“Following…?” Her face fell at the word. “I don’t know what... He said that he would... And then I...” She smacked her hand over her mouth to hide a sob, bowing her head to conceal her face from him.
Nicholas’s breath came out shallow. He burned to pursue De Rees and drag him back—a man who had appeared so normal before—but that required leaving Miss Tate in her present state, alone.
She sniffed loudly and stepped out of his hold, collapsing on the stone balustrade. Nicholas watched her with pity, suppressing the confusion and anger rising within him, vowing to bring De Rees to justice another time.
From the blood under her nails, it seemed obvious to him what had happened to Miss Tate, and the mere thought of what might have transpired if Nicholas had not stumbled upon the scene sickened him.
“You must calm yourself and tell me what happened,” he said as softly as he could. Reaching into his coat pocket, he extended her a handkerchief, surprised to find his own hands trembling. “Where are your guardians?”
“Indoors, perhaps. I...” She glanced up, saw the handkerchief, and took it. “Mr. De Rees brought me out here, saying there was a poetry reading outdoors.”
The wind picked up, and Nicholas shivered. “There is no such thing, to be certain. A trick.”
“Yes... I believe you are right. I had the same suspicions, only they manifested within me too late.” She blew her nose, then drew in a trembling breath. Once she had calmed herself enough to speak, she looked up at him, her eyes round and shimmering in the moonlight. “Why are you here, Mr. Moore?”
Nicholas stood a moment in confusion, having almost forgotten the fake name he had provided her. He decided now was hardly the time to confess his deception. He had come outside seeking Samuel, wanting to leave post-haste.
Hoping to avoid, he thought miserably, a situation not so different to this.
“I am attending the ball as I imagine you are,” he explained instead. “I had not known you would be here. At the ball, I mean—but not outdoors either.” He took a step toward her, and she flinched. His mistake. “Miss Tate, what do you wish me to do? Is there someone I should return you to?”
“Do you sincerely believe it is in my interest to return indoors like this?” She looked down at herself, inspecting her nails. “With his skin under my nails, and the smell of him on me, and... Oh...”
She touched her hair, which had fallen out of its style and was tumbling over her shoulder in a soft heap. To his surprise, she laughed amid her tears.
“I had heard the stories,” she whispered, but why should you believe them until... Until it happens to you?”
She was right, though it killed him.
Nicholas had known a great number of women, but only those who had been eager to know him. It was an inconceivable cruelty—a plague on mankind—to believe intimacy could be anything else, for men to abuse their power, to, to...
He sighed quietly, pressed his eyes shut.
“Did he compromise you?” he asked bluntly.
What was the use in trying to protect her innocence now? She had seen the worst of men that night.
She shook her head. “He tried to kiss me, but... I kicked him, and then I ran.”
“Good girl,” Nicholas exhaled in relief before he could think better of it. “A man like him... It is unthinkable that he should have tried to...” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Never you mind.”
This made Miss Tate chuckle, and the sound of it—resigned—was a small comfort in that moment of darkness. “He is no friend of yours?”
“He is no friend of mine,” Nicholas repeated emphatically.
“How that gladdens me,” she whispered, wiping her eyes. Taking the handkerchief, she began cleaning her nails. “Will you... Would you... It is only that I cannot see myself, and my disheveled appearance will provoke more questions than I am willing to answer.”
She raised her shoulder, and it bobbed her mass of hair. Nicholas understood what she was asking.
Settling beside her, he leaned in close enough to see her face in the dark. She was still as beautiful as ever, though he could not fathom telling her that at a time like this.
Her breath was warm where it landed on his face, and his proximity to the woman sent a shiver down his spine. She had said she smelled of De Rees, but he caught only the sweet scent of her perfume, a natural sweetness, like rose and musk.
His fingers combed gently through her hair, fingertips brushing the back of her neck accidentally, though he noticed her tremble in response.
Eventually, he encountered a long cold pin. He removed the accessory carefully and held it up for her to take. It glinted in the light—but Nicholas kept his eyes fixed on Miss Tate’s delicate, blood-stained fingers as they met his on the length of the pin.
“Thank you,” she murmured, slipping it from between his fingers.
