Veil.
Not Your Grace.
Just the first name of the man who probably thinks I’m here to throw myself at him like apparently every other assistant his mother has ever hired.
“Veil,” I repeat. “Sorry. I’m just—” I gesture vaguely at the gallery around us. “Making sure everything’s ready for tomorrow’s preview.”
He walks closer, and I have to actively stop myself from taking a step back. “Mother mentioned you were in here early,” he says, glancing around the gallery with what looks like genuine interest. “I thought I’d see if you needed any help.”
Help.
From a duke.
“Oh, that’s—you don’t have to—I’m fine, really, it’s just—”
Stop babbling, Evianne!
I take a breath and try again. “Thank you, but I have everything under control.”
His lips curve. “Do you?”
“Yes?” I wince internally at the way that comes out as a question.
Veil moves past me to examine the display case I was just adjusting, and I catch a hint of his cologne, something expensive and woody and entirely too distracting. “The lighting’s off,” he observes.
My cheeks warm. I was literally just about to fix that. “I know. It’s on my list.”
“Mm.” He’s still looking at the case, not at me, which should be a relief but somehow isn’t. “My father collected many of these pieces personally. This one,” he taps the glass above a stunning pen with intricate gold filigree, “he found it at an estate sale in Bath. The owner had no idea what she had.”
Despite myself, I’m curious. “What makes it special?”
“It’s a Mabie Todd Swan. 1920s. One of only a few dozen ever made with this particular design.” He finally looks at me. “Would you like to see it up close?”
I should say no. I’m busy and professional and definitely not interested in spending more time with him than necessary. “Yes,” I hear myself say. “Please.”
Traitor.
Veil produces a key from his pocket and unlocks the display case with practiced ease. The way he moves is efficient, precise, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s handling irreplaceable antiques. He lifts the pen carefully, reverently even, and holds it out to me.
“Go ahead.”
I take it from him, trying very hard to make sure our fingers don’t touch, but they do anyway because the universe apparently hates me, and the brief contact sends a jolt of awareness up my arm that I absolutely do not have time for.
The pen is heavier than I expected. Beautiful too. The gold filigree catches the light, creating intricate patterns that must have taken hundreds of hours to complete. The nib looks hand-crafted, the kind of detailed work you just don’t see anymore.
“It’s gorgeous,” I whisper, because whispering seems appropriate when you’re holding something that’s almost a hundred years old.
“My father always said fountain pens were the last bastion of craftsmanship in a disposable world.”
I look up at him, and he’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Not the cynical amusement from last night. Not the cool politeness from when we first met. Something softer, almost.
“He sounds like he was a good man,” I say.
“He was.” Veil’s voice is quiet. “He would have liked you.”
The words catch me off guard, and I don’t know what to say, so I just look back down at the pen in my hands because that’s safer than looking at him when he’s being unexpectedly genuine.
“Here.” Veil reaches past me, close enough that I catch that cologne again, and grabs a piece of paper from the nearby desk. “Try it.”
