Chapter Three
THERE ARE AT LEAST forty people in this Regency writing room, all of them holding Hampton fountain pens, and I’m trying very hard not to notice that the Duke of Veilcourt just sat down directly behind me.
Don’t turn around.
Don’t acknowledge him.
Just focus on the instructor.
Miss Ida Laurens, a calligraphy expert flown in from London for this specific workshop, is standing at the front of the room demonstrating Spencerian script on a large easel. Her movements are fluid and practiced, creating elegant loops and flourishes that look effortless.
“Thank you all for joining us for this special Spring calligraphy workshop, presented by Hampton Fountain Pens,” she says in a crisp British accent. “We’re celebrating love letters in bloom, the art of correspondence in an age where everything is temporary.”
Mom would love this. She’d be taking notes, probably already planning how to teach her clients about the value of written words.
I’m sitting in the back row because that’s where I’m comfortable. Invisible. Helpful but not the focus. Lady Hampton is in the front with the media, reporters, influencers, and fountain pen enthusiasts, all of them scribbling notes as Miss Ida explains the history of Spencerian script.
Everything is going perfectly. The exhibition opening earlier was flawless, every display case gleaming, every placard perfectly positioned. The media loved it. Lady Hampton was radiant. Veil was...
Stop thinking about Veil.
You haven’t seen him since earlier in his study, when he touched your face and you ran away like a coward.
I shift in my seat and try to focus on Miss Ida as she demonstrates the proper pen angle, the rhythm of the strokes, the importance of consistent pressure.
“Now,” she says, setting down her pen. “I’d like a volunteer to demonstrate beginner technique. Someone who hasn’t studied calligraphy before.”
Please don’t look at me. Please, please don’t—
“I’ll help Miss Evianne.”
Veil’s voice comes from directly behind me, low and amused, and every head in the room turns to stare.
No no no no—
Miss Ida beams. “Wonderful! Your Grace, how generous. Miss Evianne, if you’ll remain seated, and Your Grace, perhaps you can demonstrate how to guide someone through their first attempts?”
This is not happening. This cannot be happening. Argh!
I hear the scrape of Veil’s chair moving, and then he’s right behind me, so close his chest is nearly against my back, pulling his chair up until there’s barely any space between us. “May I?” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
He doesn’t wait for an answer.
His arms come around me, bracketing me in, and his hand settles over mine on the pen.
Every camera in the room is pointed at us.
Every single person is watching. And Veil, the Duke of Veilcourt, who probably planned this entire ambush, is pressed against my back like we’re in some kind of intimate embrace instead of a professional calligraphy workshop.
“Relax your grip,” he says, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
I can’t relax anything right now.
My entire body is on high alert.
There are cameras.
His fingers adjust my hold on the pen, his touch deliberate and confident, and I’m hyperaware of every point of contact. His chest against my shoulders. His thighs flanking my chair. His hand completely covering mine.
“Now,” Miss Ida says cheerfully, “Your Grace will guide Miss Evianne through the basic strokes. Everyone watch carefully, this is an excellent demonstration of how to teach the fundamentals.”
This is like ink spilling on cream stationery. Visible, permanent, impossible to hide.
Veil’s hand tightens over mine, and he begins guiding the pen across the paper in smooth, controlled movements. Down. Loop. Curve. The scratch of the nib on paper, his steady breathing against my back compared to my own erratic heartbeat.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that. Let me guide you.”
Why does everything he says sound so...suggestive?
It’s calligraphy. Letters. This is a professional event, there are cameras, what is he doing—
Miss Ida is talking about rhythm and flow, but I can’t hear her over the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
“Your hand is trembling,” Veil whispers. “Are you afraid of me?”
My throat is too dry to answer. His fingers press slightly firmer against mine, steadying the pen, and I feel his chest expand against my back as he breathes.
“Let me guide you,” he says softly.
And he does. Stroke by stroke. Letter by letter. His hand moving mine with complete confidence while I sit there frozen, barely breathing, acutely aware that forty people are watching this and I can’t do anything except follow his lead.
“Excellent!” Miss Ida exclaims. “See how beautifully they’re working together? That’s the key, trust between teacher and student.”
Trust.
Right.
That’s definitely what this is.
