Obviously he did not appreciate the unfavorable attention she had brought down upon his head. She winced. His association with her would not earn him any approval among his peers. That much was clear. If the ugly scene with that vile gentleman did not prove that, then there was Birchwood’s dinner party to remind her.

He’d been most attentive this day. Polite and cordial, but this—she—was not what he wanted. He’d been clear on that when she arrived.

She was only here as the Birchwood’s guest in order to help him, or, specifically, to help the duchess, and so far she hadn’t helped him with anything at all. She was of no service to him. No help at all. She was an inconvenience. The duchess seemed fine. Hale and hearty, in fact. She couldn’t stay here forever on the chance the duchess became ill again.

Nora should go home where she belonged. She had a family and a life waiting for her . . . a purpose and vocation. She missed her laboratory and all her things. As much as members of the community called her eccentric, she knew she was needed there. She was wanted in Brambledon. She had a place there. Always. Not here. Never here.

As soon as she returned to Birchwood House, she would start planning her return home.

She gasped as their carriage ground to a halt, her hand flying to the loop swaying overhead to catch her balance.

Oh, rot. A delay was the last thing she wanted. When she inhaled deeply, she caught his scent again. Masculine with a faint whiff of soap.

She wanted to get back to the house, to her chamber and her privacy where she could pout in relative peace and safety. Away from him.

Awkwardness swelled around them as they sat planted, the moments dragging into minutes. She folded her hands over her lap and unfolded them. Then folded them again. Restless energy danced along her nerves.

Usually she did not feel so uncomfortable. A sense of awkwardness required self-awareness. Usually she was indifferent to how others perceived her.

At least she had never cared before.

She did not like these sudden . . . feelings. It was not her way. She did not like caring what he thought about her. This sudden interest and concern for how Sinclair perceived her was vexing.

He leaned forward and the sudden movement made her flinch. Her hands flew to clench the edge of the velvet seat. Fingers curling. Knuckles tight.

He paused and looked at her, evidently aware of her reaction, and that brought a rush of heat to her face.

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he proceeded, scooting forward to part the curtains and peer outside their carriage for a better view of the traffic. His intent all along, apparently, was to look outside. Not to touch her. Of course not. He had always been circumspect toward her.