Chapter 6 #2
Once more, the urge to close the distance between them, to offer her some sort of comfort reared its head.
Nathaniel frowned, not because of what she had said but because of the feeling growing within him, the pressing, fervent desire that he could not seem to shake.
"It is unfortunate, Miss Fairleigh, that you should be considered guilty in a matter that you have had no part in.
Gossips whisper whatever they please and will make up all manner of things regardless of what hurt or pain they might cause. It must be very trying for you."
For a time, they spoke of the investigation as allies rather than as cautious strangers.
Miss Fairleigh had brought with her a small folded paper on which she had written three names — those that had returned to her since their walk in the park, people she was certain had been present that afternoon.
Nathaniel studied the list, turning it in the light.
"Faces have begun to return to me, though names come more slowly," she said, keeping her voice low as a patron passed nearby. "I remember more of that day than I had thought I still carried."
Nathaniel frowned. "A list of those present is the weakest kind of evidence. It proves proximity but nothing more."
"Proximity is not nothing." She did not say it sharply, but there was a precision in her correction that surprised him. "Anyone who stood in that party may recall what I cannot — who it was that brought me to Lady Warrington's notice. It narrows the field."
He considered this. She was right, and it irritated him that he had not thought of it first. He was trained to think strategically, to see a problem from above and trace its lines of force.
She thought differently: close to the ground, following one detail to the next with a patience he did not naturally possess.
Between the two approaches, very little would be missed.
"This name here." He tapped the third on her list. "Lord Graves. If your memory serves, he may be worth calling on — he may recall details others have forgotten."
She nodded. "I thought the same."
They looked at each other for a moment, and the wariness between them gave way to something steadier: the recognition that they were no longer merely tolerating the necessity of working together. They were, in fact, well-matched.
Her eyes flickered with something unspoken as she gazed back at him, her head tilting gently to one side, her curls dancing lightly. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could do so, a sudden burst of laughter shattered the quiet ambiance of the bookshop.
Nathaniel turned sharply, looking over his shoulder and seeing not one but four ladies coming directly through the bookshop to where he stood with Miss Fairleigh.
"I heard from my maid that Lord Barrington seeks to court Lady Ravenshill, the one recently widowed?
" he heard one lady say, giggling as she spoke.
"And he is almost in his dotage, is he not?
How preposterous a match would that be!" Making no attempt to quieten her voice, the lady continued with such remarks, the other three joining in with both laughter and exclamations of amusement and surprise.
Turning his head back towards Miss Fairleigh, he saw her eyes flare, panic in them as she looked this way and that, perhaps trying to find a way to escape their notice.
Without thinking, Nathaniel moved on instinct.
Taking her arm, he pressed her back into a small gap between two large bookcases, though she went without protest. He then placed one hand lightly on one of the bookcases themselves as he stood in front of her, his body shielding her from any notice.
Their unexpected proximity and the warmth of her arm against his chest caught him off guard, his breath coming shorter than he expected, making his concern over the gossipmongers fade quickly.
Slowly, a soft, floral fragrance drifted up towards him; he became aware of the quick rhythm of her breathing.
Swallowing thickly, he turned his head away, trying to ascertain where the ladies had gone whilst, at the very same time, pushing down the strange sensations that had captured him.
"Have they moved away from us?"
Nathaniel nodded. "Yes, I think so." The words felt rough in his throat, as if they had been dragged from him. "I apologise for my hasty actions, Miss Fairleigh. I hope you are not upset."
"Upset?" Her head lifted, her hair like a halo around her as she smiled. He stepped back to let her pass, and she followed after him, and in the narrow space between the shelves their hands met.
It was nothing. A brush of his fingers across hers as he moved to usher her forward, her hand already in motion, following the line of his arm.
The contact arrived before either of them could prevent it — the warmth of her glove against his bare hand, the slight give of her fingers beneath the thin fabric, the precise and terrifying softness of that pressure.
Neither pulled away. Not because they chose to stay but because, in the instant it happened, both of them went still, as if the air between the bookshelves had thickened and would not let them move.
It could not have lasted more than two seconds.
He would tell himself that, later. Two seconds, perhaps three, and then her fingers slipped free, and he stepped back.
The narrow corridor between the shelves was once again an ordinary space.
But in those seconds something had traveled from the point of contact outward through his hand and into his wrist, his arm, the centre of his chest — a slow, spreading awareness that built by degrees, as if his skin had mapped the precise location of her fingers and would not relinquish the knowledge.
He was conscious of his hands. His right thumb, which should have been pressing into his left palm behind his back, was not there.
His hands hung at his sides, open and unguarded, and he could not have said when they had fallen so.
He drew in a breath that required more effort than it should have.
"Lord Ashcombe, you protected me from further gossip. Why would I have cause to be upset?"
He could only nod, their brief touch still echoing through him, something that both frightened and delighted him. They stood together in silence for a few moments more, hearing the high-pitched laughter coming from the other side of the bookshop.
"Eliza?"
The moment was gone as he took a step back, allowing Lady Newark to come to her niece's side.
"I must thank you for your quick actions, Lord Ashcombe," she said, throwing her words over her shoulder towards him as she took Miss Fairleigh's arm in hers. "We do not require any further whisperings now, do we?"
"I am quite all right, Aunt Letitia," Miss Fairleigh said, offering Nathaniel a brief smile before returning her attention to her aunt. "I have another avenue to pursue, thanks to Lord Ashcombe."
Lady Newark smiled. "That is good."
Nathaniel inclined his head. "I look forward to hearing what you discover, Miss Fairleigh. Good afternoon."
He was already on the pavement before he registered that his hands were not behind his back. They hung at his sides, open, the right thumb idle rather than pressing into his left palm as it always did.
He walked three steps. Then he stopped.
Through the glass he could still see her — a shape of fair curls moving toward her aunt, her small hand raised in a final wave. The impulse arrived before the thought: he wanted to go back. His shoulder turned. One foot shifted.
He caught himself. The arrested movement lasted less than a second, but he felt it in the muscles of his back, in the precise angle of his reversal — a pivot that had begun without his permission.
He picked up his hat from the ledge by the door, settled it on his head, and made himself walk toward the street.
His hands found their familiar place behind his back, the thumb pressing into his palm. But the pressure was lighter now, and he knew exactly why. There was another avenue to pursue, and he intended to pursue it at her side.