“Now,” Miss Ida continues, “let’s have Miss Evianne try a word. Something romantic, since we’re celebrating spring and love letters.” She smiles warmly. “What about ‘Beloved’? Perfect for spring and romance, don’t you think? The word itself is a love letter.”
Anything but that.
But Veil is already guiding my hand to start the first letter, and I have no choice but to follow, forming the B with its elegant flourish, the e with its delicate loop, the l reaching tall—
His lips brush against my ear. Barely. So briefly I might have imagined it, except I didn’t imagine the way my breath caught or the way my pen jerked slightly on the paper or the way every nerve ending in my body suddenly ignited.
“Steady,” he whispers, and his hand tightens on mine, correcting the stroke.
We finish the word.
Beloved.
It sits there on the paper, mocking me with its perfect loops and curves, created by his hand over mine while forty people watched and photographed and smiled like this was charming instead of devastating.
The demonstration ends. Miss Ida is thanking us, asking everyone to try the techniques themselves, and Veil should let go now. He should step back. He should stop touching me.
Instead his lips brush, barely, barely, against the shell of my ear. “Your calligraphy is improving,” he whispers. “But your poker face needs work.”
I jerk away from him, pen clattering to the table, and when I look up every single person in that room is staring at us with knowing smiles.
The reporters. The influencers. The fountain pen enthusiasts.
Lady Hampton in the front row, signing something to Miss Ida while trying very hard not to laugh.
I’m going to kill him. I’m actually going to murder the Duke of Veilcourt.
****
BY THE TIME I ESCAPE back to the Hampton residence, my face is still burning and my hands won’t stop shaking.
The walk from the workshop venue is short, just a few minutes through Foxtown’s cobblestone paths, but I use every second of it to try to compose myself.
The gas lamps are starting to flicker on as the afternoon fades, and a couple in full Regency costume strolls past me arm in arm, looking so content it makes my chest ache.
I need to call someone. I need to talk to someone who isn’t Lady Hampton (too close to the situation) or Veil (the situation itself) or Joseph (absolutely not).
I need Dorcas.
My best friend since middle school, the one person who has always been able to talk me off every ledge, literal and metaphorical. She’s a nurse in Philadelphia, practical, blunt, and the only person in my life who has never once made me feel invisible.
I find a quiet bench near the swan lake, pull out my phone, and video-call her before I can talk myself out of it. She picks up on the second ring, and I can see she’s in scrubs, her braids piled up in a messy bun, clearly on break.
“Evi! Girl, how’s the fancy new job? Did you meet the duke yet? Is he—” She stops mid-sentence when she sees my face. “What happened?”
I open my mouth to explain, and instead the whole story just pours out. Joseph at the airport. Glenda. The ring in my pocket. Lady Hampton holding my hand on the plane. Foxtown and its impossible beauty. The fountain pen exhibition. And then Veil.
“Hold on, hold on, hold on.” Dorcas holds up a hand. “Back up. The duke taught you calligraphy? In front of cameras? With his arms around you?”
“It was a workshop demonstration—”
“Girl.” She gives me The Look, the one that has been calling me on my nonsense since we were twelve. “That man was not demonstrating calligraphy. That man was staking a claim.”
“He was not—”
“Did he or did he not whisper in your ear while forty people watched?”
I’m silent.
“Uh huh.” Dorcas leans back, crossing her arms. “That’s what I thought. And you’re telling me this happened less than forty-eight hours after you caught Joseph sucking face with Glenda at the airport?”
“When you put it like that—”
“How else am I supposed to put it?” But her expression softens. “Evi, listen to me. You are allowed to be attracted to someone new. You’re allowed to feel things. But you need to deal with Joseph first. You can’t just pocket the ring and pretend it didn’t happen.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because knowing you, you’re going to avoid that conversation until it becomes physically impossible to avoid, and by then—”
“Dorcas.”
“I’m just saying.” She holds up both hands. “Handle your business. Tell Joseph it’s over. Officially. And then, and only then, you can figure out what’s happening with Mr. Calligraphy Hands.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. It comes out watery and broken, but it’s real, and Dorcas grins because she knows she’s gotten through to me.
“I miss you,” I tell her.
“I miss you, too. Now go handle your mess.” She pauses. “And Evi?”
“Yeah?”
“If the duke tries the calligraphy thing again? At least enjoy it a little, will you?”
