Page 18 of When the Viscount Seduces
She scratched another note on her paper and set the pencil down between them near the edge of the table. “Do you want to write for me, or should we do that another day?”
The pencil rolled off the table, and Lazarus immediately bent to retrieve it.
Miss Price did the same, and they knocked their heads together.
“Ow!” she cried as Lazarus grunted.
They were still slightly bent over, their faces close as their eyes met. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m the clumsiest person. But then you know that.”
“You are not. That could have happened to anyone.”
“Perhaps, but it will always happen to me.” Her lips twisted in a charming, lopsided smile. She seemed to accept that she was not as graceful as others, but Lazarus didn’t want her to see herself that way.
“I don’t consider you clumsy,” he said softly. “Only look at how beautifully you read. And how kindly you tutor.”
“You flatter me, my lord.” She straightened. “If only my bookishness would snare me a husband,” she added with a laugh.
“Is that what you want most?” he asked. “A husband?”
She lifted a shoulder. “It will make my parents happy. And proud. Like you, I just want to make them proud.”
“I’m sure they are already.” If they weren’t, they were fools. Their daughter possessed more grace and generosity of spirit than a good many of the young women who were pressed onto the Marriage Mart.
“Will you write for me now?” she asked.
He didn’t really want to, but he supposed he must. “Fair warning, I am going to fetch the pencil now.” He watched her for a moment, and she nodded at him. Bending once more, he took up the pencil and situated himself. Then he wrote his name and her name—Miss Price. He thanked heaven she didn’t have a long, ridiculous name such as Featherstonehaugh. “What else should I write?”
“Can you write the sonnet you have memorized? Just a few lines.”
He recited the words in his head and scrawled them on the paper. She’d complimented his handwriting earlier without knowing it wasn’t his. Now, she would see the truth and be horrified.
When he was finished, he sat back, his nose wrinkling as he looked at his uneven letters. They were abysmalandthey’d taken an inordinate amount of time.
“Do you practice writing?” she asked.
“I used to. When my father was alive, and when I was at Oxford. I confess I’ve become lazy since then.” And now he wasannoyed with himself. He ought to have kept up with that, if only for his father’s sake.
“Do not chastise yourself,” she said firmly. “I can see it in your eyes. This is a great deal to manage. I want you to write five lines every day. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” He resolved in that moment to do whatever she bade him. “What shall I write?”
“You’re to copy the words of your speech.”
The task seemed impossible. It wasn’t, of course. “Only five lines?”
She nodded. “But, and this is the challenging part, you must read them and then write them. Don’t just copy the letters without saying them in your head.”
He blew out a breath, wondering how long this would take him. Clenching his jaw, he vowed not to be defeated, particularly when he hadn’t even yet tried. He would do this for his father. And for Miss Price. He looked forward to her praise when he showed her his accomplishments.
“I’ll do it.” He glanced toward the clock. “Our hour is nearly over.”
Surprise flashed across her features. “Goodness, that went quickly. When can we meet again?”
“Two days’ time?” he suggested.
“Perfect. You’ll bring your writing.” Her dark eyes rounded. “Oh, wait. I’ll need to give you your speech back so you can do your writing. I can give it to you at the Oxley ball this evening.”
They stood, and she packed her materials back into her bag. “I look forward to reading your speech,” she said.
