"I don't need a porcelain doll who drops her fan," Nathaniel said, looking directly into her eyes. "I don't need a woman who recites French poetry. I need a partner. I need someone who understands that this house is sinking into the mud and who is willing to grab a bucket and bail water with me."
Nora's breath hitched. The raw honesty of it stripped away every defense she had built. He wasn't a god on a pedestal. He was a drowning man.
"Then you invited the wrong women," Nora said softly. "The women out there don't know how to bail water. They only know how to drown gracefully."
Nathaniel took a step closer to her. The smell of woodsmoke and ink wrapped around her. "Not all of them."
Panic, sharp and cold, spiked in Nora's chest. She took a step back, her spine hitting the edge of the desk. "No. No, your grace. You do not get to look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I am an option." Her voice trembled, and she hated herself for it. "Rosalind needs you. My mother will be turned out into the street by Christmas if Rosalind does not marry well. I am the ballast. Remember? If you look at me, you sink my entire family."
Nathaniel's jaw clenched, the muscle feathered near his ear. He looked as though he wanted to argue, to tear down the ridiculous societal rules that caged them both. But he was a man trapped by his own ledgers. And she was a girl trapped by her mother's debts.
Before he could speak, the heavy brass doors of the library swung open. "Your grace!" Lord Shelby's booming voice shattered the quiet. "The ladies are gathering for the promenade to the lake. You promised to lead the party."
Nathaniel didn't look away from Nora immediately. He held her gaze for three agonizing seconds. Then he stepped back. The mask of the Duke sliding effortlessly back into place over the tired man.
"I am coming, Shelby," he called out smoothly. He gave Nora a brief formal bow. "Miss Montgomery, enjoy the Greeks."
He walked out, leaving the ledger on the desk, and the scent of woodsmoke fading in the air. Nora gripped the edge of the oak wood until her knuckles turned white, her heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against her bruised ribs.
The promenade to the lake was a disaster waiting to happen. The sky had darkened from a bruised purple to a menacing charcoal black. The air was thick and heavy, smelling of damp earth and incoming rain. Yet 30 women swathed in impractical muslins, delicate silks, and thin leather slippers marched stubbornly down the gravel path toward the ornamental lake.
Lady Edith walked at the rear with the dowagers, her eyes fixed like sniper sights on the front of the column where Nathaniel walked. Rosalind had managed to secure the position on his right. She looked breathtaking. The peach muslin dress stood out violently against the gloomy landscape, and she was employing every weapon in her arsenal. She laughed. She pointed gracefully at the swans. She asked him questions about the estate's history, her voice a melodious chime in the heavy air.
Nathaniel was perfectly polite. He answered her questions. He offered his arm when the gravel grew uneven. But Nora, trailing 20 paces behind with the younger, less aggressive daughters, could see the tension in his shoulders. He was enduring the walk.
"He likes her," Celia whispered nervously, linking her arm through Nora's. "Mother says he is definitely leaning toward her."
"He is leaning away from the wind, Celia," Nora muttered, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
They reached the edge of the lake where a crumbling stone folly, a romanticized ruin built by Nathaniel's grandfather, stood overlooking the water. The wind picked up, whipping the skirts of the women into frantic, snapping flags.
And then the sky broke. It didn't drizzle. It didn't sprinkle. It unleashed a torrential, freezing deluge of Somerset rain. Chaos erupted. Women shrieked, throwing their hands over their elaborate bonnets. The dowagers abandoned their dignity and began sprinting back toward the manor house, their heavy velvet cloaks dragging in the sudden mud.
"Rosalind, the folly!" Lady Edith screamed over the wind, pointing frantically to the stone structure.
The younger guests bolted for the shelter of the ruined walls. Nora, however, didn't run. She stood frozen for a second, watching the absolute destruction of £1,000 worth of silk and feathers occurring in real time. She turned to follow Celia toward the folly, but her thin slipper caught on a slick, mossy stone hidden in the gravel. She pitched forward, landing hard on her hands and knees in the muck. The wet earth soaked instantly through her skirt, chilling her to the bone. She hissed in pain, examining her scraped palms, completely coated in thick black mud.
"Get up." The voice was rough, barking over the sound of the rain. Large hands gripped her under the arms, hauling her upright with effortless strength.
Nora blinked the rain out of her eyes. Nathaniel was standing there, the rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. His immaculate coat was already soaked.
"I can walk," Nora gasped, trying to pull away. She was a disaster. She was covered in mud. Her hair was plastered to her cheeks, and she looked like a drowned rat.
"Don't be an idiot," he growled.
He didn't guide her toward the folly, where the other women, including Rosalind, were huddled, watching them with wide, shocked eyes. He bypassed them entirely. He took Nora by the hand, ignoring the mud covering her fingers, and pulled her toward the thickest part of the treeline, where the massive canopy of an ancient oak tree offered a natural umbrella against the downpour.
They stepped under the heavy branches. The rain immediately reduced to a heavy, echoing drip. Nora stood shivering, wrapping her arms around her chest. The cold was biting into her damp skin.
Without a word, Nathaniel shrugged off his heavy tailored coat. He stepped close to her and draped it over her shoulders. The wool was warm from his body, smelling intensely of him.