She leaned slightly toward him. “I hope,” she murmured, “that you did not find the questions too intrusive.”
His gaze shifted to hers—direct, searching, unexpectedly gentle. “They were nothing I have not answered before.”
“But tonight…” She swallowed. “Tonight, it felt more pointed.”
A hint of a smile—barely there—touched his mouth. “It is Christmas Eve, Miss Hale. People feel bold.” His tone softened. “I am not troubled by plain questions.”
Heat raced up her neck. She looked down too quickly. “Forgive me,” she whispered.
“For what?” His voice dropped—quiet, roughened with something she could not yet name. “You did nothing amiss.”
She wished she could believe that. It was her selfishness earlier, he desire to ask him, and then ask him again, that had kept him until his presence was discovered. Her fault that he was now forced to sit here defending himself before strangers who had not the slightest concept of the authority of the man who spoke.
“You spoke very openly,” she said. “About the mill. About everything.”
“I told the truth.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “That is what unsettled them, I think.”
He looked away with a faint, humorless breath. “Truth has a way of doing that.”
She wanted—impossibly—to take his hand. To tell him she had never admired him more than she did in this moment, surrounded by people who did not know half his worth.
Instead, she said, too carefully, “You spoke well.”
His breath hitched—barely perceptible, but she felt it. “Did I?” he murmured.
“Indeed.”
He nodded once, as if trying to convince himself.
Then dessert plates were cleared, glasses refilled, laughter lifting again. It was Christmas Eve, after all. A time of merriment, joy, and peace. It should have been comfortable.
It was, instead, the most exquisitely uncomfortable meal of her life.
And the most thrilling.
9
The drawing room lookedsofter with the lamps turned low, wreaths casting small shadows against the wall, and the fire burning brighter than it had earlier. A tray of punch circulated; someone had placed a bowl of oranges near the piano; a branch of mistletoe hung—carelessly, he hoped—from the central arch between parlor and hall.
Thornton kept to the periphery, drink in hand, trying not to look as though he were doing precisely that.
The young ladies gathered around the pianoforte in cheerful debate, each insisting they ought to play first and then insisting someone else ought to. Margaret declined at once—quietly, decisively—so Miss Forsythe took the seat, fluttering through a lively carol that set several of the ladies to humming.
Thornton listened, half-aware, still replaying the conversation at dinner—her nearness, her defense of him, the soft way she said he spoke well. His pulse still felt unsteady from it.
A few of the men clustered near the punch bowl, talking politics. Henry Lennox drifted between groups, familiar with everyone and a part of every conversation. Captain Lennoxleaned against the fireplace, looking contented from his vantage beside his wife, who corrected the tempo of the carol under her breath.
Thornton allowed himself one glance toward Margaret.
She stood near the window with Mrs. Shaw, listening politely to something. Her profile in the lamplight had an almost aching clarity. Every now and then, as though without intending to, she glanced toward him.
He looked away each time before their eyes could fully meet. He did not trust himself to read too much into it. Or too little.
Music changed—another young wife took her turn at the keys. The gentleman stirred from speaking of war to politics. Punch glasses refilled. Conversation edged toward comfortable warmth.
Somehow, Thornton found himself beneath the archway, drawn there by Captain Lennox, who was describing a posting in Cadiz. Only when the captain gestured upward did Thornton realize he stood directly under the mistletoe.
