“You said that last week, and you, Daffy Dear, aren’t supposed to lie.”
“It wasn’t a lie at the time,” I say as I carefully tuck my sketches back into my book. “I had every intention to read it. I simply…didn’t.”
“Why not? Are you worried I’m a terrible writer?”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m worried it will be full of perversion and lecherousy.”
He huffs. “Lecherousy. Is that even a word? If you’re worried about tainting your angelic perception of me, then do avoid Chapter Eight.”
I hug my sketchbook to my chest and heft my canvas under my arm. “What’s in Chapter Eight?”
“I said don’t read it, didn’t I? Just read the first seven chapters. That’s all we need to focus on for now.”
I smirk, knowing I most certainly am going to read Chapter Eight, just to see what he doesn’t want me to read. We leave the ballroom, our shoulders nearly brushing as we stroll down the main hall toward the staircase that leads to the suites. Every now and then he glances over at me, just as I’m glancing at him. We look away each time, grinning to ourselves, and I can’t help but wonder if he feels the same way I do: regret that our playful dance had to end.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MONTY
Inever knew being someone’s best man involved so much work. It isn’t even six in the morning when Thorne sends over a list, delivered straight to my door by a bellhop, of chores I need to accomplish by noon. Floral arrangements to count by hand to ensure there are exactly one hundred and twelve, Thorne’s suit to pick up from the hotel’s tailor, breakfast to deliver to the bride and groom in their separate rooms. I’m convinced the bulk of these chores are merely for the fun of it, petty revenge for all my years of being an annoying best friend. And I can’t say I mind it.
Still, I’m glad to be done when noon rolls around, and I head straight for Daphne’s room. We have a lesson plan to discuss. I’d intended to do so last night, but after the exhausting evening I had entertaining an inebriated Thorne and his other friends attending his stag party, all I wanted was to let loose a little with Daph.
I hesitate as I stop outside her door, the memory of our dance sending a ripple of shy awareness through me. Blazing hell, she was so cute last night. The way she smiled, the way she laughed unrestrained as we skipped across the tables. I loved seeing her like that, in her most playful element, dancing in a pink day dress covered in graphite smudges. Toward the end, during our last waltz, I was struck with the most intense yearning to kiss her.
Then I remembered myself.
Remembered my case study.
Our lessons.
Her need for a husband.
My inability to marry.
The secrets I can never tell her.
It’s not even a choice. I physically can’t tell her my family secret, just like I physically can’t marry.
I’mboundnot to.
That sobers me from my boyish glee, and I force my posture into something casual, ruffle my hair, and loosen my already loosened cravat. Then I knock.
At first, there’s no answer, so I knock again.
Finally, just as I’m about to knock for a third time, the door slowly swings open. Daphne is dressed in loose trousers and an untucked blouse, the collar open to reveal the dips of her collarbones. She doesn’t even look at me, her eyes affixed to the piece of paper in her hands. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted. Her breaths are short and sharp, yet I don’t see any signs of distress. Only…
Good God, is she aroused?
She finally deigns to look up at me, a dreamy look on her face. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Who were you expecting?” I wince at the accusing tone in my voice but try to make up for it with a teasing grin.
“I wasn’t paying much attention at all,” she says as she abruptly hides the paper behind her back. “I was just…”
“Just…reading, perhaps? Pray tell, what is your reading material of choice? Did Edwina send you her newest manuscript?”
“Hmm? Reading? Manuscript?”
