Her skin was soft. Softer than he expected, warm against his palm. He adjusted his grip at once, gentling it, turning her hand, so her forefinger lay straight. How soft her hand was against his was becoming all he could really think about.
“Only the tip,” he said. “If you press too hard, you lose the pattern.”
“Oh, I can feel them,” she murmured.
“Yes. Now follow.” His hand remained over hers, guiding her along the line. “Each mark must be taken in before the next.”
She moved carefully, pausing often. “How long does it take to learn?”
“A year at least,” he said. “Often more. Your hands must be trained. They tire easily at first.”
She laughed softly. “Mine already are.”
He adjusted his hold again without thinking, thumb shifting along the side of her finger, easing her grip. Then again, when she faltered... and again, when she asked him to repeat himself. At some point, he realized his hand no longer guided so much as lingered.
His fingers curved too naturally around hers now, his touch slower, unnecessary. He corrected himself then found that he did it again, adjusting his grip on her hand so much that it was starting to look like he was purposely caressing the back of her palm. As though her hand had drawn him into a rhythm he could not quite break.
But she did not pull away. He could hear her taking sharp breaths as she concentrated on tracing the pattern, and he could see her chest rise and fall rapidly as the side of her body pressing to his, yet she did not pull away.
He cleared his throat and forced his attention back to the page. “Is it beginning to make sense?” he asked quietly.
She swallowed. She tried to look at him as she answered, but she realized too late how near he was. Their faces were close enough that he caught the faint heat of her breath, close enough that the air between them felt suddenly thin, and he turned away at once.
“No,” she said, honestly. “Not yet.”
She smelled faintly of clean linen and something softer beneath it. A light floral note warmed by her skin, as though the scent had been caught there rather than applied. It was subtle, intimate, the sort of thing one noticed only when one was already too close.
Without meaning to, he leaned nearer.
His hand tightened around hers before he realized it had done so, his thumb pressing more firmly against her finger, his grip no longer instructive but instinctive. The shift was slight but unmistakable, and she noticed it.
Lucy gently withdrew her hand, creating space between them, not much but only enough to remind them both of the room they were in. She cleared her throat.
“I suppose one cannot learn it all in a single evening,” she said lightly. “But it was… interesting to know what embossed letters feel like. Perhaps I shall make it one of the things I learn properly one day. If I have the patience.”
His gaze dropped before he realized he had allowed it to and fell almost too naturally on her lips.
It startled him how easy his attention went there, as though it had been trained into him without permission. He told himself it was habit, nothing more. A habit that had begun on the first day they practiced together. They had a gentle fullness to them, softly bowed at the top, the lower curve rounder, more generous, as though made for smiling and saying things that lingered long after they were spoken. When she listened, they parted slightly, not enough to be intentional but enough to draw the eye.
He had never understood it. Still did not.
There was nothing improper about lips. They were merely lips. Yet his mind insisted on returning to them, lingering in a way that felt faintly unhinged. Once, absurdly, the thoughthad crossed him that they looked almost… inviting. The notion had shocked him into silence, as though his own thoughts had betrayed him. Edible was the ridiculous word that had surfaced, and he had dismissed it at once, unsettled by the direction of his own imagination.
Somehow, they reminded him of ripe strawberries, warm from the sun, their color too vivid to ignore, their shape suggesting sweetness without effort. The thought had struck him silent at once, but it always crossed his mind whenever his eyes drifted to her lips.
When he looked up again, noting the silence, he saw that Lucy had him. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she lowered her gaze. “You do that often, Your Grace. Have you realized?” she asked, her voice gentle. “Look at someone’s lips. I’ve noticed it before. I’m just curious as to why you do it.”
He hesitated, caught off-guard by the directness, and for a moment, his composure faltered. “Perhaps… perhaps it is because you have a nice smile,” he said finally. “It means nothing more than that.”
Yet, as soon as the words left him, he knew they were insufficient. Deep inside, he admitted to himself, he had not taken the time to untangle the precise reason for his drawn attention. He had not even sat with it, considered it properly. Saying it was her smile felt safest, simplest, a shield against admitting that the truth, whatever it was... was far more complicated.
Lucy studied him for a heartbeat longer then smiled faintly. “Very well, then,” she said, rising with effortless grace. “I think you are properly ready for the ball, Your Grace. You will have no difficulty holding a conversation with a lady without chasing her away, I am quite certain of it. I should retreat to my chambers. Good night, Your Grace.”
Before he could summon words to protest or call after her, she stepped back, letting the soft light of the library frame her, and just like that, she was gone, leaving him alone with the faint scent of her and the persistent echo of her presence.
CHAPTER TEN
Concentrate, Rowan.
