#nathaniel whippleton

Long past the day they laid him to rest, the visits became less about mourning and more about remembering.

Thunder rumbled, shaking the old windows as Nathaniel fastened his coat. Peg’s voice broke through the sound — steady but trembling. “Don’t go trying to be a hero,” she warned. “Just come back to us.”

He gave a soft laugh, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll try.”

Prim lingered nearby, stiff as the stone beneath her feet. They’d argued that morning — about lessons, or manners, or something that suddenly didn’t matter at all. When Nathaniel crouched and held out his arms, she hesitated… then let herself be gathered up, small arms wrapping tight around his neck.

"How long until they notice our disappearance, do you think?" Imogen mused aloud as she and Nathaniel walked along the river's edge.

"Oh, we’ve got at least twenty-seven minutes." Nathaniel’s response was as ridiculous as it was typical for him. Nathaniel. Peg liked the way his name sounded on her tongue. They’d been calling each other by their given names for a couple of weeks now, and every time she said his name, her stomach flipped a little.

"They were wrist-deep in their scones and tea and laughing like hyenas at each other’s clever repartee." Imogen couldn’t fault his logic—but she would never tell him that. Instead, she focused on his absurdity. "Wrist-deep? Really? That is an image I’m not sure I’ll ever be rid of." She chuckled.

"Nathaniel?" She hesitated, and he turned to look at her fully. They were in a small clearing near the river’s edge. The town bustled just beyond the tall grasses and stately trees, but here, it was quiet. The soft sounds of the river meandering along its course mingled with the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze, brushing through the verdant foliage.

Clearing her throat, she tried again. "Nathaniel? I... I would like you to call me Peg. Margaret is my given name, but my family calls me Peg. I would like you to call me that as well."

Something in Nathaniel’s face shifted—not overtly, but there was a subtle softness around his eyes, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward. He stepped closer and clasped her gloved hands. "If that is what you’d like me to call you, then that is what I shall do. A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet."

The quote was as charming as it was ridiculous. Peg scrunched her nose the way she always did when she was about to disagree. "Don’t scrunch your nose up at me. I would call you Aphrodite, if you wished it. I’m sorry. That was brazen."

His gaze dropped, and he made to release her hands, but she squeezed his fingers, gently coaxing him to look at her again. "It was a ridiculous thing to say, but it was also beautiful. You speak so much more eloquently than I do. I enjoy your manner of speech. Please don’t be embarrassed."

She’d chickened out on what she’d meant to say: I will be your Aphrodite if you be my Hephaestus—but no one wanted to be Hephaestus, even if he did get the girl in the end.

"Peg." That one simple nickname held so much more meaning when he said it. "I would like to kiss you. It’s all I’ve thought about for nigh on a week now. I love that we’re friends, but I want—"

He didn’t finish. She didn’t let him.

Viscountess Gorsewell secured a highly coveted invitation from Lady Nancy Laandgrab. Lady Nancy, daughter of the Marquess of Berrington, had married beneath her—but it was said that Geoffrey Laandgrab was so rich the Marquess couldn’t bring himself to object when he offered for Nancy’s hand. It was the season's inaugural event and attended by all walks of life. Geoffrey's business dealings were so vast that it pleased him when his wife included a wide array of guests at their parties. One never knew where the next fortune was to be made, after all.

Peg had been prepped with all this information and bade to remember it, lest she embarrass herself—or worse, Lady Alaina. Peg was not usually nervous or prone to jitters, but tonight she was definitely feeling out of her element. Her mother had befriended several ladies of note and was at ease in this environment. How Peg admired her mother’s chameleon ways!

The dancing was to begin shortly. Brierwell Manor, the home of the Laandgrabs, was a large edifice just outside Ravenwood proper. It loomed over the town square, and the ballroom—while not overly large—felt enormous. There were bodies everywhere, it seemed. Peg fumbled with her dance card. Did she have any dances lined up? She was sure she did, but her mind had gone to mush.

Get it together.

