Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 59827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
His eyes narrow. “Yes, you’re willing?”
I nod.
“Then say it.” His voice has gone rough. “I need to hear you say it.”
“I’m...w-willing.” The words come out stronger than I expect. “I’m willing to let you in.”
The smile that breaks across his face is the first real, unguarded smile I’ve ever seen from him. Not the calculated smirk. Not the teasing half-curve. But instead, a real smile, open and warm and devastating, and then—
Oh.
He’s kissing me.
Not gentle. Not asking permission. Just claiming, demanding, taking everything I’m willing to give and asking for more.
His hand is in my hair, tilting my head back, and I’m gripping the front of his sweater because my knees have gone weak and my heart is racing and this is—
This is nothing like kissing Joseph.
With Joseph, I’d always held something back. Always kept a part of myself behind glass, safe, untouchable, even when he’d accused me of being cold. I’d never understood why I couldn’t just let go, why something in me always resisted, always pulled back.
I understand now.
I was waiting.
I just didn’t know for what.
His mouth is warm and firm and sure, and when his tongue sweeps against mine I hear myself make a sound that I will be embarrassed about later, and he makes this low noise in the back of his throat that sends heat flooding through my entire body, and my fists tighten in his sweater, pulling him closer, and he presses me back against the bookshelf, and I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, fast, just as fast as mine, and—
A hand appears in my peripheral vision, waving.
We break apart.
Lady Hampton is standing in the doorway, her expression caught between amusement and apology, and she’s waving to get our attention because she can’t exactly clear her throat to announce herself.
How long has she been standing there?
How much did she see?
Everything, probably, based on that Mona Lisa smile.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ she apologizes even as her eyes twinkle. ‘Damian Fox just called. The Spring Gala is tomorrow night, and there’s been a last-minute change to the program.’
Tomorrow night.
Already?
I’ve completely lost track of time.
Veil steps back, running a hand through his hair, and I can see him forcing himself back under control. His jaw is tight, his eyes still dark, and when he looks at me—
Later, that look says. We’re not done.
“What kind of change?” he asks his mother, his voice remarkably steady for a man who had his tongue in my mouth thirty seconds ago.
‘They want a calligraphy demonstration during the opening ceremony,’ Lady Hampton signs. ‘Live. In front of everyone.’
My eyes widen.
‘Both of you,’ she adds, looking between us with obvious amusement. ‘Together.’
I’m still in a state of shock and rising panic when I hear Veil say, “Perfect.”
My lips part in a gasp, but no sound comes out as my gaze collides with his, and I see the way he’s looking at me so very...
Well, let’s just say it’s the kind of look that has his mother laughing while I start fanning my heated cheeks.
Is this really happening?
It’s a question I still find myself asking as I head back to my room in a daze. My heart is still racing from the kiss. My lips still tingling. And tomorrow night I’m going to stand in front of hundreds of people while he puts his hands on mine again, guides me through writing love letters, makes everything feel like a declaration.
In front of everyone.
Where I can’t hide.
Where I can’t pretend this isn’t happening.
And somewhere in my coat pocket, Joseph’s ring is still waiting for me to deal with it.
Chapter Seven
‘THIS IS VEIL’S GREAT-grandmother,’ Lady Hampton signs, gesturing to a portrait of a woman with dark eyes and an expression that could cut glass.
‘Charlotte Hampton. She ran the estate single-handedly while her husband was at war. Managed the finances, the tenants, the livestock. The men in the village refused to take orders from a woman, so she started signing all her letters with the initial C. Hampton. They assumed she was Charles.’
‘Did they ever find out?’ I ask with a smile.
‘Eventually. By then the estate was more profitable than it had ever been, so they kept their mouths shut.’ Lady Hampton’s eyes sparkle. ‘Smart woman. Knew that sometimes the best way to win is to let people underestimate you.’
She moves to the next portrait, and I follow, absorbing every detail of the Hampton gallery. The room is long and narrow, lined with portraits spanning what must be centuries of family history. Some of the frames are gilded and ornate, others simple dark wood, and the faces staring down at me range from stern military men to soft-eyed women holding small dogs to one wild-haired gentleman who appears to be holding a parrot.
Lady Hampton has been walking me through them all morning, and I’ve been taking notes because this is exactly the kind of background I need for the exhibition materials. The Hampton fountain pen collection isn’t just about pens. It’s about a family that valued craftsmanship and legacy and putting beautiful things into the world, and the more I understand that history, the better I can tell their story.