Chapter 11 #2
He considered her, the set of her shoulders, the way she held her cup, the steadiness of her gaze even with the window full of eyes behind him. He thought of her family's situation, and how she was willing to do anything in her power to remedy it.
“Resilient,” he said. “You are resilient.”
Her expression shifted, something warm passing through it. He wondered if she was simply pleased that he had not simply called her pretty or talented or some other easy word that could have described many other ladies. She lowered her gaze to her tea, then looked back up.
“You chose this place so they would see us lean close, did you not?”
“Yes,” he said. “They will think I am whispering something romantic.”
“And are you?” she asked.
“I am, in a way,” he said. “I am learning what you love.”
The door chimed. A group of women passed the window again, slower this time. One of them laughed. Margaret glanced toward the glass, then back to him.
“Do you ever mind being watched like this?”
“I mind when it is empty,” he said. “If nobody can see us, they will draw their own conclusions. This way, we are not allowing them to.”
“Then what conclusions are we drawing for them?” she asked.
“That we are not hiding,” he said. “That we are not afraid of being ordinary and like everyone else.”
She considered that.
“I like being ordinary,” she said. “Is that strange for me to say?”
“Not at all.”
She smiled at him over the rim of her cup.
“You should drink your tea before it goes cold.”
He lifted his cup.
“To poetry, then.”
“And to people who listen,” she said.
Their cups touched softly.
A small cluster of ladies slowed outside the window. Nathaniel saw the shift in their steps, the tilt of their heads as they looked in. He reached across the table.
“There,” he murmured, brushing a grain of sugar from the edge of Margaret’s glove. “If we are to appear convincing, you must allow me to take care of you in small ways.”
His touch was light in a way that surprised him.
“You are enjoying this far too much,” she said, though she did not pull her hand away.
“If I was, would it be so awful?”
Her gaze dropped to where his fingers rested for a moment longer than required.
“No. I would not say so.”
They settled back into their seats. The ladies outside drifted on, interest satisfied.
They finished their tea in companionable quiet. When they stood, Nathaniel noticed the way she drew her shawl closer.
“Are you cold?”
She hesitated, but of course he was right.
“A little.”
He offered his arm. This time, there was no window full of eyes to satisfy. No audience to convince. He was offering it because he wanted to, and she took it without comment.
They stepped back onto the street together. Her hand rested easily against his sleeve. Neither of them spoke of how natural it felt, and Nathaniel was grateful for that. They walked on, side by side, the city moving around them.
The house was quiet when Nathaniel returned.
He handed his gloves to the footman and paused in the entryway. It had been a simple outing, but it had changed something within him.
You are being foolish, he told himself.
The words did not settle.
He crossed the hall and took the stairs two at a time, then slowed, aware of the echo of his own steps. In his chambers, the fire had burned low. The room smelled faintly of smoke and polished wood. He set his coat aside and stood there, staring at nothing in particular.
You brushed sugar from her glove, he told himself. You offered your arm because she was cold. These are ordinary courtesies.
But ordinary courtesies did not linger in one’s mind that way.
He pressed his thumb against his palm, remembering the warmth of her hand through the glove, the way her breath had caught when he reached across the table. He had meant the gesture to be part of the show. He had not meant it to feel so natural.
This is how foolishness begins, he thought.
He paced the length of the room, then stopped at the window. The city lay beyond the glass, dim with evening lamps. Somewhere below, a carriage rattled past. The ordinary sounds of life went on, indifferent to the turn of his thoughts.
You cannot fall for her, he told himself. You are not allowed to.
The words came sharp, clipped, as if discipline alone could hold the line.
He had chosen her because she was steady, because she understood discretion, because she would not demand what he could not give.
He had chosen her because the arrangement made sense, for she needed him as much as he needed her.
He closed his eyes.
He had noticed the way she listened when he spoke, the way she did not rush to fill silence, the way her gaze met his without challenge or fear. He had noticed how she smiled when she spoke of poetry, and the faint warmth at her wrist when he offered his arm.
He turned from the window and went to the small table near the fire. He poured himself a drink and did not touch it.
His sister’s voice echoed in his mind, uninvited. He had to be careful. He had to do the sensible thing. He let out a breath he had not realized he was holding.
“Careful,” he said aloud to the empty room.
The word sounded almost meaningless when spoken. He straightened his cuffs, a habit he used when he needed order.
“This is an arrangement,” he said quietly. “It is nothing more and that will not change.”
The room did not argue.
He lifted the glass and set it down again without taking a sip. The thought of her cold fingers in his arm returned without permission.
He told himself to stop, that it would end there, but the house remained quiet, and the thought did not leave.
Nathaniel sat there, alone with the knowledge that he was already too aware of her absence, and with the harder truth that wanting something and allowing it were not the same thing.
He turned back to the fire, steadying his breath, and told himself again, more firmly this time, that he could not fall for her. And he believed it
He had no choice but to, for the alternative was unthinkable.