The corner of his mouth twitched upward. It changed his entire face, softening the harsh lines, making him suddenly dangerously human.
"I should return," Nathaniel sighed, though he made absolutely no move toward the curtain. "If the Duke is absent for too long, the mothers will begin hunting in packs. They will corner me in the billiard room."
"Take a pool cue," Nora advised. "Defend yourself."
"I am unarmed," he deadpanned. "I left my cue in the armory."
Nora smiled. A real smile. It felt strange on her face after a week of miserable scowling. "Then you are doomed, your grace."
He stared at her smile for a long moment. His eyes dropped to her lips, then back up to her eyes. The air in the alcove shifted, the casual banter suddenly giving way to a quiet, undeniable tension. He was close enough that she could smell him over the scent of the dusty velvet: leather, bergamot, and the sharp tang of whiskey.
"Perhaps," he murmured. "Put your shoe back on, Miss..."
He left the sentence hanging, waiting for her name. Nora hesitated. She thought of Rosalind out there, working tirelessly to secure this man's fortune. She thought of her mother's desperate, gripping fingers. If she gave him her name, she entered the game. She became a competitor. She didn't want to be a competitor. She just wanted to be a girl hiding behind a curtain.
"Good night, your grace," Nora said quietly. She didn't give him her name. She leaned down, grabbed her shoe, and slipped it roughly onto her aching foot. She pushed past him, her shoulder brushing against his solid chest, and slipped through the slit in the curtain.
The heat, the noise, and the glaring light of the drawing room hit her like a physical blow. She blinked against the brightness, keeping her head down, and melted into the crowd before he could follow her out. From the corner of the room, Lady Edith's sharp eyes locked onto her. Her mother began marching through the crowd, looking furious.
Nora didn't care. Her heel was bleeding. Her corset was still a torture device, and her family was still broke. But as she glanced back at the heavy burgundy drape, she saw a large masculine hand brush against the fabric, parting it just a fraction through the narrow slit. Nathaniel Reed was watching her, and he was no longer looking with boredom. He was looking like a hunter who had just caught a scent.
The guest chamber assigned to the Montgomery women was in the north wing. It was a beautiful room, decorated in pale blues and silver, but the fireplace smoked, and the draft from the sash windows was practically a gale.
Lady Edith's fingers dug into Nora's forearm the moment the heavy oak door clicked shut behind them. "Where did you go?" Edith's voice was a harsh, terrified hiss. She did not yell. Yelling could be heard through walls, and the Montgomerys could not afford to be loud. "I spent an hour looking for you. Lady Shelby asked if you had taken ill. Do you know how damaging an impression of frailty is?"
"I was behind a curtain," Nora said flatly. She pulled her arm free, her skin throbbing where her mother's nails had bitten in.
"A curtain." Edith stared at her, the lines around her mouth hardening into deep, bitter grooves. "While your sister is out there fighting for our very survival, you are playing hide and seek with the drapery."
"I was suffocating, mother. My heel was bleeding. I removed myself so I would not faint on the Duke's Persian rug."
Edith dismissed this with a sharp wave of her hand. Physical pain was irrelevant. Survival was everything. She turned her frantic energy to Rosalind, who was standing perfectly still in the center of the room, looking like a shattered porcelain doll.
"Unlace her, Celia," Edith commanded.
Celia scrambled to obey, her trembling fingers working at the tight silk cords at Rosalind's back. When the heavy gown finally fell away, and the brutal canvas corset was loosened, Rosalind let out a ragged, whistling breath. She slumped forward, bracing her hands on her knees. The linen shift beneath was soaked in sweat. Angry deep red welts dug into her ribs and waist, where the whalebone had mercilessly compressed her internal organs for 6 hours.
Nora felt a surge of fierce protective pity. She hated the game, but she didn't hate her sister. Rosalind was simply the best soldier they had, sent to the front lines in silk armor.
"Did he smile, Rosalind?" Edith asked, pacing the length of the cold floor. "When you spoke of the hounds, did he smile?"
"He nodded," Rosalind whispered. "He said his head gamekeeper handles the breeding."
"Did he look at your mouth?"
Rosalind closed her eyes. "I do not know, mother. He looked tired. He looked through me like I was a pane of glass."
"You are not glass. You are a mirror. You reflect back to him exactly what he wishes to see." Edith snapped. She walked over and lifted Rosalind's chin. "Tomorrow is the promenade to the lake. You will wear the peach muslin. You will be vibrant. You will not let him look through you again."
Nora turned away quietly, unlacing her own ruined bodice. She didn't ask for help. She wriggled out of the stifling fabric, the cool air of the drafty room hitting her damp skin. Her own ribs mirrored Rosalind's: bruised, red, and tender to the touch.
This was what the world didn't see. The men in the drawing rooms only saw the tiny waists and the effortless grace. They didn't see the bruised ribs, the bleeding heels, the desperate calculations made in freezing bedrooms at midnight.
She thought of Nathaniel Reed in the dark alcove. They smile with their mouths, but their eyes are doing arithmetic. He knew. He saw the machinery beneath the silk.