“It was a workshop demonstration—”
“Girl.” She gives meThe Look, the one that has been calling me on my nonsense since we were twelve. “That man was not demonstrating calligraphy. That man was staking a claim.”
“He was not—”
“Did he or did he not whisper in your ear while forty people watched?”
I’m silent.
“Uh huh.” Dorcas leans back, crossing her arms. “That’s what I thought. And you’re telling me this happened less than forty-eight hours after you caught Joseph sucking face with Glenda at the airport?”
“When you put it like that—”
“How else am I supposed to put it?” But her expression softens. “Evi, listen to me. You are allowed to be attracted to someone new. You’re allowed to feel things. But you need to deal with Joseph first. You can’t just pocket the ring and pretend it didn’t happen.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because knowing you, you’re going to avoid that conversation until it becomes physically impossible to avoid, and by then—”
“Dorcas.”
“I’m just saying.” She holds up both hands. “Handle your business. Tell Joseph it’s over. Officially. And then, and only then, you can figure out what’s happening with Mr. Calligraphy Hands.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. It comes out watery and broken, but it’s real, and Dorcas grins because she knows she’s gotten through to me.
“I miss you,” I tell her.
“I miss you, too. Now go handle your mess.” She pauses. “And Evi?”
“Yeah?”
“If the duke tries the calligraphy thing again? At least enjoy it a little, will you?”
I’m still smiling when I hang up, but the smile fades as I stare at my phone and see Joseph’s name in my notifications. Three more texts. Two missed calls. All lies wrapped in love yous and miss yous, and I know Dorcas is right. I need to deal with this. I need to tell him I know.
But not tonight.
Tonight I’m going to focus on the job I came here to do, and I’m going to pretend that my heart isn’t being pulled in directions I never expected.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and head toward the house. Through the sitting room window, I can see Lady Hampton curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea, and the sight of her there, so warm and settled, tugs at something in my chest.
She looks up when I walk in, and her expression shifts into barely contained amusement, which tells me she knows exactly how the workshop went.
‘How was the workshop?’ she signs to me, her eyes sparkling.
‘Educational,’ I sign back dryly.
Lady Hampton presses her lips together, clearly fighting a laugh.‘My son can be very...thorough in his teaching.’
‘Lady Hampton—’
‘Geena,’she signs.‘Please. I think we’re past formalities, don’t you?’
The kindness in her face makes my throat tight. ‘Geena,’ I try, and it feels strange on my hands, too familiar, too warm, like calling her that means something more than just a name.
‘Sit with me,’she signs.‘I want to show you something.’
I sit down across from her, and she pulls out a leather portfolio, the kind that looks old and well-loved, its edges worn soft from years of handling. Inside are letters. Dozens of them, written on beautiful cream stationery in a hand so elegant it looks like calligraphy.
