After several minutes of enduring the gentleman’s assault upon the art of conversation, Nora found herself no longer merely amused but genuinely curious. Surely no man could remain so painfully out of sorts forever.
Closing her book once more, she turned slightly in her chair, allowing her attention to settle fully upon him. Mr. Hatcher noticed at once, his spine drawing even straighter, as though bracing for impact. The poor man. Nora softened her expression into something far warmer than the conversation warranted andleaned just a touch nearer, close enough that her perfume could not help but reach him.
“You know,” she said lightly, her gaze fixed upon him with deliberate steadiness, “I find your company quite diverting.”
Mr. Hatcher startled as though she had fired a pistol into the air. “I—well—”
Was he blushing? Oh, the poor soul didn’t know a thing about flirting or ladies, and was so wholly unsuited for this game. Swallowing hard, Mr. Hatcher attempted to gather the ruins of his composure back into something usable.
Across the ballroom, partially obscured by dancers, stood the younger Mr. Hatcher. Unlike his brother, he appeared entirely at ease now, his hands tucked behind him as he watched the spectacle unfolding from afar. The moment her gaze found him, his mouth curved with unmistakable amusement. The rogue. Nora bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing outright.
“It has been unusually mild this spring,” blurted Mr. Hatcher.
The gentleman had spoken truly. Jonathan Hatcher possessed none of his effortless ease. Where one moved through conversation like a seasoned performer, the other approached it with the awkward determination of a creature wholly unsuited to the task yet stubborn enough to attempt it regardless. There was something almost endearing in the effort, rather like watching a foal attempting to stand for the first time, moving as though comprehending the proper order of things but halting with each attempt, uncertain how to bend its legs and work its joints.
As much as Nora had intended to needle him, it was impossible to do so when faced with that image.
“Peace, Mr. Hatcher,” she whispered, setting aside her book. “This is simply a conversation. You needn’t approach it like an interview.”
Mr. Hatcher’s eyes focused on her, wary at first, as though uncertain whether she mocked him still. The tension remained in his shoulders, though it no longer seemed quite so severe now that she had abandoned her assault upon his senses.
“I am aware of the difference,” he said after a moment, the words dry enough to surprise her slightly. “I simply function better in interviews than conversations.”
The admission emerged with visible reluctance, dragged from him more by honesty than comfort, and Nora felt something in her soften further at the sight of it. There was no performance in Mr. Hatcher. No practiced charm, no calculated ease. If anything, he looked annoyed with himself for failing at something society expected him to do naturally.
That, at least, was real.
Nora shifted in her chair, angling herself to him more fully, and her book remained forgotten in her lap as she regarded him with less mischief than before.
“Your brother indicated that you run a company,” she said. “Certainly, that must call for conversation from time to time.”
“Do you wish to speak about ledgers and land rights?” he asked with raised brows and more than a touch of hope in his tone.
“Not in the slightest, I fear,” she admitted. Seizing upon a simple subject, she asked, “Do you read, Mr. Hatcher?”
“Read?” he parroted, his brows lowering.
Holding up her book, Nora added, “As in, do you enjoy looking at words printed on a page?”
Mr. Hatcher paused only a moment before saying, “Yes. Though I do not generally bring books to a party.”
Studying the fellow, she couldn’t say whether he was teasing or simply stating a fact, and his tone gave no indication one way or the other.
“And what is it that you like to read, sir?” she asked, tucking it back into her lap.
Mr. Hatcher considered that with due diligence, as though it were a terribly serious question that required an equally thoughtful answer.
“Scientific treatises, mostly.” A faint crease appeared between his brows before he added, with what might have been the smallest hint of self-consciousness, “Though I was rather fond of adventure stories when I had more time for them. Expeditions. Shipwrecks. Explorers freezing to death in foreign places.”
Nora blinked. “That is a remarkably grim preference.”
“I find a bit of death and destruction generally improves a story.”
Yet again, Nora could not tell whether the gentleman intended humor or was simply stating his thoughts, and she couldn’t say which she preferred it to be, for both were of interest.
“Though in truth, I rarely indulge anymore. My time is occupied reading newspapers, reports, and legal documents.” The answer carried no self-pity, merely fact. But Mr. Hatcher’s fingers had finally stopped their relentless tapping.
Then, after what looked suspiciously like him gathering his courage once again, he nodded at the yellowback resting in her lap. “And your book? What is it about?”
