Nora had made a hash of her dinner, all before the remove was served. The rest of the meal carried on awkwardly, with her father and aunt making valiant attempts to find topics of safe interest. Nora herself, the hostess of the evening, and thus burdened with the obligation of conveying the conversation, didn’t bother. She burned with shame, and her father’s words carved into her mind. Think of the ladies in the room, he’d said. In response to a question Nora herself had asked. As if she weren’t to be considered in the group he named ‘ladies.’
Well, she didn’t want to be a lady, did she? No, she did not, not while ladies were expected to do little more than make heirs and wear clothes, both well. Still, at the table, in this company, her father could hardly have made a sharper rebuke, save calling her a tart. And she’d only asked questions! She’d tried hard not to directly express an opinion. Apparently, even curiosity made her an embarrassment.
She kept her eyes on her meal, except when they strayed of their own volition across the table, where they always seemed to find and meet Mr. Frazier’s eyes. They were hazel, those eyes, a greenish, golden brown—just light enough that they couldn’t be mistaken for ordinary brown, and just dark enough that their true colour was indeterminable unless one really looked.
A wealthy man who supported the worker. A powerful man who supported suffrage. A refined man who knew hard labour. He was a unicorn among men—why, he was even Scottish after all, only two generations removed. But he was removed. He was an American. She could hardly consider a man with no title, who made his home thousands of miles away.
At this table full of men she was meant to entice to propose to her, only three men were out of bounds—her father and brother, and the American who was the only other man whose company she thought she might enjoy.
After dinner ended, Aunt Martha led the ladies to the drawing room, while the men went to the library, where they could smoke and drink and discuss politics in earnest. Meanwhile, in the drawing room, the ladies sat mostly quietly, murmuring to each other and casting sidelong glances in Nora’s direction.
She wanted to go home. Her true home—Kent. Christopher could have London; he seemed to enjoy it. She would content herself marrying a country doctor or a vicar and become a sturdy wife who gardened.
Nora stood alone and peered out an open French door, her back to the room. She could just make out the clamor of London where it passed the entrance to the Square. All those people, all that noise, everyone rushing everywhere.
Aunt Martha sidled beside her and hooked her arm with Nora’s. “I know this isn’t easy for you, but tonight of all nights, you must try. Once you’re wed, there are ways you can make room to unfold your wings. But you must be wed first.”
“I should like to take your path, Auntie. Marry an old man and wait for him to die.”
The moment the words left her tongue, she understood their offense. That was the way with her mouth—it ran off and did what it wanted and then felt instant, but too late, regret. She turned to Aunt Martha and saw the impact of her unkindness. “Oh, Auntie. Please forgive me.”
Her aunt was resilient and even-tempered, and she quickly mustered a smile. She patted Nora’s cheek. “There is much you don’t know, little dove. Like you, my life was shaped by what was expected of me, regardless of what I would have chosen for myself. So I know what I speak when I tell you that there are ways to find freedom even in a gilded cage. The trick is to know that and stop fighting before they make the cage so small there is hardly space to breathe. If you seem to do what they want, they won’t notice that you do anything else. You can’t keep on as you’ve been, Nora.”
“I know.” It wasn’t the first time Aunt Martha had counseled her to simply submit, marry well, wait until her husband had settled into complacency and her reputation as a proper married lady was established, and then use all of her abundant free time to have the life she wanted. She understood her aunt’s wisdom. But she didn’t want to sneak and skulk. She didn’t want to comport herself as though her interests in the world were akin to adultery. She wanted to be respected for who she was and what she thought. She wanted a man who wanted a woman like her.
Quiet commotion behind them indicated that the gentlemen had joined the ladies, and the next, and last, phase of the evening had commenced. Now, there would be clusters of socially appropriate conversations, punctuated by sly cuts masked as compliments, as the young ladies and gentlemen jockeyed for favour. There would be whist as well; two tables were set up for matches already.
It was Nora’s responsibility to encourage gamers to the tables. She meant to do it; she even opened her mouth. But the words wouldn’t come. She felt too bleak to pretend to be anything else.
“Oh, dove,” Aunt Martha muttered with a last squeeze of Nora’s arm. She turned to the guests and spread her arms out. “Who’ll have a game with me? Christopher, will you be my partner?”
