Rowan’s chest tightened slightly. He had never heard such an observation spoken so plainly, especially not about his children. For a moment, he wondered at the precision of her mind, how she could deduce intentions, parse behaviors, and still carry it with patience.
“Interesting,” he said finally. “You seem to understand my children better than I do.”
Lucy shrugged, still focused on the papers, though he noted the faint flush creeping up her neck. “So, are you going to tell me what is bothering you now, Your Grace?”
Rowan shook his head. “You said there were two reasons,” he answered, steering the conversation away again. “What’s the second reason?” he asked, closing the ledger fully and leaning back, keeping his gaze fixed on her, curious despite himself.
“Right. The second reason,” she started, “is that the ball is only a few days away, Your Grace. I thought it wise we have one final lesson. You will be expected to hold conversation for longer than a turnabout the room. Ladies notice when a gentleman cannot remain present once the introductions are done.”
He gave a short, humorless breath. “An endurance test?”
“Don’t think of it like that,” she replied, her mouth curving faintly. “Your Grace, you have to be interested. Or are you forgetting that you promised Anthony? For this to work, you need to put in some effort so that you find someone who matches you and is good for your sons.”
Rowan felt something soften inside him as he noted the sincerity in her voice. He felt his usual retort fade away as he clasped his hand in front of him, making a mental note that, for once, he would try to play along even though he found it completely amusing when Lucy spiraled.
“Since I seem to have found you surrounded by whatever has been occupying your mind all day, I now figure it might serve us both,” she said. “How about you speak of what troubles you, and I observe whether you can maintain a conversation with a lady without retreating into silence, sarcasm, or intimidation?”
The audacity of it would have irritated him under different circumstances. Instead, he found himself considering the practicality. She was right. Entirely and inconveniently right. He had made a vow he had to keep after all.
“All right,” he said lightly. “So, I just... talk to you?”
“Yes, Your Grace. This time, about what is bothering you,” she said, simply. “Think of it as practice under forgiving conditions. I am, after all, paid to persist.”
“Very well,” he said, gathering a few of the scattered papers into a neater pile, also taking the moment to gather his thoughts. “This—” he gestured to the disorder around them “—is what has been troubling me.”
Lucy sat up. “How so?”
“The former steward worked for my father, the late duke, for over twenty years,” he began. “But a time came in his service that his sight started to fail. My father completely adored this steward, so even though he eventually went blind, he refused to let him go. He knew too much. They had a... system. So, my father devised many business ledgers embossed in Latin, raised so it could be read by touch alone. Sensitive accounts. Adjustments. Discrepancies. Proof that existed nowhere else.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “That was thoughtful of your father, I would say,” she said.
“Funny. I would call it selfish,” he said, “but that’s a story for another day.” He rubbed a hand across his face, a gesture he rarely allowed. “A claim has arisen regarding land rents in my father’s final years. The accounts do not match. The new steward insists the answers lie in that ledger. Without it, his word is… insufficient, and I will not act without certainty. So I spent all of today looking for the particular ledger containing that account, and I just found it. I was trying to read through it when you came in.”
Lucy raised her eyebrows. “You read embossed Latin?”
He glanced at her hands, then back to her face. “You do not?”
She shook her head. “I was taught Latin, not how to feel it.”
Rowan smiled then, amused. He reached for the ledger and turned it so the page faced her, the raised lettering catching the light faintly.
“It is not reading as you know it,” he said quietly. “The letters are formed in relief. Roman characters pressed upward from the paper. Some stewards placed small guiding points beneath the lines to mark their place, but this ledger,” he paused, tapping the margin lightly. “Relies on spacing and repetition. It must be approached slowly, deliberately. Your fingers must memorize the shapes before your mind can recognize them.”
She stepped closer, curiosity drawing her in. “So it is not read with the eyes at all.”
“No. With the fingers. Slowly,” he said, and lifted his hand to her. “Come closer. Give me your hand,” he asked.
She hesitated only a moment before putting out her hand. His fingers closed around hers with a little restraint, and he guided her forefinger to the first line.
“These letters are not printed as you know them,” he said added. “Each one is embossed, raised from the page, so it is easier to trace. You must learn to trace the shape with your fingers.”
She leaned closer, curious. “So you read by feeling the letters, not with your eyes?”
“Exactly,” he said, voice soft. “You must move slowly, follow each curve, each stroke. Only then will the words form in your mind. There is no hurry; it is patience and touch, nothing more.”
She glanced at his hands. “That is how the blind read?”
“Yes. The fingers read first.” He paused, then corrected himself, “The fingers recognize. It’s the same letters, just raised. But it can be tricky. Your mind has to follow.”
