“That is generous of you,” he replied. “It is also incorrect.”
“It is not,” Lucy said. She had already walked him through every possible scenario in this very study, rehearsing conversations,gestures, pauses, and tones until she had begun to dread the repetition. They had practiced until he knew what to say, what to do, how to look just so. “We’ve already… we’ve already done this, Your Grace. There is nothing left to practice.”
Rowan’s eyes softened. “We have practiced, yes, but certainty never harms. I do not intend to falter with her. I need your guidance, Lucy, just a final polish.”
Lucy stepped back. “I don’t understand. You are already ready. Lady Judith likes you, Your Grace. You do not need to try so much. She will speak with you as any polite lady would.”
“Yet here we are,” he said, stepping closer. “I wish to be certain, for the children if not for myself. Will you not assist me?”
Lucy bit her lower lip and sighed. “Of course, I want to assist you, I just don’t think you need any help.”
Rowan leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, eyes sharp yet faintly amused. “I do not ask for much, Lucy,” he said. “But you know I am entirely helpless when it comes to… flirting. I require instruction. I want you to show me, step by step, how to speak, how to behave, how to… capture her attention.”
Lucy felt her chest tighten, but she drew in a deep breath, trying to shake the feeling off. “Your Grace, you will not need to do any flirting tonight. You have already?—”
“You think I have already mastered it,” he interrupted, with that authority that made her heart stumble. “I need you. Only you can teach me, even for a short while.”
Her hands twisted together as she glanced at him. He looked utterly composed for someone that was stirring her so deeply. So much had changed in the past couple of days, and Lucy had not had time to process any of it.
“Very well,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. “We will… practice even though I am not certain you require it.”
Rowan’s lips quirked. “Humor me, then.”
She took a hesitant step forward, and he relaxed slightly, his attention entirely on her. The study was quiet except for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth. She tried to concentrate, but a memory intruded then.
She recalled how a few nights ago, she had seen him in the dim hallway carrying Daniel, and that moment was etched in her memory. His shirt had been loose, the collar undone, revealing the strong line of his chest, his hair tousled by restless sleep. He had looked... strong, disheveled, utterly human in a way that made her stomach tighten. She had felt a peculiar warmth then, a tingling she had scolded herself for noticing. She had told herself it was absurd, that she could not—and should not—feel that way about her employer.
Now, here he was again, standing close, hair falling slightly across his brow, hands resting against the desk, asking her to teach him something that required her imagination, her attention, her... contact.
She forced herself to look at his eyes, to see only the task. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice steadier than how she felt, “you must remember that your words must invite her curiosity, not tease her or make jokes that will be hard for her to understand. You are to be charming but not presumptuous. More importantly, you shouldn’t try so hard.”
He nodded though there was that faint spark of mischief in his gaze that made her blush. She found herself faltering, caught in the intimacy of proximity.
Rowan leaned slightly closer, tilting his head. “Lucy,” he said. “If Lady Judith were to speak of her travels, then how should I respond? I do not wish to appear uninterested even though it might be of little interest to me. How do I... pretend?”
Lucy straightened, trying to compose herself, and stepped just a fraction closer. “You should respond in a manner that acknowledges her experience, Your Grace,” she said. “Follow the conversation, and you’ll always have a question to ask. Asking questions is the best way to seem interested.”
Rowan’s eyes darkened slightly, focusing on her as if trying to memorize every syllable, every motion on her face. “Ask questions,” he repeated softly, almost to himself, then glanced up at her. “What if she smiles at me?”
Lucy’s hands tightened around the edges of the desk she had been holding for composure. “Then… you smile back, Your Grace. However, you want. But you must know that a lady can tell the difference when you smile genuinely and when it’s forced.”
Rowan tilted his head again, resting one hand against the desk, standing only a few feet away from her. He reached for the teacup on the table, lifted it to his lips, and took an unhurried sip of his tea.
“How do I make her find me appealing, Lucy?” he asked suddenly, setting the cup down. “How do I make Lady Judith find me appealing?”
Lucy’s attention followed the movement against her will, and the moment his tongue brushed his lower lip, her thoughts betrayed her entirely. She did not wonder about the drink but about that brief, unconscious gesture, about the shape of his mouth and what it might feel like, what it might taste like, if her own lips were there instead.
The realization startled her. She stared a moment too long, her breath shallow, her mind racing ahead of her sense, and then she caught herself. She stepped back abruptly, drawing in a steadying breath, frustration curling tightly in her chest, frustration at him and at herself in equal measure.
“I do not understand, Your Grace. You are trying far too hard,” she said, her voice firm. “That is what I have been attempting to explain to you. Lady Judith already likes you. She has done sofrom the first moment. You do not need to manufacture appeal where it already exists.”
Rowan pushed off the table and straightened, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made her pulse falter. “Liking is not the same as understanding,” he replied quietly. “Understanding is what I wish for.”
He crossed the room then, slowly, until Lucy found herself backed against the tall window, the light filtering through the glass casting faint shadows across his face. He stopped just close enough to unsettle her, close enough that she could see the seriousness in his eyes, stripped of humor.
“You know my reputation,” he continued. “You know what people say of me. That I am cold. That I am severe. That my humor is unsettling. I do not wish her to enter this arrangement believing I am something dark or unyielding. Not if I can help it.”
Lucy pressed her hands together, her heart thudding painfully as she searched his face, searching for the answer he so clearly wanted from her. “Your Grace,” she said at last, the frustration softening, “you are standing too close.”