Christopher stood with the altogether too distracting Mr. Frazier. He grinned at Aunt Martha. “Of course, Auntie! Will, do you know whist?”
“I don’t. Is it difficult to learn?”
“Not at all.” Lady Beatrix Boltborne, a tall, voluptuous lady with unblemished alabaster skin and lush auburn hair, stepped forward with a smile at Mr. Frazier that made Nora’s fists clench. “I’ll be your partner and show you how to play.”
Lady Beatrix was also having her first Season, far more successfully than Nora. Mr. Frazier smiled at the beautiful redhead and—after what Nora was almost sure was a quick glance in her own direction, but she might only have wished it to be true—held out his arm for Lady Beatrix.
“I’m at your service and your mercy, then,” the unicorn among men said.
“Lady Nora, would you like to play?” Chalford strode to her and held out his arm. Mr. Frazier didn’t seem to notice that.
No, she didn’t want to play, but if she continued to behave as she had all night, she might as well pack her bags and run off to a traveling circus. Step right up for a sight that will dazzle the eyes! Tuppence for a glimpse of the strange and stupefying Unweddable Lady!
She smiled up at Chalford. He really was a handsome man. “Yes, Your Grace, I would be delighted.”
Nora was good at whist, and despite her dejection, she played well. Chalford was also good at whist, and they played well together. After a round or two, her attention was sufficiently captured by the strategy of the game that she found herself having a good time. She even laughed, sincerely, at Chalford’s humor. He was quite good, she discovered, at disrupting their opponents’ thinking with a well placed, playful barb.
When the game was over, with the other table still involved in their hands, and the rest of the guests settled into conversations, Chalford put his hand at Nora’s elbow. “I wonder if you might take a turn with me, Lady Nora.”
Did he mean to announce his intention? Nora’s heart stuttered and sped. What she felt wasn’t excitement, exactly, though Chalford’s proposal was the most coveted in London. Her heart raced more from trepidation and uncertainty. Would she accept? She should, certainly. Her father would be pleased to the point of bliss. She would be the envy of all the women in London. Including Beatrix Boltborne. But did she like him? Not much. Until tonight, he’d shown her nothing but a nicely arranged façade. With a dismissive comment about her family’s staff, he’d started the misguided conversation at dinner. He was little better than any other lord, only handsomer and wealthier.
But she had enjoyed his repartee during whist. Perhaps there was something more to be made of that. And she did have to marry. After the turmoil of these weeks in Society, it would be a coup to land an engagement at her own dinner.
Offering him the best, most proper and attractive smile she knew how to make, Nora inclined her head. “I would enjoy that very much, Your Grace.”
Beaming smug victory, Chalford hooked her arm over his and led her toward the open doors and the loggia beyond.
The day had been hot and muggy, and the night remained warm. The new electric lights in the house, though harsh, were at least cooler than the gas lamps had been, and the French doors had all been open to let as much fresh air as possible into the drawing room, but Nora sighed when they stepped onto the flagstone floor of the loggia. Even the still midsummer night was a relief from the close air of the room just behind them. She walked away from Chalford’s hold and crossed to the stone balustrade, looking over the moonlit garden below.
She filled her chest full of night air and let it go. “It’s a lovely night.”
“Indeed.” He was back at her side, taking her arm again. “Walk in the garden with me.”
Nora looked over her shoulder to the open doors and the bright room beyond, where her guests mingled and seemed not to have noticed the absence of their hostess or her most important guest.
“It’ll be fine, Lady Nora. There’s no risk to your honour to walk in the gardens with me, outdoors and in full view. Not that such things seem to concern you.”
She turned sharply back to glare at him. “I care very much about my honour, Your Grace.”
He bowed subtly. “Forgive me. I was coarse. I only meant—you seem not to care what people think.” When he led her away from the balustrade to the steps leading down, she didn’t resist.
“What people think and what is true seem hardly related. I simply don’t think that the former should be more important than the latter.”
They were at the base of the steps, standing on the path, its white pebbles glittering in the moonlight. Nora took a step forward on that path, but Chalford led her onto the grass, pulling her into the shadowy space against the foundation of the loggia. Here, no one would see them. Here, everyone would wonder where they’d hidden themselves away.
“Your Grace, the garden is just ahead.”
