Chapter Two
THE GRAND GALLERY ISeven more beautiful than the photographs showed, and I’m in full professional mode, checklist in hand, making sure every display case is perfect, when I feel him before I see him.
I don’t know how I know he’s there. Maybe it’s the way the air shifts, or maybe it’s just that my body has decided to betray me by developing some kind of Veil-radar, but I know he’s entered the room even before I hear his footsteps on the marble floor.
Don’t turn around.
Just keep working.
You’re a professional.
I adjust the lighting on the display case in front of me, a gorgeous collection of Victorian-era fountain pens with mother-of-pearl inlays catching the light, and make a note on my checklist:Case 3: lighting angle needs minor adjustment.
There. See? I can absolutely focus on work and not on the stupidly attractive duke who is definitely walking closer because I can hear his footsteps now, and they’re getting louder, and—
Focus, Evianne!
I woke up this morning determined. No more spiraling. No more thinking about Joseph or Glenda or how my entire life fell apart at the airport. No more noticing how blue Veil’s eyes are or how his voice does that thing where it sounds like he’s amused by everything I say. I’m here to do a job, a job I’m actually good at, a job that makes sense, and I intend to do it well.
Lady Hampton had signed to me over breakfast,‘The exhibition setup should take most of the day. Don’t worry about being perfect. Just do your best.’
And I’d signed back, ‘I’ll make it perfect anyway.’
Because that’s what I do. I organize and coordinate and ensure every detail is exactly right. It’s the one thing I’m confident about, the one area of my life where I know I’m not boring or inadequate or any of the other things Joseph spent three years making me believe I was.
“Miss Evianne.”
I spin around too fast, nearly dropping my clipboard, and there he is.
Veil.
Standing maybe ten feet away, hands in the pockets of his dark jeans, wearing a charcoal sweater that looks like it was made for him, looking like he just stepped out of a magazine spread titled “Dukes Who Will Ruin Your Life.”
Stop it, Evianne.
“Your Grace,” I manage. “Good morning.”
“Veil,” he corrects mildly. “Remember?”
Right.
