“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.”
