His head snapped slightly toward her, surprise flickering in his features.
She continued before he could object. “I require time, Mr. Thornton. To consider the accounts. To understand the responsibilities Mr. Bell has placed upon me. And to determine—as wisely as I may—whether selling it is, in fact, the right course.”
He regarded her for a long moment, the conflicting forces within him almost visible: pride, despair, restraint, something perilously close to longing.
At last, he bowed his head. “As you wish.”
The simple words carried an ache she could not fully decipher.
She drew a slow breath. “And your mother—she will expect you home for Christmas. There is no sense in you lingering. Perhaps you could return at the end of the week?”
“My mother… will make her feelings known, I am certain. But she is accustomed to disappointment.” It was said lightly, but the flicker of pain beneath it pierced her.
“Then I cannot be the cause of it.”
“You are not the cause,” he said. “I am.”
She looked at him helplessly—torn between the need to reassure and the fear of revealing more than she dared.
He lifted his satchel slightly. “I will secure lodgings nearby,” he said, recovering his “Master” tone. “Mr. Harcourt shall have my address before the day is out. When you are prepared to deliver your decision, I will attend.”
Prepared.
Decision.
Attend.
Such formal words. And yet something inside her felt anything but formal.
He drew in a quiet breath. “In fact, I will look forward to it… Miss Hale.”
Margaret’s pulse leapt.
He looked away instantly, as though the words had escaped him unguarded, and braced his hands on the back of the empty chair before him. Then, without warning, he went to the door and opened it, telling the clerk they would speak to Mr. Harcourt again.
Before she could speak—before she could steady her heart, much less her thoughts—Mr. Harcourt re-entered, brisk, apologetic, and entirely unaware of the storm that had passed through the room in his absence.
4
Harcourt returned with briskapologies and the measured composure of a man who had no notion he was reentering a room in ruins. He concluded the remaining formalities, made a note of the seven-day rescission period, and bowed them out with professional warmth. Margaret thanked him with quiet grace. Thornton could not speak at all.
The door to the street closed behind them with a soft thud.
A damp, gray afternoon greeted them — London winter at its most unforgiving. Margaret drew her cloak closer at once, the wind catching at the edges of her bonnet. Thornton swallowed hard.
He should let her go.
He should bow, take his leave, and disappear into the fog.
Instead…
“Miss Hale,” he heard himself say, “allow me to escort you to Harley Street.”
She startled, the briefest flicker across her features. “Thank you, Mr. Thornton, but I would not have you go out of your way.Truly, it is quite unnecessary. I made my way here quite on my own, you see.”
It struck him like a blow — that she believed he offered out of duty alone. That she imagined he might be inconvenienced by her company for a quarter-hour in a cab.
He bowed his head slightly. “It is no trouble. I am bound in that direction.”
