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)
But most of all...
Veil remembered how she had looked at him like she was truly seeing him...and not a bank account, the way most other people did.
Frankly, he couldn’t remember the last time another woman had looked at him like that, and this...put him on guard.
Because he had learned a long time a long time ago that the moment you let someone in, the moment you believed they saw you instead of what you could give them, that’s when they had all the power.
His mother’s new assistant might not be like the other women who had worked for her, but who knew if it was all an act?
There was only one way to find out, and his lips slowly curved as he contemplated his next move.
Chapter Two
THE GRAND GALLERY IS even more beautiful than the photographs showed, and I’m in full professional mode, checklist in hand, making sure every display case is perfect, when I feel him before I see him.
I don’t know how I know he’s there. Maybe it’s the way the air shifts, or maybe it’s just that my body has decided to betray me by developing some kind of Veil-radar, but I know he’s entered the room even before I hear his footsteps on the marble floor.
Don’t turn around.
Just keep working.
You’re a professional.
I adjust the lighting on the display case in front of me, a gorgeous collection of Victorian-era fountain pens with mother-of-pearl inlays catching the light, and make a note on my checklist: Case 3: lighting angle needs minor adjustment.
There. See? I can absolutely focus on work and not on the stupidly attractive duke who is definitely walking closer because I can hear his footsteps now, and they’re getting louder, and—
Focus, Evianne!
I woke up this morning determined. No more spiraling. No more thinking about Joseph or Glenda or how my entire life fell apart at the airport. No more noticing how blue Veil’s eyes are or how his voice does that thing where it sounds like he’s amused by everything I say. I’m here to do a job, a job I’m actually good at, a job that makes sense, and I intend to do it well.
Lady Hampton had signed to me over breakfast, ‘The exhibition setup should take most of the day. Don’t worry about being perfect. Just do your best.’
And I’d signed back, ‘I’ll make it perfect anyway.’
Because that’s what I do. I organize and coordinate and ensure every detail is exactly right. It’s the one thing I’m confident about, the one area of my life where I know I’m not boring or inadequate or any of the other things Joseph spent three years making me believe I was.
“Miss Evianne.”
I spin around too fast, nearly dropping my clipboard, and there he is.
Veil.
Standing maybe ten feet away, hands in the pockets of his dark jeans, wearing a charcoal sweater that looks like it was made for him, looking like he just stepped out of a magazine spread titled “Dukes Who Will Ruin Your Life.”
Stop it, Evianne.
“Your Grace,” I manage. “Good morning.”
“Veil,” he corrects mildly. “Remember?”
Right.
Veil.
Not Your Grace.
Just the first name of the man who probably thinks I’m here to throw myself at him like apparently every other assistant his mother has ever hired.
“Veil,” I repeat. “Sorry. I’m just—” I gesture vaguely at the gallery around us. “Making sure everything’s ready for tomorrow’s preview.”
He walks closer, and I have to actively stop myself from taking a step back. “Mother mentioned you were in here early,” he says, glancing around the gallery with what looks like genuine interest. “I thought I’d see if you needed any help.”
Help.
From a duke.
“Oh, that’s—you don’t have to—I’m fine, really, it’s just—”
Stop babbling, Evianne!
I take a breath and try again. “Thank you, but I have everything under control.”
His lips curve. “Do you?”
“Yes?” I wince internally at the way that comes out as a question.
Veil moves past me to examine the display case I was just adjusting, and I catch a hint of his cologne, something expensive and woody and entirely too distracting. “The lighting’s off,” he observes.
My cheeks warm. I was literally just about to fix that. “I know. It’s on my list.”
“Mm.” He’s still looking at the case, not at me, which should be a relief but somehow isn’t. “My father collected many of these pieces personally. This one,” he taps the glass above a stunning pen with intricate gold filigree, “he found it at an estate sale in Bath. The owner had no idea what she had.”
Despite myself, I’m curious. “What makes it special?”
“It’s a Mabie Todd Swan. 1920s. One of only a few dozen ever made with this particular design.” He finally looks at me. “Would you like to see it up close?”
I should say no. I’m busy and professional and definitely not interested in spending more time with him than necessary. “Yes,” I hear myself say. “Please.”