslight that it looked like full noon; great crystal chandeliers blazed overhead whilst additional wall sconces added their golden light, all of which was magnified by the mirrors hanging along the walls.
The scent of beeswax polish, perfume, champagne, and hot gas fixtures mingled heavily in the air, carrying with it the warmth of an overcrowded ballroom where hundreds of bodies, blazing lights, and endless layers of silk transformed spring nights into stifling affairs.
The terrace doors were cracked open in a futile attempt to encourage cooler air indoors, and beyond them, the courtyard glimmered with scattered lanterns that called to the overheated guests like moths.
It was the sort of glittering chaos that London society called delightful. Nora called it imprisonment. And the ball had only just begun.
Trapping her beside a towering floral arrangement, Mr. Foley expounded earnestly upon railway shares and freight tariffs, and Nora found her attention wandering so aggressively that she wondered if she could feign a bout of vapors and collapse into a heap to spare herself the conversation.
Her reticule dangled from her wrist, a yellowback tucked firmly inside, and the temptation it presented was nearly unbearable.
Mr. Hatcher had ruined her. It wasn’t as though his conversation was revelatory. Saints above, the gentleman knew how to linger on tedious subjects as much as anyone. However, there was something about him that made railway shares and freight tariffs intriguing. Even engrossing at times.
Now, she was far too aware of the absence of that gentleman and how much more tolerable the evening would be if he appeared beside her with that grave expression and distracted manner.
Likely, Mr. Hatcher would find her all the quicker if she sequestered herself in a quiet corner, rather than losing herself in this crush.
He knew the sorts of spaces that attracted her.
The thought had scarcely crossed her mind before a familiar figure emerged from the shifting crowd beyond the dancers, and relief arrived with such ridiculous force that Nora nearly laughed aloud.
Mr. Hatcher cut through the ballroom, moving with his usual determination, his strong presence parting clusters of guests whilst his gaze swept the room.
And then he spotted her. Nora raised a hand in greeting and managed to keep herself from waving like a ninny. But only just.
“Miss Eden,” he greeted before giving only the briefest nod to her present companion. “May I claim this dance?”
“You may indeed, sir,” she replied, placing her hand upon his arm as he guided her toward the dance floor just as the orchestra swelled into the opening measures of a waltz.
Mr. Hatcher’s gloved hand settled firmly at her waist as they joined the movement of the dancers, and Nora surrendered to the familiar rhythm. Together they swept across the polished floor, skirts swirling around her ankles whilst the music carried them through the crowd.
“You looked desperate for a rescue.” Though hardly any mirth showed on Mr. Hatcher’s face, Nora recognized the spark in his gaze for what it was.
And though Nora wished to respond in kind, she stifled a grimace. “Was I so obvious?”
Mr. Hatcher frowned, consideringly. “No. I suppose it was more of a guess.”
“Thank the heavens,” she said, releasing the breath she’d been holding. “Mr. Foley may be a bore, but he and his family are good people. I would hate to offend him.”
“Foley?” Mr. Hatcher’s brows lowered in thought. “As in the son of Lord Ainsworth?”
“One and the same,” said Nora. “The Baron is one of Papa’s oldest and dearest friends and was his first client after Papa established Eden & Co. But having parents who like one another does not guarantee their children will feel the same. Mr. Foley is nice enough, but we share nothing in common.”
Mr. Hatcher gave a little smirk. “I know precisely what you mean. As children, it is far simpler to rub along, but as we grow and branch into different interests and activities, it becomes more and more difficult. But that old connection ensures you will occasionally be trapped together at a ball or party.”
“And none of us will ever acknowledge it openly,” she added, glancing out toward the dancers as he guided them around the floor.
“Have no fear,” said Mr. Hatcher. “I doubt Mr. Foley recognized just how desperate you were, but I saw how you were clinging to your reticule, which I suspect holds your latest literary obsession.”
“You suppose correctly,” said Nora, stifling a laugh. “I wasn’t certain you were attending, and I prepared my own escape.”
“I wasn’t certain, either. But the thought of leaving you to fend for yourself made it impossible to focus on the work I ought to be doing.”
Nora nearly tripped over her own feet at the admission.
He had come for her benefit? Warmth swept through her with such sudden force that for one mortifying instant she truly did lose the rhythm of the dance.
Only Mr. Hatcher’s steady hand at her waist and quick correction kept her from making a complete spectacle of herself amidst the crowded ballroom.
He had come for her. Not for Papa. Not for introductions or business opportunities or any of the practical motives that rested at the heart of this acquaintance. This was for her sake.
The realization settled dangerously deep inside her chest, leaving her far too aware of the gentleman guiding her across the dance floor.
The warmth of his gloved hand through the silk at her waist. The low timbre of his voice beneath the music.
The simple fact that amidst all the demands forever pulling at Mr. Hatcher’s attention, he had altered his entire evening to spare her some boredom.