He leaned in, pushing her against the stone wall, framing her head with his hands. The stones rasped over the silk of her dress. Her heart beat wildly now. What did he intend? To molest her at her own father’s house? Did he think because she was loose with her tongue she was loose with the rest of her body? Well, he was wrong.
“You are very beautiful, Nora.”
He dared address her familiarly, refusing her her title. Her father had separated her from the ladies at dinner, and now this duke did the same. Nora had never felt so offended in her life. But he was Chalford. She bit down on her lip and tried to keep back all the vicious words that had leapt forward, and resolved to handle this like a lady.
“Your Grace, please stand back.”
He ignored her, except to shift his weight from one hand and brush a fingertip over her cheek. Nora flinched away from his touch, and his sly smirk faltered into a frown, then restored itself.
“I think we would make a good match, you and I.”
He did mean to announce his intention. Did he believe, then, that she would find this conduct flattering?
“I will speak to your father tonight, only I need a solemn promise from you first.”
“What is that, Your Grace?”
“You must promise to keep your mouth closed and your tongue still, Nora. From this moment forward.” His smirk spread across his whole face. “Unless I wish otherwise, of course.”
Nora could see that he meant his words as a double entendre, and though she didn’t fully understand the layered meaning, she understood its lascivious intent. From her head to her feet, she trembled with rage. Chalford clearly thought her quivering meant something different, for his smirk became a bright smile, and he leaned close until his lips nearly touched hers. She’d never been kissed on the mouth before, and she meant not to be kissed on the mouth tonight—or by Chalford, ever.
“You will breed me perfect children, Nora. A houseful of them. But you must hold your tongue.” He tried to close the last inch between their lips.
With all she had, Nora shoved him back and forced him to stumble two whole steps away. “Breed? As if I’m a mare? Would you like to check my teeth to be sure I’m of good enough stock—or would that leave my mouth too much open?”
Chalford shook his head. “Perhaps you should have your teeth checked—with that mouth of yours, you’re only suited to marry the damned dentist! I won’t be speaking with your father tonight, Lady Nora, or any night.” When Nora started to tell him that he certainly would not be speaking to her father, he held up his hand as she took in the breath for the words. “And stop right there, my lady. One more impudent word, and I’ll see to it that no Tate will have another invitation in this Season or any other.”
Her teeth clicked shut. She could ruin her father right now, with one more wayward word. She could destroy Christopher’s prospects for a good match. She held the whole of the Tate name, the Tarrin legacy, on the tip of her tongue.
“Please excuse me, Your Grace.”
“Indeed.” Chalford bowed stiffly. “Good evening, my lady. I thank you for the illuminating dinner.” Then he walked away, leaving her alone in the shadows.
Nora let her knees fold, and she sagged in a heap to the grass.
She just wanted to be home. With that thought, homesickness overwhelmed her, and she dropped her face into her hands.
“Lady Nora, are you hurt?”
The American accent stilled her stumbling heart. She lifted her face and found Mr. William Frazier standing just there, towering over her.
“Did the duke hurt you?”
Yes, he had. Badly. But Nora shook her head. “I’m well, thank you. Only tired.” She set her hands on the grass to help herself back to her feet, but Mr. Frazier bent his knees and took gentle hold of her arms, pulling her gracefully up.
When they were both stood and facing each other, this handsome American unicorn lifted a single dark eyebrow, saying with that arch that he didn’t believe at all that she was well. “Forgive my rudeness in saying so, but Chalford is a pompous ass.”
Nora laughed, feeling a glimmer of genuine humor. “Yes, he is, but we shouldn’t speak such things too loudly.”
“He did hurt you, then.”
“I think, were it to be known, it would be said that I hurt myself.”
Mr. Frazier said nothing; he simply stared down at her—he was tall. And he was still holding her arms. The warmth of his palms enveloped her bare skin and seeped into her awareness. His hands were firmer, harder, than the hands of the lords she knew, and she remembered that he’d worked on his family’s railroad. Had he actually laid track?
He’d inched closer, perhaps without realising it, and Nora felt her body lean in, as if pulled toward his magnetic poles. If she wasn’t careful, she would be kissed on the mouth for the first time tonight, in the shadows, by an American man, and pull the family name through the mud of scandal after all.
