Hesitated… and quickly turned back to her companions when she found him watching.
He felt the ground spin under him in a way he did not trust.
Dinner was announced soon after, the young couples drifting toward the dining room in a pleasant, unhurried tide. No one seemed to follow a strict order; friends linked arms, husbands guided their own wives, the group arranged itself by habit and affection rather than etiquette.
Soon, only four appeared to be standing alone, wandering without a partner. Mrs. Shaw, adjusting her shawl. Henry Lennox, smoothing his cuffs. Margaret. And himself.
Lennox stepped toward Margaret with perfect assurance. “Miss Hale, may I?”
Thornton tensed before he could stop himself. As if he could claim any right himself! But to see that fool assuming privileges, a simpleton asking for the hand of a queen…
But Margaret turned sharply, touching Lennox’s arm just once—barely more than a brush of her fingers—and said something in a low voice. Too low for Thornton to catch. Henry’s expression faltered first in confusion, then in something like irritation, then—very briefly—in comprehension.
He glanced at Thornton.
Then at Mrs. Shaw.
He gave Margaret a restrained bow and crossed to offer his arm to her aunt. Mrs. Shaw accepted it with pleased surprise.
That lefther.
And him.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
She turned to him, her hands lightly clasped, her color high. The soft light from the hall lamp made her eyes darker, warmer.
He approached, slowly. “Miss Hale… what was that exchange about?”
She looked down, then up again—just once—and he felt the answer before she spoke it. “I thought my aunt might enjoy Henry’s company at dinner,” she said, her voice light but not entirely calm.
He waited.
She wet her lips, choosing her words. “And,” she added, quieter still, “I thought… perhaps… you should not feel alone at a table where everyone else is acquainted.”
He narrowed his eyes. It was not a declaration. Not an invitation he could claim or presume upon.
But it was not nothing.
He offered his arm, hesitant only because the moment felt unreal. “Miss Hale.”
She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, fingers warm through his sleeve. A strange, impossible thought rose in him, unbidden:She chose this. Chose him.Whether to spare him or others embarrassment, or because she wanted his company, he could not yet tell.
But she had chosen it.
And that, for the first time in a very long season of failures, felt like the something.
She had not realized,until she placed her hand on his arm, how steady he was.
Not rigid—he carried too much fatigue for that—but grounded, like a man who had learned long ago to keep himself upright when the world leaned. The warmth through his coat startled her. She had remembered him as solid, yes. Stubborn. Unyielding. But not… warm.
Certainly not so near.
They entered the dining room together, and for the briefest, breathless moment, she felt as though every person seated there turned to observe them—her aunt’s family, her cousin’s friends, genteel company who saw Thornton only as a tradesman far from home.
He released her arm with a slight formal bow. She took the seat he held for her, aware of the narrow inches between them, of his breath—a faint stir on the edge of her sleeve when he pulled his own chair beside her.
Henry was several places down the table. Too far to assert himself. Close enough to watch, and watch, he did. So intently that she fancied she could feel her cheeks burning whenever his eyes turned upon her.
