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 thegesture 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.
CHAPTER 12
“You are late.”
“I am not,” Margaret said, adjusting her gloves as she entered. “You are early.”
Eleanor leaned across the small round table in the tearoom and seized Margaret’s hands anyway.
“You were seen yesterday.”
“By many, yes. I was walking.”