Nora’s pulse fluttered unpleasantly fast. It would have been wiser to dismiss the remark lightly. To tease him. To turn the conversation aside before the strange fullness inside her could grow any larger or more difficult to ignore. Instead she found herself looking up at him rather helplessly.
“That is a remarkably kind thing to say to a lady, Mr. Hatcher.”
The gentleman’s brows rose at that, surprise clear in his expression. “It is only the truth.”
“Believe it or not, sir, ladies enjoy the truth a good deal,” she replied, stifling a chuckle at his puzzlement.
The dance carried them on whilst conversation flowed with the same growing ease that had steadily settled between them over the past month.
Somewhere amidst confectionary shops, bookshops, parks, carriage rides, musicales, and long meandering discussions that seemed incapable of remaining upon any single subject for more than a few minutes at a time, they had slipped quietly beyond the stiffness of new acquaintance into something far more comfortable.
Nora scarcely knew when it had happened, only that she had grown accustomed to searching crowded rooms for his broad figure before deciding whether an evening might prove tolerable after all.
Grown accustomed to storing up observations and subjects for when they would next meet simply because she knew he would appreciate them.
Grown accustomed to his thoughtful silences, his distracted habits, and dry humor.
Mr. Hatcher boasted opinions about nearly everything, particularly where business, architecture, city planning, and public works were concerned, and Nora found particular delight in challenging those conclusions and watching him grow increasingly animated whilst defending them.
The gentleman thought carefully, argued intelligently, and truly listened when she spoke, even if he did not agree.
It was impossible not to be drawn to him.
At length the music drew to its close, the dancers gradually easing apart beneath the final sweeping notes of the waltz whilst applause skittered lightly throughout the ballroom.
Mr. Hatcher guided Nora away before the crowd thickened around them, yet their conversation swept along as naturally as their waltz.
Nora scarcely noticed where he led her. She only knew that she felt lighter in his company than she had in years.
Unfortunately, before they had progressed more than halfway across the ballroom, a cheerful voice called out, and Nora found herself intercepted by one of the Bexley cousins and her companions.
Greetings followed at once, and to his credit, Mr. Hatcher bore the interruption with surprising grace despite the faint tightening about his expression, but she gave him a commiserating look, and they settled in for a bit of chatter.
Just a few minutes and they could excuse themselves without causing any offense.
The conversation drifted rapidly between subjects in the usual manner, scarcely remaining upon one topic long enough to be meaningful before leaping toward another entirely.
There were discussions of the goings-on of their mutual acquaintances and upcoming events and festivities, and Nora did her best to appear as though she cared about the polite nothings.
If she were able to secure just one or two of them at a time, Nora knew they would find a good many things of substance to discuss, but with a group, conversation meandered along like a country road that led nowhere.
“Miss Eden, I do not believe you have yet met Mr. and Mrs. Lyndon,” said Mrs. Halbard, motioning to a passing pair.
Everything inside Nora seized, and the lady ushered forward the couple before either she or Mr. Lyndon could make their escape, though the slight widening of his eyes testified that he wished to do so.
Beside her, Mr. Hatcher stiffened, and though Nora couldn’t turn her gaze to him, she felt his attention fix upon Mr. Lyndon—and she could well imagine that was yet another reason why Mr. Lyndon paled.
“Actually, madam,” said Nora, and she was pleased with the even tone with which she spoke, “Mr. Lyndon and I are acquainted, though it has been many years since last we met.”
Mrs. Lyndon glanced between her husband and Nora, and Mr. Lyndon threaded his wife’s arm through his, the movement drawing Nora’s attention down to his wife’s swollen waist. Though the lady was still at a stage where her condition could be dismissed as an unflattering cut of her gown, Nora was certain the lady was expecting.
Married and a child on the way.
“Yes,” said Mr. Lyndon, clearing his throat as he glanced at his wife. “Her brother was an old school chum, and we met when I came to visit one summer some years ago.”
Despite her mother’s insistence, Nora didn’t favor tight cinching, yet her corset pressed so close that she could not breathe. Was that why the world seemed to tilt around her?
It wasn’t as though she expected him to announce to all and sundry that he had broken her heart years ago, but to make it sound as though their acquaintance was incidental?
As if they hadn’t spent every free moment together until her own brother complained about Mr. Lyndon’s distraction?
Before any thoughts of romance, the gentleman had been her dearest friend.
Yet now, she wasn’t even a footnote in his history.
Nora knew it was merely an act of self-preservation—never mind that his wife was now so thoroughly trapped that there was no freeing herself from the bounder.
Mr. Lyndon wouldn’t wish to look foolish or mercenary, and she knew better than to expect honesty from such a coward, yet still, his dismissal had her heart stuttering to a halt.
“I do hate to interrupt this reunion,” said Mr. Hatcher, stepping in before the silence grew pronounced. “However, I am desperate for some air. Do excuse us.”
Giving the group a nod of dismissal, Mr. Hatcher offered his arm, and Nora took it, clinging fast as he turned them away.