And she was not yet in the room.
He felt that absence like a draft at his back.
Henry Lennox handed him a glass of sherry. “You will find we keep a smaller Christmas Eve than most,” he said. “Only a handful of friends. Very informal.”
Nothing about this felt informal.
Thornton accepted the glass with the stiff courtesy that had carried him through countless merchant dinners. “Very kind.”
Henry leaned a shoulder against the mantel, surveying him. “I confess, Mr. Thornton, I am curious. I have heard your name for years—my brother keeps some interest in northern affairs, and many friends of mine have more than a passing interest in industry—but I’ve never had the chance to speak with one of Milton’s leading men.”
Thornton suppressed a wince. “I am not a leading man at present.”
“Nonsense,” Henry said lightly. “The master of Marlborough Mills? Everyone with the least understanding of trade knows that name.”
Thornton nearly choked on the sherry. Before he could answer, Mrs. Lennox wandered near with a drink in her hand and her husband trailing at her side.
“Mr. Thornton—please forgive us for the rush earlier. I never quite know what Margaret is about, and I wish she had told us of your call before. You are most welcome here. Do you enjoy London?”
Thornton bowed. “I have not had much leisure to enjoy it, Mrs. Lennox.”
“Of course not.” She nodded, as though this proved some private theory of hers. “Trade must be terribly tiring.”
Captain Lennox—broad-shouldered, hands clasped behind him—offered the faintest smile. “A different battlefield,” he said. “Demand and supply instead of powder and shot.”
Thornton managed a polite smile. “Both require accuracy, I believe.”
“Ah!” Henry brightened. “Speaking of accuracy—Edith, you must allow all your guests to hear Mr. Thornton over dinner. I want to hear more about northern mills. The entire community depends upon them, does it not? Nay, I daresay our entire economy hinges upon the might of our cotton mills.”
Edith’s expression fluttered with mild bewilderment. “Henry, it is Christmas Eve. Surely Mr. Thornton does not want to discuss business tonight.”
“I am certain Mr. Thornton can speak for himself,” Henry said, though his gaze stayed fixed on Thornton. The challenge was deft, but unmistakable.
Thornton inclined his head. “I’m happy enough to speak of the mill, Mr. Lennox. It’s honest work, and I make no secret of it. If your interest is serious, I’ll answer whatever questions you wish. If it’s only to dress the conversation, then I suspect there are far more amusing topics in London.”
Lennox blinked. “Well. I cannot speak for others, butIcertainly would like to hear what you have to say.”
A footman announced the first guests, and soon the drawing room filled with the rustle of cloaks and cheerful greetings. Captain and Mrs. Lennox moved familiarly among them. Mrs. Shaw gave instructions to a maid, then went to greet her daughter’s friends.
Thornton hung back near the mantel, doing his best not to obstruct the flow of arrivals. He fielded a few glances—curious, assessing—but most attention drifted to the women’s gowns, the Christmas greenery, the promise of food.
He answered a question about coal prices from a Mr. Forsythe, nodded to a lady whose name he did not catch, and tried not to wonder whether Margaret would come down at all.
Then the room shifted.
It was subtle at first—a softening of voices, a lull in conversation—and when he finally looked toward the staircase, she was there.
Margaret descended with natural grace, the deep, almost somber green of her gown catching the lamplight in quiet shimmers. Two young wives converged on her at once, taking her hands, exclaiming over her dress and the season and the snow that threatened by morning. More gathered, forming a half-circle around her, pulling her into gentle chatter.
She smiled, politely at first, then more warmly as they embraced her in their genteel London world, so unlike the clattering Milton she had left behind.
And yet, she kept searching. Her gaze flicked once across the room… and met his.
Heat struck him low in the chest.
She looked away at once, color rising to her cheeks, as though the room had turned too warm.
He tried to attend to Mr. Forsythe’s continued opinions about textile tariffs, but a moment later, she looked again…
