“Your hand is trembling,” Veil whispers. “Are you afraid of me?”
My throat is too dry to answer. His fingers press slightly firmer against mine, steadying the pen, and I feel his chest expand against my back as he breathes.
“Let me guide you,” he says softly.
And he does. Stroke by stroke. Letter by letter. His hand moving mine with complete confidence while I sit there frozen, barely breathing, acutely aware that forty people are watching this and I can’t do anything except follow his lead.
“Excellent!” Miss Ida exclaims. “See how beautifully they’re working together? That’s the key, trust between teacher and student.”
Trust.
Right.
That’s definitely what this is.
“Now,” Miss Ida continues, “let’s have Miss Evianne try a word. Something romantic, since we’re celebrating spring and love letters.” She smiles warmly. “What about ‘Beloved’? Perfect for spring and romance, don’t you think? The word itself is a love letter.”
Anything but that.
But Veil is already guiding my hand to start the first letter, and I have no choice but to follow, forming the B with its elegant flourish, the e with its delicate loop, the l reaching tall—
His lips brush against my ear. Barely. So briefly I might have imagined it, except I didn’t imagine the way my breath caught or the way my pen jerked slightly on the paper or the way every nerve ending in my body suddenly ignited.
“Steady,” he whispers, and his hand tightens on mine, correcting the stroke.
We finish the word.
Beloved.
It sits there on the paper, mocking me with its perfect loops and curves, created by his hand over mine while forty people watched and photographed and smiled like this was charming instead of devastating.
The demonstration ends. Miss Ida is thanking us, asking everyone to try the techniques themselves, and Veil should let go now. He should step back. He should stop touching me.
Instead his lips brush, barely, barely, against the shell of my ear. “Your calligraphy is improving,” he whispers. “But your poker face needs work.”
I jerk away from him, pen clattering to the table, and when I look up every single person in that room is staring at us with knowing smiles. The reporters. The influencers. The fountain pen enthusiasts. Lady Hampton in the front row, signing something to Miss Ida while trying very hard not to laugh.
I’m going to kill him. I’m actually going to murder the Duke of Veilcourt.
****
BY THE TIME I ESCAPEback to the Hampton residence, my face is still burning and my hands won’t stop shaking.
The walk from the workshop venue is short, just a few minutes through Foxtown’s cobblestone paths, but I use every second of it to try to compose myself. The gas lamps are starting to flicker on as the afternoon fades, and a couple in full Regency costume strolls past me arm in arm, looking so content it makes my chest ache.
I need to call someone. I need to talk to someone who isn’t Lady Hampton (too close to the situation) or Veil (the situation itself) or Joseph (absolutely not).
I need Dorcas.
My best friend since middle school, the one person who has always been able to talk me off every ledge, literal and metaphorical. She’s a nurse in Philadelphia, practical, blunt, and the only person in my life who has never once made me feel invisible.
I find a quiet bench near the swan lake, pull out my phone, and video-call her before I can talk myself out of it. She picks up on the second ring, and I can see she’s in scrubs, her braids piled up in a messy bun, clearly on break.
“Evi! Girl, how’s the fancy new job? Did you meet the duke yet? Is he—” She stops mid-sentence when she sees my face. “What happened?”
I open my mouth to explain, and instead the whole story just pours out. Joseph at the airport. Glenda. The ring in my pocket. Lady Hampton holding my hand on the plane. Foxtown and its impossible beauty. The fountain pen exhibition. And then Veil.
“Hold on, hold on, hold on.” Dorcas holds up a hand. “Back up. The duke taught you calligraphy? In front of cameras? With his arms around you?”
