A woman in a Regency gown is walking a small dog.
A man in a top hat is reading a newspaper on a bench.
There’s a shop with a sign that says ‘Milliner’in beautiful script.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’Lady Hampton signs.
‘It’s incredible,’I sign back, and I mean it.
But I’m also noticing other things. The way the cobblestones are perfectly smooth—no gaps or uneven surfaces that would catch a wheelchair or walker. The ramps that blend so seamlessly into the architecture you almost don’t notice them. The way every shop window is at a height that accommodates everyone.
Mom would love this.
The thought comes unbidden, and my chest tightens.
I need to write her about this. She’ll want to know about Foxtown’s design, about how they’ve managed to create something so inclusive without sacrificing the period aesthetic.
We drive slowly through the main area—I catch glimpses of a lake with actual swans, a massive manor house, shops with bow windows full of gorgeous displays—and then we’re turning onto a quieter road, passing through more gates, and pulling up to...a house?
No, wait, not a house. But an estate?
Smaller than the massive manor we passed earlier, but still the kind of place that has a name. And history. The kind that makes you want to curtsy just looking at it.
‘The Foxes were so amazing with what they did here,’Lady Hampton signs.‘We gave them free reins to decorate the place as we were pressed with time, and the result is just...it feels like home.’
I do my best to smile and nod while real-life concerns start crowding my mind. It’s finally beginning to sink on me that Lady Hampton isn’t theonlyperson I’m technically working for. Heronlyson obviously has veto power as well on whether I get to continue working or not, and here I am, looking like I’ve been crying on a plane for four hours.
Which, unfortunately, was also the truth.
The car drives to a smooth stop, and my heart threatens to gallop out of my chest.
It’s fine. You’re going to be fine. You’ve got this.
The driver opens Lady Hampton’s door first, then comes around to mine, and I’m stepping out onto gravel, and the house is even more impressive up close, and—
Whoa.
There’s someone waiting for us at the top of the stairs, and even though it’s my first time to see him, I know exactly who he is right away.
He’s tall—really tall, maybe six-two?—with dark hair that’s slightly too long, like he can’t be bothered with regular haircuts, and blue eyes that I can see even from here, and a face that’s so perfect it’s almost unreal. Think sharp jaw and high cheekbones, the kind of bone structure that makes you think of princes in fairy tales, except princes in fairy tales don’t usually look like they could destroy you with a glance.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a navy sweater, casual but expensive, and his hands are in his pockets, and he’s looking at the car with an expression that I can’t quite read.
Bored? Amused? Resigned?
Lady Hampton is already heading up the stairs, and I’m scrambling to follow her because I cannot be the person who stands frozen in the driveway staring at her employer’s stupidly attractive son, I cannot—
“Darling,”Lady Hampton says out loud as she reaches him, and he bends down to kiss her cheek.
“Mother.” His voice is deep and smooth and has that British accent that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is. “Good flight?”
‘Wonderful.’She turns to me and switches back to signing. ‘This is Evianne. Evianne, my son, Virgil Hampton, the Duke of Veilcourt.’
I’m halfway up the stairs now, and he’s looking at me, really looking at me, and I’m suddenly very aware that I probably have mascara smudges and my hair is definitely a mess and—
Professional. Be professional.
“Your Grace,” I manage, and my voice comes out steadier than I expected. “It’s lovely to meet you. Thank you for hosting me.”
