His pulse lurched.
He stepped aside at once—right into the path of Margaret.
She startled softly, stopping short. They were close—too close. Close enough that he caught the faintest hint of rosemary and starch on her gown.
Her gaze flicked upward. Then down again, cheeks blooming color.
He moved instantly. “Forgive me, Miss Hale.” His voice came too low. “I did not see—”
“Nor did I,” she said quickly. Then she stepped aside and joined Mrs. Forsythe at the piano, leaving him grateful and mortified in equal measure.
A voice sounded at his elbow.
“Careful, Thornton,” Henry said lightly, “London is full of snares at Christmastime.”
Thornton forced himself to turn. “Mr. Lennox.”
Henry swirled the punch in his glass, watching the room with an air of mild superiority. “You must forgive our customs. Mistletoe, carols, misplaced romantic spirit—it all goes to people’s heads.”
“Indeed.”
Henry’s gaze sharpened. “You have been much in Miss Hale’s company today.”
Thornton’s jaw tightened. “We had business to attend.”
“Ah, yes. The mill.” The tone slid—genteel, but edged. “Unfortunate, that. Margaret has been through enough these last months. Losing both parents, moving here, taking on Bell’s affairs. She does not need… complications.”
Thornton’s fingers curled slowly around the rim of his glass. “I should not presume to be a complication, Mr. Lennox.”
Henry studied him. “And such a pity, that scandal about her brother. The family bore it bravely, but… well.” He lifted one shoulder. “But perhaps I misspoke. I do not suppose you had heard she had a brother.”
Was this a… a test? An assertion of territory or familiarity? His spine prickled with anger, and he turned his head toward Henry Lennox with quiet, unmistakable warning. “I know of him. And I am surprised that one who calls himself a friend of Miss Hale would speak of him so lightly,” he said, voice low and dangerously calm. “I am sure she would not appreciate hearing her private affairs spoken of for amusement.”
Henry’s expression flickered—first offense, then confusion, then a sharp, fleeting calculation. He lifted his glass in a strained gesture of goodwill and backed away toward the punch bowl.
Thornton exhaled slowly.
A moment later, he sensed movement and turned.
Margaret approached them—composed, though a faint line worried the edge of her brow. “That looked like a seriousconversation. Whatever it was, now Mr. Lennox seems… out of sorts,” she said quietly.
Thornton gave a dry huff, too small to be called a laugh. “Then I may have worn out my welcome.”
Her eyes lifted to his. “Did he say something unkind?”
“Nothing I have not heard before.” His gaze softened. “And nothing spoken by someone whose opinion I esteem too highly.”
She lowered her gaze. “Interesting.”
Music drifted into another carol. Mrs. Shaw called for more punch. Someone encouraged Mrs. Forsythe’s husband to sing. Laughter rose from the corner sofa. But for the moment, the noise fell away around them.
Thornton inclined his head politely. “Miss Hale… I think it best that I take my leave for the night.”
Her features flickered. “So soon?”
He tried not to hear too much in that. “It is best I remove myself before any further confusion arises.” He hesitated. “And—I believe we reached the end of what could profitably be discussed. You have all the facts you require to decide about Marlborough Mills.”
Her face tightened. “I have made no decision.”
