“I will take that as a compliment,” he said. “She is a lady that knows what she wants, and that is a trait that I admire.”
If he could compliment her mother, then she wondered if he could see the good in anyone.
They continued along the path. The looks did not stop, but Margaret found that the world did not end.
“I am still here,” she said, surprised.
“So am I,” he said. “Would you like to turn back?”
“Not yet,” she said. “I would like to walk past the willow. It is my favorite tree.”
“It is mine too,” he nodded. “Lead on.”
And she did.
They had fallen into an easy rhythm, their steps matching without thought. The Duke leaned closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear it. It felt intimate, in spite of the public setting, and it was the very last thing that she had expected of him.
“There are many eyes on us now,” he said. “It would be wise to play our parts convincingly.”
Margaret’s fingers tightened on her reticule, but she did not look at the people watching them. She looked at him.
“And what part is that?” she asked.
“The part where I am allowed to touch you,” he said. “Please give me your hand.”
The request was quiet, careful. It left her room to refuse, but she hesitated for only a moment.
Then she placed her gloved hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers, slow enough that she felt each point of contact. He lifted her hand between them, not hurried, not performative. His gaze did not leave her face as he bowed his head and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
The touch was proper. The way he lingered was not. His thumb rested against the side of her hand, warm even through the glove. The pressure was slight, deliberate. It told her he was aware of her pulse. It told her he was aware of his own restraint.
The noise of the promenade seemed to soften around them. For a breath, the only thing she could feel was the steady warmth of his hand and the quiet, held space between them. When he straightened, he did not release her at once. His eyes searched her face, as if checking for a change he had caused.
Then he let her hand go.
They resumed walking side by side, the space between them altered. Neither of them spoke. They did not need to. Thepromenade pressed on around them, full of glances and passing voices, but Margaret kept her gaze ahead, aware of Nathaniel beside her, aware of the heat in her hand, aware that whatever this was between them, it had been seen.
She simply wished that she knew just whatitwas.
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 thetonwould 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.
