The next morning, Somerset delivered a heavy, bruised sky. It wasn't raining, but the threat of it hung in the air, pressing down on the manicured lawns of Aldridge Hall. The breakfast room was an exercise in psychological warfare. 30 young women sat around a monstrous mahogany table, delicately pushing eggs and toast around their plates. To eat heartily was considered vulgar. To have an appetite was unladylike.
Nora sat at the far end of the table, entirely out of her mother's line of sight, and quietly demolished a plate of kippers, three sausages, and a massive slice of buttered bread. She was starving. The nervous energy of the house burned calories, and Nora had no intention of fading away.
She watched Rosalind across the room, taking microscopic bites of a dry biscuit, smiling bravely at a boring anecdote delivered by the Duke's elderly aunt. Nathaniel was not there. The footmen poured tea and whispered that his grace was in his study, dealing with the estate manager. A collective sigh of disappointment rippled down the table. The peacocks had preened for an absent audience.
As soon as she finished her tea, Nora stood. The other girls were gathering in the morning room to do needlepoint and ruthlessly compliment each other while secretly looking for flaws. Nora had no interest in the blood sport. She slipped out the side door, navigating the labyrinthine corridors of the north wing. She was looking for the library. If she was going to be trapped in a gilded cage for a fortnight, she intended to at least raid the owner's bookshelves.
She found it behind a set of heavy brass-studded doors. The Aldridge Library was not a room for show. It smelled of beeswax, old leather, and a faint lingering trace of wood smoke. The shelves stretched two stories high, accessed by wrought iron spiral staircases. It was magnificent. It was quiet.
Nora walked down the center aisle, dragging her fingers lightly across the spines of the books. History, philosophy, agriculture. She pulled a worn volume of Greek myths from a shelf, blew the dust from the top edge, and turned to find a window seat.
"If you are looking for the poetry, it is in the East Wing," a rough voice said. "My grandfather thought poetry was frivolous and banished it."
Nora jumped, the heavy book slipping from her grasp. It didn't hit the floor. A large hand caught it midair. Nathaniel stood there, having materialized from the shadows between the shelves. He was not wearing the immaculate dark coat of the previous evening. He wore a simple linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. A smudge of ink stained his left thumb. He looked less like a duke and more like a man who worked for a living.
He looked down at the book in his hand, then back up at her. "You didn't give me your name last night," he said quietly.
Nora stood frozen in the narrow aisle between the towering shelves. The dusty light from the high arched windows caught the dust motes dancing in the air between them. "I didn't think it mattered," she said, keeping her voice steady, despite the sudden erratic thumping in her chest.
"It mattered to me." He handed the book back to her. His fingers brushed hers: warm, slightly calloused. A shock of heat traveled up her arm. She quickly pulled the book to her chest like a shield.
"Nora Montgomery," she said. There was no point in lying. "I am Rosalind's sister."
Recognition flickered in his dark eyes. "Ah. The beauty in the pale blue silk. The one who dropped her fan with the precision of a military tactician."
Nora's jaw tightened. "She is fighting for her life, your grace. Try not to hold it against her."
Nathaniel leaned against the bookshelf, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked exhausted. The ink on his thumb matched the dark circles under his eyes. "I don't hold it against her. I understand the mechanics of the market. But it makes for miserable conversation." He tilted his head, studying her. "You are not fighting for your life."
"I am the third daughter," Nora stated, a blunt, cynical edge creeping into her voice. "My family has precisely enough capital to launch one of us successfully. Rosalind is the capital ship. Celia is the dinghy. I am the ballast. I am here to make the room look full and stay out of the way."
"The ballast." Nathaniel's mouth twitched. "That is a terrible way to view yourself."
"It is a practical way to view myself. It prevents disappointment."
He didn't laugh this time. He just looked at her, his expression stripping away the aristocratic veneer. It was the same look he had given her in the dark behind the curtain. It was heavy, searching, and deeply unsettling.
"Come here," he said softly.
He didn't wait for her to agree. He turned and walked down the aisle toward a massive oak desk situated near the fireplace. It was buried under a snowdrift of papers, maps, and heavy leatherbound ledgers. Nora hesitated, then followed him.
He picked up a thick ledger bound in scuffed green leather and dropped it heavily onto the center of the desk. He flipped it open. The pages were covered in cramped aggressive handwriting. Columns of numbers marched down the margins.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked.
"A ledger?" Nora replied, glancing at the columns.
"It is a list of every tenant farmer on the Aldridge estate whose roof is currently leaking," Nathaniel said, tapping a long finger against the page. "240 families. Below that, the cost of slate. Below that, the cost of timber. Over here," he flipped a page, "is the debt my father left when he died on a hunting trip 2 years ago. He was fond of racehorses and terrible at choosing them."
Nora looked from the numbers to his face. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Because last night you accused me of parading women around so I could point a finger at the widest hips. You think I am enjoying this?" His voice was low, laced with a bitter exhaustion. "I loathe it. I am £20,000 in debt. I have villages that will freeze this winter if I do not fix their cottages. My solicitor tells me the only way to secure the credit I need from the London banks is to prove stability, to marry, to produce an heir, to stop looking like a reckless bachelor who might break his neck and leave the estate in chaos."
He closed the ledger with a sharp crack that echoed in the quiet library.