Free It Takes Two to Tangle by Theresa Romain

and less blotchy as they marched down the page.
    â€œI think you’ve got the idea,” she said. “Only lay in the right kind of quill, and you’ll find it much easier.”
    He nodded and took back the paper, laying it on the desk again. “I’m glad to know it. You’re a good teacher.”
    â€œOh.” She waved a hand. “Well, thank you. I actually was a teacher once, during my scandalous youth.”
    â€œA palm-smacking governess?” His head tilted, as though he were trying to imagine it.
    â€œNothing so formal as that. My good memory meant I was just the girl to help the squire’s young son brush up on his Latin or teach the village children the names of every flower in the field.”
    Henry looked surprised, and Frances added, “Don’t credit me with any great charity. I thought it my duty to help, yes, but I also dearly loved to be right.”
    His mouth made a wry curve. “Loved, past tense? I think not.”
    He bent his fair head over the paper and skkkriiiikkked another line. A fine spray of ink dotted his face, and he squinted, dropping his pen to grope in his waistcoat pocket for a handkerchief. “Right now, for example, you are perishing to tell me why I can’t draw a neat line for anything.” He rubbed at his face. “Go ahead. I’m ready to hear it.”
    Frances pursed her lips. “You’re quite wrong.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œYes. I first wanted to tell you that cotton rag would clean your skin much more effectively than that slippery silk.”
    He emerged from the handkerchief, face still smudged. “My apologies, then.”
    â€œNot necessary.” A grin broke across Frances’s face. “The writing was a close second.”
    Henry snorted, crushing the ruined silk square in his hand, and she took out her own handkerchief of cotton lawn. “May I try this?”
    He shrugged. “All right. I’d rather not look like I’ve been splashing in ink, even if that’s the case.”
    Frances smiled, but his words were dim in her ears. She might touch him again. She held her breath, wondering why it should seem so important. Maybe because it was so rare, actually being invited to touch another person. She watched her hand, feeling as though it belonged to someone else, someone with the right to learn the shape of this intriguing man.
    The hand reached up, stroked the frail fabric across Henry’s forehead, down the strong bone of his cheek. Over the bridge of his nose, then down, to rub over the stern curve of his mouth, work it into softness. Then his chin, with its stubborn point. His neck, and just a slight rub under the edge of his cravat. She could feel the faint catch of stubble against the light fabric, the leap of muscle and tendon as he shifted under her touch. Beautiful as a statue, yet beautifully warm and human.
    By the time she was done, her breath came a little faster. At the nape of her neck, between her breasts, a faint sheen of perspiration had formed. Underneath her stays, her skin felt sensitive and abraded, her nipples hard.
    Henry’s throat worked, and he turned his head away. “Thank you,” he said in a choked voice. His skin looked flushed.
    Frances folded the ruined handkerchief. “You’re quite clean now.” A brisk voice to banish the trespass of the honey-slow moment.
    â€œThank you,” he said again, more quietly. He turned back to look at her, those vivid blue eyes searching her expression. “It seems you were right again, just as you love to be.”
    She stilled under his scrutiny, and after a few endless seconds, he pulled in a deep breath and picked up his quill again. “You’ll probably be right about my abysmal handwriting too, then.”
    Back to normal, then. She shrugged, trying to dispel shivers of want. “I’m sure I will be,” she said crisply.
    He stopped in the middle of drawing a