Chapter 11
Nathaniel could see Miss Fairleigh’s face long after he returned.
It was the composed version she offered to the world, but the brief, unguarded flush that had crossed her cheeks when he took her hand.
The moment had been small, but the effect had not.
He had told himself that he kissed her hand because it was the best thing he could do with the eyes upon them, but that was a lie.
He had held her hand longer than necessary because letting go too quickly had felt like retreat, but it was more than that too.
The truth was that he had done it all because he wanted to.
He flexed his fingers, then let his hand fall to his side.
He had wanted to reach for her again. The urge alone had been sharp enough to surprise him, never mind the sense that she had become, in some quiet way, a place his hand knew.
Nathaniel turned from the window and crossed the room. The fire had been lit against the evening chill, and its warmth pressed against his shins as he stopped near the hearth.
He had done what was required of him. He had walked with her. He had been seen. He had set the tone the ton would carry forward. That was the purpose of the promenade.
It should have been enough, but it was not.
He had noticed the way she drew a breath when he leaned close. He had noticed how her grip had tightened, then steadied. He had noticed the lift of her chin when she chose to meet the stares instead of lowering her gaze. The details had lodged in him and refused to let go.
He had not intended to memorize her.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he said.
His valet stepped inside.
“Your sister has sent word, Your Grace. The boy is improving and has asked for you.”
Nathaniel did not hesitate.
“I’ll leave now.”
He would arrive after dark, but he knew she would be awake. She had always been one to sleep late, and she had explained that it had gotten worse since the birth of her son.
His sister’s maid met him at the door, as though they had all been expecting him.
“He is in good spirits,” she said softly. “The fever broke this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” Nathaniel said, and went inside.
His sister looked up from the chair beside the bed. The lines of worry that had marked her face for weeks had eased. She rose when she saw him.
“You are late,” she said, but she was smiling.
“I left as soon as I received your letter,” he replied. “How is he?”
She glanced toward the bed.
“Better. He asked for you before falling asleep.”
“Yes, you mentioned that.”
Nathaniel crossed the room and sat on the edge of the mattress. His nephew lay propped against pillows, his hair damp with sweat but his eyes clear. The boy’s hand was small in Nathaniel’s, his grip weak but present.
Nathaniel brushed the boy’s hair back from his forehead. The skin beneath his hand was warm in a healthy way. The fear that had lived in his chest for days eased at last, as did the guilt that he was out promenading with a beautiful young lady while they were struggling.
“You scared us,” Nathaniel said to the sleeping little boy, keeping his voice even.
His sister’s eyes met Nathaniel’s over the bed. The shared relief needed no words. She gestured toward the chair, and he moved there once the boy had closed his eyes again.
“You look distracted,” she said quietly.
Nathaniel leaned back.
“I took a walk this afternoon.”
“With her?” she asked.
He did not answer at once.
“Yes. With her.”
Her brows lifted. He had not expected such a reaction, but then he hardly ever knew what to expect from her.
“In public?”
“Yes.”
“And you survived?”
“I did,” he said. “So did she, though for a moment…”
“You sound as though the danger was not the crowd.”
“It was not,” he said.
She tilted her head.
“Then what was it?”
“The temptation to forget where we were.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“And did you forget?”
“No,” he said. “I remembered. Constantly. It was dreadful.”
She watched him for a long moment.
“That is not the same as being untouched by it.”
He did not argue. She rose and crossed to the window, adjusting the curtain as he was certain she had done several times in that hour alone.
“I am glad you were seen with her,” she said. “She will need the protection of being known.”
“That was the intention,” he said.
“And is that all?” she asked.
Nathaniel looked at his nephew, breathing slow and even. The steady rise and fall of the boy’s chest anchored him in the room, in the present. Miss Fairleigh was not the only person in need of his protection, and he had to remember that.
“No,” he said. “It is not all.”
His sister nodded, as if that answer had been expected.
“Then be careful. Not with the world, but with her.”
“I am careful,” he said.
“And be careful with yourself as well.”
He stood. That was something that he could not agree to as readily.
“He will mend,” he said, more to himself than to her.