A hand extended and lightly caught her fingers. Startled out of her internal panic, Peg looked up and found herself face-to-face with the viscount’s younger brother, Nathaniel.

“Miss Margaret, I believe I’ve claimed this dance.”

His manner bordered on the absurd, but Peg was quickly discovering that the English were quite strict—and a bit ridiculous—about their traditions. She smiled at his bowed head, half-wondering if his top hat might topple off or bop her in the face.

As the dance began, Nathaniel pulled her into a perfect dancing posture and noticed her quirked smile.

“I’m so glad I’ve brought a smile to your lips. You did look rather like a fish out of water a moment ago.”

“I was a fish out of water a moment ago, but I’ve recovered,” she replied. “I daresay, I’m not used to all this formality and rigor. I’m simultaneously enjoying the observation of English tradition and humored by it.”

He eased her into the next steps of the dance, which, to Peg’s relief, were not too dissimilar from the country dances she’d attended back home.

“I shall do my best not to take offense at your very American perspective. Clearly your time in the wilds of California has warped your mind.”

He said it not unkindly, but Peg couldn’t tell if he was being serious or teasing.

“I pride myself on being able to read people, but you I find confounding. In truth, I can’t tell if you’re poking fun at me or being perfectly earnest.”

He moved her into the next steps of the dance effortlessly, and Peg found herself relaxing.

“Are you so worldly that you’ve experienced it all and determined the English ways to be superior?”

Nathaniel laughed, and while Peg enjoyed the sound, she had the impression he didn’t do it often. The lines that appeared on his face weren’t deeply worn.

“You’re quick. My dear sister warned me about you. She despairs that you’ll make a grand match, but she also knows the ton will be alight with interest. You’ll be popular despite yourself, and your wit will soon be known. Be careful— not all Englishmen are as charming and easygoing as I. I find your manner delightfully refreshing, though.”

Peg beamed up at him, if only to disarm him. Her smile wasn’t practiced, but it was genuine. Nathaniel’s gaze faltered for a brief second before he recovered. She wondered what he had been thinking but chose to focus on his lack of answer instead.

“You failed to answer my question. Are you not up to the task?” she asked, sweetly enough to pass for beguiling. Years of being an older sister to a prickly younger brother had their consequences.

“I am eager to oblige your nosy question,” Nathaniel teased.

Peg donned a playfully affronted expression.

“I am neither worldly nor experienced,” he continued. “I have read untold volumes of tomes and based my opinions on the writings of others.”

“Are they all English authors?”

Nathaniel had expected that to be the end of it—but her retort caught him off guard.

“They are. Should they not be?”

“How are you going to acquire a proper worldly view by only reading English authors? I would’ve thought that someone so well read would have a broader library than that.”

She hadn’t said it unkindly—just as a matter of fact, as obvious as the nose on his face.

“I will repent,” he said, feigning penitence. “You’re right. My readings have left me short-sighted. Are there any authors I should read to gain a more well-rounded view?”

“I don’t know your tastes, but you could start with the obvious,” she said, nose scrunching slightly as she failed to suppress a bubble of laughter. “You could try an American author.”

Nathaniel pulled a face of mock horror and joined her in laughter.

“That is just too far, Miss Margaret. I don’t know how they raise proper young misses in America, but they are not so well-armed here. Your tongue could be a rapier!”

They danced for a few moments in companionable silence before he continued.

“The ton is definitely not ready for you. You speak as if you know everything already—are you an older sister?”

She grinned, full of pride.

“I am. I’m a very good older sister. Or rather, I’m very good at being one. You’d probably commiserate well with my younger brother, Julius. He’s forever complaining about the sound advice I give him.”

“Hmm, older siblings do love to expound their knowledge to no end. I shall side with Julius forever now. We have an enemy in common, after all—older siblings.”

He said the last bit conspiratorially, and Peg found herself laughing again. Some of the other dancers turned, curious as to what the pair found so amusing. But as the dance came to an end, Peg felt a twinge of disappointment.