Chapter 8
The ball shifted around her in slow currents of sound and motion, dances beginning and ending, laughter rising and falling somewhere beyond the shelter of her little corner, but Nora scarcely marked any of it. Lamplight flickered across the page as she turned it, wholly absorbed once again in Adèle’s mounting troubles and the increasingly questionable intentions of the viscount pursuing her.
“Madam.”
Blinking, she lifted her gaze from the page and found the mysterious Mr. Jonathan Hatcher standing before her. Where the younger Mr. Hatcher possessed an easy warmth that turned his somewhat ordinary features into something arresting, the elder seemed designed to discourage closer acquaintance.
The gentleman was tall and broad, making him appear fearsome from the outset—something that wasn’t helped by his strong nose, which listed to the left as though he had gone more than a few rounds of fisticuffs in his life. And though clearly cleaned and polished to be presentable enough to the public, there was a disorder to his dark hair and beard. Both were properly trimmed but lacked any sign of the fastidious grooming that fashion dictated, maintained only to the degree necessity required.
Perhaps the facial hair was merely a matter of convenience, for even without Mr. Adam Hatcher’s warning, it was clear this was the sort of man who did not tolerate wasting his time. Even for something as reasonable as shaving. The whole effect was striking in a rougher, more formidable manner than his younger brother’s polished charm.
Yet at present, this hulk of a man looked profoundly uncomfortable. Every line of him was held too tightly, from the set of his shoulders to the way his hands clasped behind his back as though he feared they might betray him if left unattended. Even his expression seemed braced for impact, his composure stretched taut beneath the strain of whatever effort had finally brought him across the ballroom to her side.
Nora closed her book slowly, her interest sharpening at once. “Good evening, sir.”
Shifting in place, Mr. Hatcher glanced over his shoulder. Just the quickest flick of movement that would’ve been unremarkable in other circumstances, but Nora stifled a smile for the tables had turned on the gentleman: now he stood before the lady whilst Mr. Adam Hatcher watched from a distance.
The gentleman before her nodded toward the chair, hardly waiting for Nora to accept the unspoken request before he sat; it looked far too spindly for such a solid man, but he settled into it without so much as a groan in protest from the furniture.
Mr. Hatcher rested a hand on his knee, his fingers tapping a rapid beat, and though he glanced at Nora, his eyes darted about in a manner that made her wonder if he were blushing, though his complexion was sun-kissed enough that it helped to hide any tell-tale flash of red. In truth, his face was far more burnished than she would’ve expected from a man of business; their lives were so often found in studies and offices.
Those fingers continued their restless tapping against his knee before stilling abruptly, as though he had realized the movement betrayed him. But a moment later, they resumed.
Nora watched him for a heartbeat longer, taking in the rigid set of his shoulders and the effort with which he maintained his composure, and then, with all the calm indifference in the world, she reopened her novel. The pages parted beneath her fingers with a whisper. Lowering her gaze to the text, Nora settled once more into Mademoiselle Adèle’s ill-fated midnight rendezvous with the viscount.
Beside her, the gentleman remained a solid but uneasy presence, all broad shoulders and restrained motion, while the ballroom swelled and softened around them in waves of music and distant conversation. Still he said nothing. So neither did she.
But it was increasingly difficult to ignore the fretful figure.
“You could introduce yourself,” she said, not looking up from the page.
Mr. Hatcher stiffened, his fingers tapping faster.
“You came over with such determination, yet you have only spoken a single word,” she added. “You could begin by introducing yourself.”
Of course, they both knew who the other was, but that was unimportant. Ceremony wasn’t a terrible place to start.
Clearing his throat, he nodded at her. “Mr. Jonathan Hatcher.”
Nora closed her book, though she kept her finger wedged between the pages. “Miss Nora Eden.”
“How are you this evening?”
The question emerged with such rigid formality that Nora nearly smiled.
“I am quite well, thank you,” she replied with equal politeness.
“Good.”
Silence returned, broken only by the distant swell of the orchestra, and Mr. Hatcher shifted once more, his imposing frame increasingly ill-suited to both the delicate chair and the expectations of polite conversation. So Nora returned her attention to her book.
After a strained pause, he cleared his throat again. “Have you attended many balls this Season?”
She lifted her eyes from the page. “The Season that has only just begun?”
Mr. Hatcher shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, his discomfort radiating in great waves that engulfed the world around him. What followed scarcely deserved to be called conversation. Each question arrived after a visible effort of will, stiffly delivered and painfully practical, as though Mr. Hatcher were determined to make his way through a prepared list with grim determination.
Every answer Nora supplied was met with a sharp nod before another equally imposing inquiry stumbled forth to take its place. The pauses between them stretched long enough to grow uncomfortable, filled by the scrape of shoes upon the floor and the distant rise of laughter from those far better suited to such evenings.