“Yes,” she said. “And so will you, if you let it.”
Nathaniel paused at the door and looked back once more at the bed. The boy stirred and settled again. The room smelled of clean linen and warm broth.
“Have you given any thought to my suggestion?”
“That I marry? No, and I shall not. You, on the other hand, ought to remember that you have another lady in your life now.”
“Believe me, I have not forgotten. I am to see her again tomorrow, in a tea shop.”
“Then you should return home, so that you can have adequate sleep beforehand.”
“You seem to want this match to work,” he noted. “Is that a sign, perhaps, that you might like to meet her?”
“Not at all,” she replied, much to his disappointment. “Do not push me too far. Goodnight, Your Grace.”
He left quietly. In the corridor, the memory of Miss Fairleigh’s blush returned to him without warning. He trusted that she would be kind toward his sister's situation, but his sister did not believe him and so that was that.
The quiet of his own house pressed close.
He walked on toward his bed chambers, aware of the pull in his chest, aware that what he had begun in daylight would not remain confined to the path where it started.
He had to rein it in, however, for he was risking too much.
Their match was a sensible one, and he could not ruin that by letting himself develop an attachment.
He chose the teashop near Bond Street because people noticed who sat near the windows.
He arrived early and took a table where the glass curved outward toward the street. The china was thin and rang faintly when he set his cup down. Outside, carriages passed in a steady line. Two women paused at the window, glanced in to see him waiting for someone, then moved on with quiet smiles.
When Miss Fairleigh entered, she hesitated at the door, then found him and crossed the room with measured steps.
“You chose a visible table,” she said as she sat.
“I did,” he replied. “It is important when one wishes to be seen. Thank you for coming.”
“I suspected you wanted to be seen,” she said. “And thank you for the invitation.”
“I did,” he said. “And I wanted to speak with you, of course.”
She glanced toward the window.
“Both at once?”
“Yes,” he said. “It saves time.”
The server brought tea. Nathaniel waited until she had settled her gloves on her lap to continue.
He leaned in, lowering his voice. From the street, it would look as though he were sharing a more intimate moment, which was precisely what was needed.
“What do you read for pleasure?” he asked.
Margaret blinked.
“Is that the topic that you summoned me for?”
“It is,” he said. “I am told this is the moment in a courtship when I am meant to confess something charming, and so it is best that I ask you about yourself, yes?”
She glanced toward the window again, then back to him.
“You are asking me what I read.”
“Yes,” he said. “It matters.”
She studied his face as though he would mock her, even though he had never once done so. Not in a serious manner, at least.
“Poetry.”
He did not hide his surprise.
“Not novels?”
“Not often,” she said. “I do not have the time for long passages. With poetry, I can read several pieces in one sitting.”
“And which poets do you prefer?”
“That depends on my mood,” she said. “Some days I want sharp words. Some days I want soft ones.”
“You are more sentimental than I imagined,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, amused.
“And you are more observant than I would have expected.”
He smiled.
“Then I am pleased to see that I have exceeded your expectations.”
“You have,” she said. “Thouhh I find it interesting that you let people see what you think they will find of interest.”
“I enjoy choosing what is seen,” he said. “That is why I do not tend to read poetry. It is too real, too raw, but I admire you for liking that.”
“Is that approval?”
“It is indeed,” he said. “May I know a line you favor?”
She hesitated, then leaned in to match his posture. He wondered just what she could say that warranted such secrecy.
“You will think it foolish.”
“I will not,” he said.
“You say that easily,” she said. “You are not the one about to be so revealing.”
He kept his gaze steady on her.
“No, I am the one listening.”
She spoke the line quietly. To his surprise, it was one of romance. It was the very last thing he would have expected from someone so practical. When she finished, he let the silence sit between them.
“That is not foolish,” he said. “That is a rather beautiful line.”
She let out a small breath, and he wondered if his approval truly meant that much.
“I find it strange that you dislike poetry. You always choose your words so carefully, after all.”
“I do,” he said.
She smiled.
“Then you may choose one to describe me.”
“You?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “If you are so observant, and if you choose your words so carefully.”