Nora ignored it and the man who had conjured it. The sound came again, more deliberate this time, but she did not so much as glance up, her eyes continuing steadily along the page, her hand turning it with quiet precision as though no interruption had been offered at all.
A third attempt followed, and the line before her blurred. Nora drew in a slow breath as her eyes reluctantly slid from the page and drifted over to the gentleman, a dismissal on her lips—but it died before she could speak.
Though not striking in an obvious sense, his features were alluring. Dark auburn hair caught the light with a subdued warmth, and though the line of his jaw was more pronounced than fashion might applaud, it gave his features an appealing strength. To say nothing of the way his eyes warmed as he met her gaze, the brown almost golden. And his smile was all too disarming, leaving Nora looking at him far longer than intended.
“Pardon?” she asked.
“I was wondering if you had an opening on your dance card,” he repeated.
No matter that Nora wouldn’t mind staring at the gentleman for a dance or two, she brushed aside the impulse and glanced back at her book. “I fear I misplaced it.”
“Then you haven’t a partner for the next,” he said, a silent laugh brightening his features in a manner that made Nora’s heart flutter. The silly thing.
Wincing, she shook her head and waved him away. “I fear I am not up for dancing at present. You’d best find another lady to stand up with you.”
“Excellent, for I am quite fatigued. I am of a mind to rest.”
“I am of a mind to read,” replied Nora, her eyes not leaving the page, though her attention was far from the print.
“Then it must be a particularly fine book,” he said, slipping into the seat beside her without so much as a by your leave.
Nora did not look up. “It serves its purpose.”
“And what purpose is that?”
“To occupy my mind.”
“Then it is quite entertaining?” he asked.
Her eyes moved along the line, though the words refused to take shape in her mind. Shutting the book, Nora tucked it into her lap and gave him a challenging raise of the brows.
“I suppose it was until some exceptionally irritating gentleman nosed his way into your quietude,” he said with a self-effacing grin. “Such a rude and presumptive fellow. You’d best brush him aside and be done with him posthaste.”
“He shall be forgiven if he proves himself more entertaining than the novel,” replied Nora with a pert lift of her chin.
Giving her a deep nod (which was all the bow he could manage whilst sitting), the gentleman said, “Mr. Adam Hatcher at your service.”
Nora accepted that with a nod and gave her name in return.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Eden,” said Mr. Hatcher. “My deepest thanks for allowing me to intrude. I shall do my best to entertain you.”
Lingering at first upon the story and her assessment of the plot and characters, the conversation turned in small, thoughtful circles that soon meandered down new paths, and Nora answered without quite intending to. A detail offered here. A recollection there. The book rested forgotten in her lap as she spoke, her attention no longer divided, the rhythm of the exchange drawing her in despite herself. Not a bit of it was particularly enlightening or revolutionary, but something about Mr. Hatcher’s conversation was appealing.
Rather like the man himself.
“I have visited the Continent, but I did not see as much as I wish to,” he admitted. “How fortunate that you were able to spend such a lengthy time there.”
Nora inclined her head, though the motion came a shade slower than before, her fingers settling more firmly against the cover of her book. Her thumb traced lightly along the worn edge of the page, a small, absent motion.
The conversation was treading too close to things best left alone. The trip itself was safe; the motivations behind wishing to be far from London and a particular individual weren’t. Her shoulders drew back by a fraction, the movement small, controlled, as though she might guide the moment away before it fixed itself more firmly in place.
“Which country did you like best?” he prodded.
“France,” Nora said, repeating the same answer she’d given so many times before. “The south, in particular.”
“Why is that?”
Nora glanced at him then, properly this time, her brows inching together; this was not how this conversation usually unfolded, and she hesitated.