I’m still smiling when I hang up, but the smile fades as I stare at my phone and see Joseph’s name in my notifications. Three more texts. Two missed calls. All lies wrapped in love yous and miss yous, and I know Dorcas is right. I need to deal with this. I need to tell him I know.
But not tonight.
Tonight I’m going to focus on the job I came here to do, and I’m going to pretend that my heart isn’t being pulled in directions I never expected.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and head toward the house. Through the sitting room window, I can see Lady Hampton curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea, and the sight of her there, so warm and settled, tugs at something in my chest.
She looks up when I walk in, and her expression shifts into barely contained amusement, which tells me she knows exactly how the workshop went.
‘How was the workshop?’ she signs to me, her eyes sparkling.
‘Educational,’ I sign back dryly.
Lady Hampton presses her lips together, clearly fighting a laugh. ‘My son can be very...thorough in his teaching.’
‘Lady Hampton—’
‘Geena,’ she signs. ‘Please. I think we’re past formalities, don’t you?’
The kindness in her face makes my throat tight. ‘Geena,’ I try, and it feels strange on my hands, too familiar, too warm, like calling her that means something more than just a name.
‘Sit with me,’ she signs. ‘I want to show you something.’
I sit down across from her, and she pulls out a leather portfolio, the kind that looks old and well-loved, its edges worn soft from years of handling. Inside are letters. Dozens of them, written on beautiful cream stationery in a hand so elegant it looks like calligraphy.
‘These are from my husband,’ she signs. ‘He wrote me letters. Every week, from the day we met until the day he died.’
I reach for the nearest one carefully, reverently. The ink is a deep blue-black, the kind that comes from a quality fountain pen, and the handwriting is precise but warm, like the writer was someone who cared about craft but cared about the recipient more.
‘He always said—’ Lady Hampton pauses, her hands hovering in the air like she’s choosing her next words carefully.
‘He said the world was too loud and too fast, and the only way to slow it down was to put pen to paper. To make someone feel that their words mattered enough to answer slowly, carefully, beautifully.’
My eyes are stinging. I think about my mom’s Sunday letters from Johannesburg, written with a fountain pen on whatever stationery she can find, and I understand completely what Lady Hampton’s husband meant.
‘That’s what the Hampton collection is really about,’ she continues. ‘Not the pens. Not the ink. The connection. The act of sitting down and choosing to give someone your time and your words.’
‘That’s beautiful,’ I sign, and I mean it so deeply it hurts.
Lady Hampton takes the letter back gently and tucks it into the portfolio. Then she looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read, something knowing, something almost conspiratorial, and signs, ‘My son writes letters too, you know.’
I blink. ‘Veil writes letters?’
‘To his father.’ Her smile’s tender and a little sad. ‘Every Sunday. Has done since the funeral. He thinks I don’t know, but I’ve seen him. In the study, at the desk, writing with his father’s favorite pen.’
I don’t know what to do with this information. The image of Veil, guarded and cynical and impossible Veil, sitting alone every Sunday writing letters to his dead father is so at odds with the man who ambushed me at a calligraphy workshop that I can’t reconcile the two.
‘He’s more like his father than he knows,’ Lady Hampton shares. ‘Or maybe he does know, and that’s what scares him.’
She pats my hand, rises from the sofa, and gathers her tea and portfolio. ‘Get some rest,’ she signs. ‘Tomorrow is the ice skating exhibition, and I’ll need you sharp.’
‘Geena?’ I sign as she reaches the doorway.
She turns, eyebrows raised.
‘Thank you. For telling me about the letters. And for...’ I don’t know how to finish the sentence. For being kind. For seeing me. For making me feel like I belong here even when I’m clearly falling apart. ‘For everything.’
Her smile deepens into something warm and certain, that same Mona Lisa expression I noticed on the plane, like she knows something I don’t, and she gives me a small nod before disappearing down the hall.
I sit there in the quiet sitting room for a long time after she’s gone, thinking about letters and love and the kind of man who writes to his dead father every Sunday.
And then my phone buzzes.
Not Joseph this time.
An unknown number, and the message is just two words:
Sleep well.
I stare at the screen, my pulse quickening, because there’s only one person at this estate who could have gotten my number without asking me for it.
And he just made it very clear that even when I’m not in the room, I’m still on his mind.