David said nothing. The fire crackled, sending a shower of sparks upward. He could still feel the exact moment their eyes had met — the jolt of it, like a physical collision, the way the entire ballroom had contracted to a single point and then expanded again when she looked away.
He pushed his hand through his hair and exhaled.
“What am I to do, Broadford?”
His friend regarded him for a long moment. “I think,” he said, carefully, “that you already know the answer to that.”
The evening had swallowedthe last of the light by the time the carriage drew to a halt on the quiet street.
Frederica heard it from the drawing room — the scrape of wheels on cobblestone, the snort of a horse settling into its traces. She set down her embroidery and went to the window, standing far enough back that she could see without being seen, the way she had learned to stand at every window in every house she had ever lived in.
A figure descended from the carriage. Not tall, but broad through the shoulders, with a heaviness in his bearing that was distinctive even in silhouette. He stood on the pavement for a moment, adjusting his coat, and then looked up at the house.
At her window.
Frederica stepped back, her shoulder striking the edge of the curtain. Her breath had gone thin and sharp, and she pressed one hand against her stomach, willing the nausea to pass. Behind her, the fire crackled in the grate, the sound too loud, too much like footsteps on gravel.
He did not approach the door. He stood there — patient, unhurried — the way a man stands when he wants you to know that he can wait. The streetlamp behind him threw his shadow long across the paving stones, stretching it to the very edge of her front steps.
She could not see his face. She did not need to.
After what might have been one minute or five, he lifted his hand — a slow, deliberate gesture, as if tipping an invisible hat— and then turned back to the carriage. The door closed. The wheels began to move. The street returned to silence.
Frederica did not move from the window. She stood with her hand still pressed to her stomach, her fingers pressing hard into the fabric of her dress, and watched the empty street until the weakness in her legs forced her to the nearest chair, where she sank into its depths and pulled her shawl tight about her shoulders.
The embroidery hoop lay where she had left it on the side table. The needle glinted in the firelight, the thread still taut from the last stitch she had made — a half-finished flower that would never be completed.
She did not ring for her companion. She did not call for the butler. She sat in the near-darkness and listened to the house settle around her, every creak of the floorboards a footstep, every sigh of the wind in the chimney a voice.
When the clock struck nine, she rose and locked the drawing room door herself, testing the handle twice before she could persuade herself to step away from it.
6
“Mama, would you mind dreadfully if I stepped into the bookshop for a short while?”
A slight frown drew itself across Lady Somerset’s face. “We are meant to be looking for some new gloves, Nora. Your sister also wishes to make a few further purchases. Have you no interest in anything else here?”
With a shake of her head, Nora managed to smile, her thoughts not at all on which pair of gloves would be the most suitable. “I have already chosen my new gloves, Mama. If it is quite all right, I should very much like to make my way to the bookshop for a time.”
“You will be without a chaperone.” Her mother frowned. “No, I think it best that – ”
“I have just now seen Lady Flora and her mother step inside,” Nora interrupted, beginning to move towards the door despite her mother’s lack of agreement. “I am sure Lady Winchester will have no difficulty in watching me alongside Lady Flora. Do not feel the need to rush out of this shop to join me, I will be content to look at books for some time.”
Without waiting for her mother’s agreement, Nora turned quickly, opened the door, and then stepped outside, having no interest in lingering at the silks and ribbons any longer. The more she meandered around the shop, the more her thoughts tried to fix themselves to Lord Hampshire and all that they had once shared. Last evening’s connection, as brief as it had been, had caused her a sleepless night and many bitter tears, and yet still, even this very moment, her thoughts had settled upon him. She had thought that her weeping and her upset might have been enough for her heart, might have forced it back from him, but no, it had not done. Instead, her heart seemed to yearn for him all the more.
Pushing open the door to the bookshop, Nora heard the bell chime gently above her head. Walking directly to Lady Winchester, she greeted the lady, stating that her mother would be joining her very soon. Lady Winchester was all too willing to come to Nora’s aid, should she require it, and, satisfied that she had done as her mother would expect, Nora stepped away and picked up a book from the shelf.
Perhaps a new book will help quieten my thoughts.
Opening the book, she let her gaze drift down the lines, reading the sweet poetry of love.
She closed the book with a snap.
Setting it back on the shelf, she tried to coax her thoughts into stillness, tried to encourage her heart into a quiet calmness that did not think solely of Lord Hampshire. Climbing the staircase to the first floor, she sighed heavily as she reached for another book. Lady Winchester would still be able to see her clearly enough, for this floor was akin to a balcony, with books on one side. If this distraction did not work, Nora thought, she did not know what she would do. This continual thought on Lord Hampshire was exhausting.
A quiet sound from behind her made Nora start. She turned her head, and the floor shifted beneath her feet.
Lord Hampshire stood at the top of the staircase, a book clutched in one hand, the other on the rail. He was close — closer than the narrow balcony should have allowed, close enough that she could see the small crease in his cravat where he had pulled at it, close enough to catch the scent she remembered, something green and sharp that was so particular to him it made her step falter. His face had gone pale, and he was staring at her with an expression she could not read — or rather, could read all too well, for it contained everything she herself was feeling, compressed into a single, unguarded instant.
