Being near her was a torment. Being near her was a blessing.
Being near her was everything he had forbidden himself to want.
When he did speak, his voice was level—too level. “The matter requires it.”
She hesitated, then ventured, “But… surely you had plans.” A faint tremor entered her voice. “Your mother must have had plans. And now you are canceling them.”
He swallowed hard. Her concern—her gentle, genuine concern—settled over him like a weight he could scarcely bear.
“It cannot be helped,” he said quietly.
Still, she did not stop. Her hands twisted together, betraying a disquiet she seemed determined to voice. “If you would rather take the matter up later in the week—after Christmas—I would not think it unwise. I could write to Mr. Harcourt myself.”
God help him.
The thought of her reaching out to accommodate him—of her making any gesture for his benefit—was nearly his undoing.
“No,” he said. “Miss Hale… please. You must not shape your decisions around my comfort. And I speak of more than the timing of the matter.”
She drew in a breath at that, something fragile in the sound.
He continued, more steadily, though each word cost him. “I will remain in London as long as required. This week… or longer. Whatever the matter demands.”
And silently, painfully, he added what he could not say aloud:Whatever you require.
The cab slowed to a stop before the Lennoxs’ tall, elegant townhouse. Thornton was out first, offering his hand again. She took it, stepped down, and for one suspended moment they stood within a breath of one another, the winter air curling cold between them.
He released her hand at once.
“Miss Hale,” he said, bowing, “I will seek lodgings in Cleveland Street, and shall provide Mr. Harcourt with the address. When you are prepared to render your decision, I will attend.”
She looked up — really looked — and her eyes were wide, luminous, troubled.
“Thank you, Mr. Thornton. For your escort. And for…” She faltered.
He bowed again, his heart pounding. “Good day, Miss Hale.”
She inclined her head and mounted the steps. At the door, she half-turned — only a fraction — as though she might say more.
She did not.
The door closed softly behind her.
Thornton stood a moment longer in the cold, the fog curling around him, the cab wheels fading into the dim street. Only when the voices he heard inside no longer echo through the wood did he turn away.
The moment Margaret steppedinto the Lennox townhouse, the clamor struck her like a wave.
Edith descended upon her almost before the front door had fully shut. “Margaret! There you are! I have been pacing the drawing room for twenty minutes at least — the most dreadful inconvenience! Mama nearly fainted when I told her you were still out, did you not, Mama?”
Aunt Shaw, who was seated stiffly on the hall bench with a vinaigrette in hand, fluttered her fingers weakly. “You poor child. At Christmastime, of all weeks! Solicitors ought to know their business better than to trouble young ladies during such a pressing season. What could they possibly require from you that they cannot accomplish themselves?”
“Everything, apparently,” Edith declared as she relieved Margaret of her gloves. “I knew this inheritance would be nothing but trouble.”
“Give me your cloak, Miss Margaret; you’re frozen through,” Dixon said, fingers brisk as she untied the ribbons. “London winds have no manners. And you’re pale as chalk besides. Too much strain, I warrant.”
Margaret mustered a faint smile. “Only a long morning, Dixon.”
Dixon sniffed, unconvinced, but made no comment. She shook out the cloak with merciless efficiency and carried it toward the stand.
