cup of chocolate. She didn’t quite dare look up, but she could feel Gracewood’s eyes upon her—his attention as sweet as spring rain. And suddenly she was nothing but questions, rushing about inside her like shoals of rainbow fish: Did he like the embroidery on her gloves, did he find the print of her morning dress becoming, did the curls she had left free from her chignon frame her face well, was any of this even the sort of thing gentlemen noticed? She always had, but that had been envy and longing and desperation. Oh God, this was a torment. Wanting so terribly to be seen, and terrified of
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