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)
Traitor.
Veil produces a key from his pocket and unlocks the display case with practiced ease. The way he moves is efficient, precise, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s handling irreplaceable antiques. He lifts the pen carefully, reverently even, and holds it out to me.
“Go ahead.”
I take it from him, trying very hard to make sure our fingers don’t touch, but they do anyway because the universe apparently hates me, and the brief contact sends a jolt of awareness up my arm that I absolutely do not have time for.
The pen is heavier than I expected. Beautiful too. The gold filigree catches the light, creating intricate patterns that must have taken hundreds of hours to complete. The nib looks hand-crafted, the kind of detailed work you just don’t see anymore.
“It’s gorgeous,” I whisper, because whispering seems appropriate when you’re holding something that’s almost a hundred years old.
“My father always said fountain pens were the last bastion of craftsmanship in a disposable world.”
I look up at him, and he’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Not the cynical amusement from last night. Not the cool politeness from when we first met. Something softer, almost.
“He sounds like he was a good man,” I say.
“He was.” Veil’s voice is quiet. “He would have liked you.”
The words catch me off guard, and I don’t know what to say, so I just look back down at the pen in my hands because that’s safer than looking at him when he’s being unexpectedly genuine.
“Here.” Veil reaches past me, close enough that I catch that cologne again, and grabs a piece of paper from the nearby desk. “Try it.”
“Try...writing with it?”
“That is what pens are for.”
He’s teasing me. The Duke of Veilcourt is actually teasing me.
I uncap the pen carefully and touch the nib to the paper. The ink flows smoothly, effortlessly, creating a line that’s somehow both delicate and bold. “Oh,” I breathe. “That’s...”
“Worth the two hundred thousand pounds my father paid for it?”
I nearly drop the pen. “Two hundred—that’s—this is—”
“Breathe, Miss Evianne.”
I’m going to kill him. I’m holding a pen that’s worth a small fortune and he’s amused that I’m panicking about it.
“Here.” His hand closes over mine, warm and steady, helping me set the pen down safely on the desk. “See? No harm done.”
Except his hand is still covering mine. And he’s standing close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. And he’s looking at me with those blue eyes that should be illegal.
I pull my hand away. Too quickly. He notices, because he notices everything, and I’m starting to realize that might be a problem.
“I should—” I gesture vaguely at my clipboard. “There’s still a lot to do before the preview tomorrow.”
“Of course.” He steps back, giving me space. “Though I was hoping to show you some of the private collection pieces we brought over from the family estate in England. They’re in the study at the house, too valuable for public display, but Mother thought you might appreciate seeing them. For research purposes.”
Research purposes.
Right.
Because this is definitely about research and not about him testing whether I’ll follow him back to the house like every other assistant apparently has.
I should say no. I should absolutely say no. I should tell him I’m too busy, that I need to finish the gallery setup, that I don’t have time for private viewings of anything.
“That would be lovely,” I hear myself say. “Thank you.”
His smile is slow and entirely too knowing. “Excellent. Shall we?”
He gestures toward the door, and I’m already moving, already following him, already making terrible decisions less than forty-eight hours after catching my fiancé cheating. And then his hand settles on the small of my back, just lightly, just guiding me through the doorway, but I feel it like a brand through the thin fabric of my blouse, and my breath catches, and he must notice because his fingers press just slightly firmer for half a second before he removes them.
Breathe, Evianne. It’s just a polite gesture. It doesn’t mean anything.
The walk from the Grand Gallery back to the house is brief, and I use it to remind myself of every reason this is a terrible idea. He’s my employer’s son. I caught my fiancé cheating yesterday. I’m an emotional wreck who cried on a private jet for four hours. I have no business following a stupidly attractive duke anywhere, let alone to his private study.
And yet here I am. Walking beside him across the grounds while the Wyoming sky stretches endlessly overhead and my heart does things it has absolutely no business doing.
He opens the study door and gestures for me to enter first.
“Oh,” I breathe, stopping just inside the doorway.
The study is beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line three walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that make my fingers itch. A massive desk dominates the center of the room, and behind glass on the far wall, a collection of fountain pens catches the light.