No.
No, she is not.
I think about the portrait tour. The love letter story. The way Lady Hampton looked at me when she talked about her husband’s capacity to love deeply and completely.
She wasn’t just telling me Hampton family history.
She was telling me what her son is capable of.
“I don’t have anything to wear to a gala,” I say, which is possibly the least romantic response to a duke announcing his intention to publicly claim you, but it’s also true. I packed business casual for a fountain pen exhibition, not floor-length gowns for ballrooms.
Veil’s smile turns knowing. “Check your room. Mother may have anticipated that particular problem.”
Oh.
I stare at him. “She didn’t.”
“She very much did.”
And despite everything, despite the Joseph-sized weight still sitting in my coat pocket and the fact that tonight is going to change everything and I’m not entirely sure I’m ready for it, I laugh.
Veil watches me laugh, and the look on his face is the same one from the library. Open. Warm. Unguarded. Like watching me laugh is the best thing that’s happened to him today.
“Go get ready,” he says quietly. “I’ll see you tonight.”
He turns to leave, and I almost let him go. Almost let the moment end there, comfortable and easy and safe.
But Lady Hampton’s words are still in my head. The kind of love my son is capable of. Whether he knows it yet or not.
“Veil.”
He stops in the doorway. Turns back.
“Your father,” I say. “The letters he left for your mother. In her pockets, in her books.” I pause, because what I’m about to say feels important and I want to get it right. “I think the reason she tells that story isn’t just because it was romantic. I think it’s because he found a way to love her in her language. Not his. Hers.”
Veil goes very still.
“He knew she couldn’t hear him say I love you,” I continue softly. “So he wrote it instead. Over and over. In every way he could think of. Because he wanted her to feel it, not just know it.”
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear my own heartbeat.
Veil is looking at me like I’ve just reached into his chest and touched something he keeps hidden from everyone.
“No one,” he says slowly, “has ever said that to me before.”
“Then people haven’t been paying attention.”
Another silence. Longer this time.
Then Veil crosses the gallery in three strides, cups my face in both hands, and kisses me. Not like the library, all fire and claiming. This is the other kind. The tender kind. The kind that feels like a letter written just for me.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“Tonight,” he murmurs.
“Tonight,” I whisper back.
He lets go. Steps back. Walks to the door.
