“The family is not at home,” he replied.
“If one is going to lie, it is better if they do not sit in the front parlor for all the world to see.” Digging into her reticule, Nora retrieved the largest coins she had on her person and held them out to the footman. “I require a moment with Mr. Lyndon. That is all. He owes me that much.”
The servant did not so much as glance at the coins.
“I am afraid that isn’t possible, miss.” The refusal came with the same composed civility as before, though there was a hardness that left no room to press or persuade, and before Nora formed a reply, the door closed with a finality that echoed far louder than it ought.
For a moment, she did not stir. Her fingers curled stiffly around the coins as the polished wood stared back at her, impenetrable and immovable.
This couldn’t be. Not like this. Not without so much as a word of explanation.
Nora’s hand fell at last, the coins pressing into her palm as she stepped back from the door. Her gaze lifted to the windows above, searching without thought, as though something there might contradict what she had just been told. The glass remained still, unyielding, reflecting only the street and her own outline.
A call to battle rose swift and fierce, tightening her throat and pressing against her chest as it demanded that she call out his name until he answered. To breach that unfeeling door. To force the truth. Her lips parted, the sound nearly there. Then she stilled.
A carriage rolled past at the end of the street, its driver casting a passing glance in her direction. Further along the pavement, a lady lingered, her attention not so carefully concealed. The world had not granted her privacy at this moment, and heat rose to her face, sharp and consuming. Nora drew in a breath that did little to steady her as she took another step back from the house, her gaze fixed upon it as though sheer will might force it to yield what it so firmly withheld.
A faint movement drew her attention to one of the upper windows, the curtain drawing back just enough that it might’ve gone unnoticed if Nora were not watching so intently. Her gazecaught upon it at once, fastening there as the lace curtain shifted enough to reveal the figure beyond.
Mr. Lyndon. Even at that distance, she knew him. The familiar line of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the unmistakable presence of him stood on the other side of that pane of glass. He raised no hand in greeting. Did not open the window. Did not so much as lean forward to see her more clearly. And for a suspended instant, everything narrowed to that single point, the space between them collapsing until it felt as though she could touch him.
Then the curtain fell back into place as he stepped away.
The motion was small, deliberate, and final, and like a well-placed tap of a hammer that split a boulder in two, her resolve gave way, leaving her heart exposed to the elements. Her father had been right. The thought settled without resistance, for there was no space left for protest as the undeniable weight of truth settled heavily onto her shoulders.
Nora’s hand closed once more around her reticule, though she scarcely felt the movement. The ring inside no longer called to her with bright insistence. It rested there, silent and inert, as though it had never held meaning at all. And it hadn’t.
The house stood before her, its windows dark and distant. And at last, Nora lowered her gaze and turned away without a backward glance.
Chapter 4
Three Years Later
Ablaze of light filled the vast drawing room, the chandelier’s countless crystals scattering the candlelight across gilded cornices and painted ceilings. The air shimmered with motion; silk and satin swept across the polished floor as couples turned in time to the music, the measured strains of violins singing above the rhythmic pulse of the orchestra.
Flowers spilled from vases in soft abundance, and along the edges, clusters of guests gathered in tight circles, their laughter and conversation weaving through the space in a constant murmur. The press of bodies warmed the air as the night settled into its full height, the energy carrying the evening forward in a tide of sound, light, and motion.
Mr. Haskett’s hand remained steady at her waist as he guided her through the turn, his steps precise, his attention fixed where it ought to be. Nora matched him without effort, her movements as steady and fluid as the music itself.
Her partner droned on, his voice an accompaniment to the dance as he touched upon the prospects of the Season, the likelihood of favorable weather, the anticipated assemblies and dinners that filled every calendar. It was the sort ofpleasant, unremarkable conversation that required little beyond the occasional inclination of her head, and she gave what was expected of her, though her thoughts slipped their tether.
Nora’s gaze swept the room as they turned, and faces passed in a steady procession, some familiar enough to place without effort, others known only in passing, and still more entirely unknown to her. How curious to consider how all these lives intersected for this moment beneath this roof, each person moving through a world that was as real and complete as Nora’s own, though entirely separate from it.
A couple came into view, and for all that they comported themselves with all the dignity and respectability required of this setting, they did not stand with that careful distance that propriety demanded, but the nearness of an unguarded moment. The gentleman’s hand rested at the lady’s waist with an intention that reached beyond the dance whilst her hand rested on his shoulder with the quiet certainty of one who felt free to touch.
This was no overt display, nothing that might draw comment from the room at large, and yet there was something so private about it. A glance held a fraction too long. Words exchanged in lowered tones, meant for no one else. The way they moved, not in time with the music but with one another. This was a stolen moment during a crowded evening, and the world beyond held no power over them.
“Miss Eden?”
Nora’s attention returned to him at once, her hand steady where it rested upon Mr. Haskett’s shoulder as they turned. “I beg your pardon. I fear my thoughts wandered.”
“I was saying,” he continued, his tone easy and unremarkable, “I understand you traveled the Continent for some time. Did you find it agreeable?”
“I did,” Nora replied.
“And the scenery?” he asked. “Is it as fine as people claim?”
“It is,” she said, inclining her head.
