Miss Ida Laurens, a calligraphy expert flown in from London for this specific workshop, is standing at the front of the room demonstrating Spencerian script on a large easel. Her movements are fluid and practiced, creating elegant loops and flourishes that look effortless.
“Thank you all for joining us for this special Spring calligraphy workshop, presented by Hampton Fountain Pens,” she says in a crisp British accent. “We’re celebrating love letters in bloom, the art of correspondence in an age where everything is temporary.”
Mom would love this. She’d be taking notes, probably already planning how to teach her clients about the value of written words.
I’m sitting in the back row because that’s where I’m comfortable. Invisible. Helpful but not the focus. Lady Hampton is in the front with the media, reporters, influencers, and fountain pen enthusiasts, all of them scribbling notes as Miss Ida explains the history of Spencerian script.
Everything is going perfectly. The exhibition opening earlier was flawless, every display case gleaming, every placard perfectly positioned. The media loved it. Lady Hampton was radiant. Veil was...
Stop thinking about Veil.
You haven’t seen him since earlier in his study, when he touched your face and you ran away like a coward.
I shift in my seat and try to focus on Miss Ida as she demonstrates the proper pen angle, the rhythm of the strokes, the importance of consistent pressure.
“Now,” she says, setting down her pen. “I’d like a volunteer to demonstrate beginner technique. Someone who hasn’t studied calligraphy before.”
Please don’t look at me. Please, please don’t—
“I’ll help Miss Evianne.”
Veil’s voice comes from directly behind me, low and amused, and every head in the room turns to stare.
No no no no—
Miss Ida beams. “Wonderful! Your Grace, how generous. Miss Evianne, if you’ll remain seated, and Your Grace, perhaps you can demonstrate how to guide someone through their first attempts?”
This is not happening. This cannot be happening. Argh!
I hear the scrape of Veil’s chair moving, and then he’s right behind me, so close his chest is nearly against my back, pulling his chair up until there’s barely any space between us. “May I?” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
He doesn’t wait for an answer.
His arms come around me, bracketing me in, and his hand settles over mine on the pen. Every camera in the room is pointed at us. Every single person is watching. And Veil, the Duke of Veilcourt, who probably planned this entire ambush, is pressed against my back like we’re in some kind of intimate embrace instead of a professional calligraphy workshop.
“Relax your grip,” he says, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
I can’t relax anything right now.
My entire body is on high alert.
There are cameras.
His fingers adjust my hold on the pen, his touch deliberate and confident, and I’m hyperaware of every point of contact. His chest against my shoulders. His thighs flanking my chair. His hand completely covering mine.
“Now,” Miss Ida says cheerfully, “Your Grace will guide Miss Evianne through the basic strokes. Everyone watch carefully, this is an excellent demonstration of how to teach the fundamentals.”
This is like ink spilling on cream stationery. Visible, permanent, impossible to hide.
Veil’s hand tightens over mine, and he begins guiding the pen across the paper in smooth, controlled movements. Down. Loop. Curve. The scratch of the nib on paper, his steady breathing against my back compared to my own erratic heartbeat.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that. Let me guide you.”
Why does everything he says sound so...suggestive?
It’s calligraphy.Letters.This is a professional event, there are cameras, what is he doing—
Miss Ida is talking about rhythm and flow, but I can’t hear her over the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
