Chapter Two #2
I take it like it’s made of glass, cradling it in both hands, and for a moment I forget about everything, about Joseph and Glenda and the ring in my pocket and the fact that I’m standing in a room with a man whose cologne is doing unreasonable things to my ability to think clearly.
For this one moment, it’s just me and this book and two hundred years of history resting in my palms.
“My father believed books should be loved, not just collected,” Veil continues. “He read every single volume in the collection at least once.”
“Even the ones in...is that Latin?”
“Especially those. He was a bit of a scholar.” He pauses. “Do you read?”
“Everything,” I say. “Anything. I’m not picky.” I look up at him, and something in his expression makes me bold enough to add, “My mom always says that reading is the cheapest way to travel. To live a thousand lives.”
“Your mother sounds wise.”
“She is.” The mention of my mom makes something soften in my chest. “She writes me letters. Every Sunday. From Johannesburg.”
“Johannesburg?” He sounds genuinely curious. “That’s quite a distance.”
“She’s a social worker there. Has been for years.” I carefully close the book and hand it back to him. “She says that in her line of work, you see people with nothing who still have everything that matters.”
I’m not looking at him as I say this. I’m looking at the shelves, at the books, at the spines with their gold lettering, because talking about my mom always makes me a little raw, and I don’t trust myself to look at Veil right now without revealing more than I want to.
“The letters remind me of that,” I continue, my voice softer than I intend. “That words on paper last. That some things are worth the time and care.”
The silence that follows feels loaded, but I don’t know with what.
“Come here,” Veil says after a moment. “Let me show you the real collection.”
I follow him to the glass display case on the far wall, and he unlocks it and begins showing me the pens his father spent decades acquiring, each one with a story, each one precious in ways that have nothing to do with price tags.
I listen, and I ask questions, and I forget to be nervous, forget to be guarded, because this is something I understand.
The value of craftsmanship. The weight of history.
The love someone pours into collecting something beautiful, piece by piece, over a lifetime.
He hands me a 1900 Waterman, and I examine the intricate chasing on the barrel with careful fingers. “This one’s from 1823,” he says, reaching for another pen at the same time I do.
Our fingers collide, and I gasp softly and pull back, my cheeks flushing pink, and there it is again, that jolt of awareness that has nothing to do with fountain pens and everything to do with the man standing next to me.
“Sorry, I—”
“Here.” He picks up the pen and holds it out to me, his hand steady, his expression unreadable. “Feel the weight of history.”
I take it carefully, and then he moves to stand behind me, close enough that I can feel his presence like warmth from a fire, close enough that his breath stirs the hair at my temple. I tense. Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
“The nib is hand-ground,” he murmurs, reaching around me to point at the delicate goldwork. “See how smooth it would flow?”
His chest is nearly against my back. My hands tremble slightly as I hold the pen.
“Try it,” he says softly. “Write something.”
“I—” My voice comes out breathy. “What should I write?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
I uncap the pen with shaking fingers, touch the nib to paper. The ink flows beautifully, and I write three words:
This is inappropriate.
A low sound from behind me. Almost a laugh, but not quite.
“Is it?” he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
I set the pen down and turn, which brings me face-to-face with his chest because he hasn’t stepped back. I look up at him, and his eyes are so blue this close, so impossibly blue, and his lips are slightly curved, and he’s looking at me like—
Like I’m something he’s trying to figure out.
“I should—” I start.
“Should what?”
“Get back to the gallery.”
“Should you?”
“Veil—”
He reaches up slowly, giving me time to move away if I want. I don’t move.
His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, and then he holds it up to show me the dark smudge of ink. “You had ink on your face,” he murmurs.
When did I get ink on my face?
When did breathing become this difficult?
“There.” His voice drops lower. “Perfect.”
And the way he’s looking at me doesn’t feel like I was perfect before.
His thumb is still on my cheek, his eyes still on my face, and I’m frozen, unable to move, unable to think, unable to do anything except stand here and feel the warmth of his hand and wonder what would happen if I just leaned forward, just closed the distance, just—
Don’t you dare, Evianne.
You just caught your fiancé cheating.
Remember?
I step back, and he lets me go immediately.
“I should—” My voice sounds strange, even to me. “I really should finish the gallery setup.”
“Of course.” His expression is unreadable now. Professional. “I’ll walk you back.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I insist.”
We walk back across the grounds to the Grand Gallery in silence, and his hand never touches my back again, and he keeps a careful distance between us, and I tell myself that’s a good thing. That’s what I wanted. That’s definitely what I wanted.
But when we reach the gallery entrance and he holds the door open for me, his eyes meet mine, and something in them makes my breath catch all over again.
“I’ll see you at dinner, Miss Evianne,” he says, and it sounds less like a statement and more like a promise.
The door closes behind me, and I’m left standing in the Grand Gallery with my heart doing things it has absolutely no business doing, and I realize with a sinking certainty that the Duke of Veilcourt is not done with me.
Not even close.
****
VEIL WALKED BACK TO the house alone, his hands in his pockets, his mind turning over everything he’d just observed.
She hadn’t asked about the value of a single item.
Not the first edition Pride and Prejudice.
Not the Mabie Todd Swan. Not the 1823 pen that most collectors would have killed to hold.
When he’d told her the Swan was worth two hundred thousand pounds, she’d nearly dropped it in panic rather than handled it with the careful greed he’d seen from others.
And then there was the way she’d touched the books. Reverently. Like she understood that their value had nothing to do with what they’d fetch at auction.
And her mother’s letters. The way her voice had gone soft when she’d mentioned them, the way she’d looked away from him like she was afraid of showing too much.
A social worker in Johannesburg who wrote to her daughter every Sunday with a fountain pen.
It was the kind of detail that was either deeply genuine or brilliantly calculated, and Veil had spent enough years surrounded by calculated women to know that the line between the two could be razor-thin.
But most of all, he kept coming back to three words on a piece of paper.
This is inappropriate.
She hadn’t written something flirtatious.
Hadn’t written his name, or a compliment, or any of the dozen things a woman angling for his attention might have chosen.
She’d written a boundary. An honest, unfiltered, almost involuntary boundary, and then she’d turned around and looked up at him with wide eyes and parted lips and an expression that said she was fighting her own reactions and losing badly.
That wasn’t calculation.
Or if it was, it was a kind he’d never encountered.
Veil had been fooled before. By women far more polished than Evianne, women who’d perfected the art of seeming genuine.
The last one, Charlotte, had spent three months appearing completely uninterested in his title before casually mentioning how much she’d always dreamed of living in a country estate.
The one before that had actually cried during a conversation about his father, tears so convincing he’d nearly believed them, only to find her Instagram post the next day captioned “Afternoon tea with the Duke.”
So.
Evianne was either exactly who she appeared to be: genuine and guarded and completely uninterested in his fortune.
Or she was the most dangerous woman who had ever walked through his door.
Either way, Veil thought as he climbed the stairs, he intended to find out which. And the calligraphy workshop tomorrow would be an excellent place to start.