She took a deep breath and stood straight, breaking the spell his nearness had cast. “Do you truly support women’s suffrage, Mr. Frazier? Or was that something you said to rile the others?”
A smile broke out and went all the way into his eyes, deepening the creases at their corners. “My mother has spoken for suffrage many times—on the floor of the California legislature, in fact. She’s worked with Carrie Chapman Catt. Do you know Mrs. Catt?”
“I don’t, I’m sorry.”
“Ah, then you should do some studying on the movement in America. Mrs. Catt is our version of your Mrs. Pankhurst.”
“Really!”
“Indeed. I’m not the warrior my mother is, but I support her. I attend her talks, and I’ve posted bills for her.”
“Then you are an ally to the cause.”
“I hope I am, yes.”
His voice had grown soft again, and his thumbs eased back and forth over her arms in a scant, but sensual, caress, and Nora saw again how close she was to forgetting herself with this man. This unattainable fantasy of a man.
She sighed. “Mr. Frazier, you are truly a unicorn.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s nothing. Forgive me.” Pulling her arms from his hold, she gave him her practiced Society smile and saw him recognise it for the affect it was. His expression tightened, and a lead weight settled on Nora’s chest. “Thank you for your concern, but I must go inside. Please don’t follow straightaway.”
“I understand. Good evening, Lady Nora.”
“Good evening, Mr. Frazier.”
As Kate unlaced her corset, Nora took her first real breath of the evening, and with it came her first impulse to cry of the evening. Through all her shame and awkwardness, the disappointment and frustration in her father’s eyes, the commiseration in Aunt Martha’s, the rapacious amusement in the looks of the other girls, Nora had at lease retained her composure. Even kneeling on the lawn, besieged with loneliness for Tarrindale Hall, she hadn’t shed tears.
She didn’t want to now. So she took another deep breath and whisked the urge away as Kate helped her out of her underthings and into a sleeveless cotton nightgown. While her maid gathered up her discarded garments, still clucking over the pale green marks on the rose silk of her House of Worth gown—Nora had finished the evening with grass stains on her knees—Nora sat at her dressing table and stared into the mirror.
Grass stains had been the least of her embarrassments when she’d returned to the drawing room from the garden. Chalford had left forthwith, not waiting to bid his hostess good night. He had, of course, but in the shadows, not properly. By the time she stepped in from the loggia, enough time had passed that rumors had started. One mercy: his abrupt departure indicated that Nora had not given him what he’d sought, so her virtue wasn’t in question. Yet she had clearly upset the Duke of Chalford, and the room resounded with whispered censure. The evening had dwindled to its blessed end shortly thereafter.
Another mercy: Mr. Frazier had managed to find another way into the house and re-enter the drawing room from the main door. No one had suspected that they two had met.
Mr. Frazier. The one bright light in a dark evening. But even he was shrouded in fog. If he’d been Lord Frazier, she might be smiling into this mirror right now. But he was not, thus she was not.
Nora sighed and began digging in her hair for pins. She supposed things could have ended even worse, if Chalford had said anything unkind about her to her other guests, or if Mr. Frazier had followed quickly through the loggia door. If both of those things had happened, Nora might have been put on the train back to Kent today, her virtue besmirched beyond repair.
There was no small appeal in that, honestly.
“Don’t, now, milady,” Kate fussed behind her. “You’ll make me lose count of the pins.”
Nora set her hands in her lap and let Kate take over the unmaking of her coiffure. Though she hadn’t said a word about it—and wouldn’t unless Nora opened the way—Kate had of course heard the details of the evening from the footmen. She knew Nora’s failings tonight as well as any guest at dinner, and she had been even kinder than usual in response.
Kate had only been her lady’s maid for a few years, since she’d become too old to be attended by a governess. But, like the governess before her, she was the only woman Nora saw every day, for substantial portions of each day. Kate woke her, dressed her, styled her, tucked her in at night. She brought her first and last food and drink of each day. More days than not, Kate’s hands were the only that touched her.
Thus, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that on this night full of failures and frustrations, as the one person who was reliably with her, reliably for her, released the final painful pin from her hair and then eased strong fingers into the loose mane to massage her itching, aching scalp, tears rose up again, and this time Nora let them fall.
“Oh, milady,” Kate cooed sadly. “All will be well.”
If only that were true.