Chapter Four
THE BOY IN THE GREENscarf is skating too close to the ropes.
I notice him because I notice everything at events like this, the small details that could turn into problems. It’s the coordinator in me, the part of my brain that never fully shuts off, always scanning for the thing that’s about to go wrong.
But right now, standing on the shore of Foxtown’s frozen lake with my clipboard tucked under my arm, I’m supposed to be watching the exhibition skaters. They’re gliding across the ice in full Regency costume, all elegant spins and graceful movements, and Lady Hampton is signing to me about how the choreography incorporates elements of period dance.
‘The waltz wasn’t considered proper until the 1820s,’she signs, her eyes bright with delight.‘Before that, this kind of partnered dancing was considered scandalous.’
‘Scandalous?’I sign back, smiling.
‘Imagine. Holding someone’s waist in public.’She gives me a look that’s so mischievous it makes her look decades younger.‘The horror.’
The crowd around us is charmed. Families, couples, Foxtown residents in their period attire, media people from the fountain pen launch who stayed for the skating exhibition. The afternoon light makes everything look gilded, the ice glinting, the Regency costumes catching the sun, the whole scene like something from a painting.
And I’ve been doing so well.
Five days since the calligraphy workshop. Five days since Veil sat behind me with his arms around me in front of forty people and cameras and whispered things in my ear that still make me flush when I think about them. Five days since that text, the one I never replied to. Sleep well.
Five days of avoiding him.
It hasn’t been easy. The estate isn’t that big, and he’s everywhere, or at least it feels like he is. Coming down the stairs when I’m going up. Passing through the gallery while I’m adjusting displays. Sitting in the breakfast room when I arrive too early because I miscalculated his schedule.
But I’ve managed. Mostly. I keep my eyes on my clipboard, my conversations professional, my interactions brief and polite and utterly, painfully neutral. When he walks into a room, I find a reason to leave. When Lady Hampton invites us both to tea, I make an excuse about inventory.
It’s not mature. It’s not brave. Dorcas would call it what it is, which is cowardice, and she’d be right.
But I can’t help it.
Because every time I’m near him, my body does things my brain hasn’t authorized. My heart speeds up. My skin prickles. I find myself leaning toward him like a plant toward sunlight, and I have to physically stop myself, physically pull back, because I cannot do this right now.
I can’t.
I just watched my fiancé kiss my cousin at an airport. The ring is still in my coat pocket because I still haven’t called Joseph, still haven’t said the words, still haven’t dealt with any of it. I’m a mess. A complete, unprocessed, emotionally wrecked mess, and the absolute last thing I should be doing is developing feelings for a duke who probably tests every woman in his orbit just to see how quickly they’ll fall.
So I avoid him.
And it’s working.
Sort of.
Except for the part where I’m now hyperaware of exactly where he is at all times, which kind of defeats the purpose of avoidance, but I’m choosing not to examine that too closely.
Like right now. I’m not scanning the crowd for dark hair and blue eyes. I’m definitely not noticing that he’s on the other side of the lake, talking to a woman in a fur-trimmed cape who keeps touching his arm.
Three times.
She’s touched his arm three times.
Not that I’m counting.
