Read Online It Takes Two to Tangle by Theresa Romain - Free Book Online Page B

of your brother’s garment.”
    â€œIt’s a kindness to his valet, actually. The man almost wept when he saw what had happened to the shirt I wore last time I wrote. To say I ruined it is an understatement; I don’t think it’ll even be suitable for dustcloths.”
    As nimbly and dispassionately as a maid or valet, Frances slipped his cufflink from its moorings and turned back the light fabric of the sleeve, once, twice, to the middle of his forearm. Tendons played under his skin as he flexed his hand at the wrist. The back of his hand grazed hers, and she pulled away a little too quickly, self-conscious.
    A second of awkward silence followed. Henry broke it by saying, “Thank you.”
    Frances only nodded, her throat closed on a reply. Where his bare hand had grazed hers, the skin tingled, eager.
    Gingerly, Henry dipped the pen and began to scrawl the alphabet in large, untidy capitals. The edge of his hand slid through the ink of the first letter he drew, smudging paper and skin.
    â€œTry angling the paper to the right,” Frances suggested. “Your hand will travel down in a line, rather than across what you’ve just written. Yes, exactly. That will save your cuffs from now on.”
    His hand flexed on the pen as he drew another letter, almost sideways. The hairs of his arm were fine, bleached gold against his sun-darkened complexion.
    â€œHow is it you know so much about writing with the left hand, Frances?”
    â€œIn the likeliest way you can imagine. I was inclined to use my left hand as a girl.”
    â€œYou don’t anymore?”
    â€œNo, my governess was adamant that I use my right. I resisted making the change, but she triumphed in the end. She had the ruler, and I the lashings, you see.”
    Henry’s hand stilled, and he stared at her. Frances smiled. “Don’t feel bad for me. I assure you, I made her job as difficult as I possibly could. I can be quite stubborn.”
    â€œI believe your determination, but you don’t strike me as the disobedient type,” he said, studying her face. “Or as someone who once favored her left hand. So you were sinister as a girl, were you?”
    â€œI am still sinister,” she said. “I frighten everyone I meet. You must be extraordinarily brave to sit so close to me.”
    Teasing to cover the import of the moment. Not since Charles was alive had a man chosen her company. Yet here she sat in a chair pulled as close to Henry’s as space would permit, their hands bare, not even inches apart. It might have been miles, though, for all that she could not bring herself closer. He had only chosen her company for the sake of another.
    Her hands became busy trimming a pen, shaving away bits of the quill with a penknife until the nib point was whittled so fine as to be useless.
    â€œYou know,” Henry said, sitting back and holding up his work to the window light, “I think that’s a bit better. The angle of the paper helped. Here, see what you think.”
    His fingers brushed hers as he stuffed the paper into Frances’s hand. She bobbled it, grazing her skirt. “Damn it.”
    Henry lifted his eyebrows. “Good thing you’re my fellow soldier, or I’d be shocked by your language.”
    â€œOh, stop,” Frances muttered. “I told you, it’s a borrowed gown, and I mustn’t get ink on it.” She laid the paper down on the desk and smoothed the fabric tightly over her thighs. “No, I don’t think I did.”
    She looked up to see him studying her oddly. “What? Did I?”
    â€œNo,” he said, still looking at her in that strange way. “You look very well.” He shook his head, then gave her the paper again, holding it tight at the edge until she grasped it.
    She could see on the paper the effect of her hard-won, palms-being-smacked experience. Though Henry’s letters were still large and unformed, they grew tidier