The Lesson in the Old Building

“If what I'm seeing right now isn't an engagement meeting, then let's start the Eberdeen lessons tomorrow.”

The words he let fall as he took his seat afterward were fluent Eberdeen.

With an accent and pronunciation so flawless it made any talk of lessons seem almost laughable, Enya could only stare at Raphael in stunned disbelief. Don't tell me he really did want lessons just to learn vulgar insults?

Lightly disregarding her gaze, the man drew toward himself the copy of The Virtues of a Lady and the Aesthetics of Silence that Lucas had slid across the table, and continued.

“If you're worried about your marriage prospects standing in the way, shouldn't you avoid getting close to a rake like Lucas?”

It was a recitation of the very reason Enya had given when she drew the line with him.

Lucas, who had been blinking at the sudden foreign exchange, arched a brow the moment his own name surfaced in Raphael's words. It was a face of deliberately manufactured pity.

“Honestly… so this is what it feels like to be ostracized. Next time, do me the courtesy of insulting me in the Darkel imperial tongue.”

To which Raphael answered with a short snort of laughter.

“Fine, you son of a bitch.”

“Thank you, Raphael.”

At the crude profanity that dropped without ceremony—a clear signal of just how informal their relationship was—Lucas offered his thanks with perfect equanimity. Only Enya was left speechless, unable to follow what was happening.

Then, belatedly, she felt the eyes of the library's few other students turning toward them, and a look of mortified dismay crossed her face.

She still had not the slightest intention of marrying in Darkel, but until she could make her way to Eberdeen, maintaining her reputation was the wiser course. If an unnecessary scandal broke out, her father was bound to come sniffing around for another opportunity, just as he had before.

In the end, Enya ignored the two men as they began trading barbs behind smiling faces, gathered her things, and rose from her seat.

Toward her, Raphael's hand had reached out absently—then stopped, awkwardly, as though some memory from before had caught up with it. At last the man, his fingers closing on empty air, lowered his clenched fist and spoke.

“My marriage prospects won't be blocked, no matter what you do.”

There was a faint edge of irritation in his tone, and Enya's movements slowed. The change had come without her willing it. It was impossible not to think, however briefly, of the lovely young ladies she had seen at the Pembroke town house.

Yes—Raphael would marry one of those girls, ladies worthy of his station. No matter what she did, no matter what feelings she harbored. It was a truth she knew better than anyone.

Enya repeated the fact to herself, striving to ignore the dull, tightening ache in her chest.

Oblivious to that effort, the man added, as if to reassure her.

“Yours will likely be the same—so long as you never end up alone with that son of a bitch over there. And I've never once encountered anything 'impossible' in my life, so I'm not accustomed to being refused.”

Arrogant, insufferable words.

The meaning was unmistakable: he would tolerate no further refusal. Enya's gaze cooled without her meaning it to. In truth, the composed expression was nothing more than armor against the throbbing ache in her chest.

“So? Am I meant to cave to the Young Duke's tantrum, too?”

“Yes. Cave. Tomorrow, two o'clock. We'll meet in the piano room of the old building.”

Even so, Raphael pressed his will without the slightest concern. Enya narrowed her eyes at the man, and it suddenly struck her that this kind of pushback only spurred his persistence further.

Apparently her methods all along had been the problem. Keeping her distance had only stoked his interest, clearly. Of course refusal would have sat uncomfortably with a man who had never once encountered the word impossible.

And she—the one who had first made him feel that discomfort—must have lodged herself in his mind, nagging at him. The way a tongue keeps returning to probe a canker sore inside the mouth.

Having worked it out that far, Enya nodded at last.

“Fine. I'll agonize over how much to charge you for the lessons. Whatever figure you have in mind, I'll name exactly three times that.”

And at the assent that finally fell, a picturesque smile bloomed at the corner of Raphael's mouth. The deep dimples in his cheeks showed as he smiled brighter than usual.

“As you wish.”

The familiar imperial tongue followed in that same breath. Compared to Eberdeen—with its rounded aristocratic enunciation and soft lilt—the register was hard-edged. It suited Raphael's low voice perfectly.

Enya tore her gaze from his face with difficulty and hurried to leave the library—until he held something out in front of her.

At some point he had set down the book he was carrying, and now he gestured toward something he had drawn from inside his coat. It looked… quite expensive.

“Call it a down payment on the contract.”

As he added the words playfully, the man's blue eyes swept over the cheek where a bruise still lingered. Unable to bear that gaze, Enya snatched up the salve and hurried out of the library.

The ear peeking between strands of blonde hair was scarlet.

That flush caught the eye of Lucas, who had been listening in silence to a conversation he couldn't understand. A faint interest began to stir in his green eyes.

The piano room in the old building was remarkably well kept. The large white grand piano gleamed without a speck of dust, suggesting that someone played it regularly.

Enya caught herself imagining Raphael's hands on those keys, then hastily shook the thought away at the sound of someone approaching from behind.

“I thought Lady Campbell might not come, but thankfully that wasn't the case.”

“…Once I've realized how persistent you are, I'm hardly going to waste effort on something that petty. Better to teach you quickly and be done with it.”

“Be done?”

Raphael's smooth brows lifted. Enya nodded absently at the crease between them.

“You already speak fluent Eberdeen, so the lessons may well be over the moment they begin. All I have left to teach you are things like Hundedreck.”

“Declaring the end before the lesson's even begun. Quite confident, aren't you.”

“…Pick one. Are you speaking formally to me or not?”

“Fine—then drop the formality too. A teacher addressing a student informally who answers with honorifics would be absurd.”

Raphael knocked back Enya's irritated protest in a single stroke. A man well accustomed to talking down to people, he had no reason to object.

Enya started to refuse his suggestion, then nodded instead.

“Fine. Enough chatter—sit. The lesson runs exactly one hour.”

At her unhesitating condescension, Raphael let out an amused laugh.

The truth was, Raphael had never wanted Eberdeen lessons in earnest—not from the start. Even by the time he handed Enya the token, if she had accepted his offer, his plan had been nothing more than a light spot of tea time.

And even that, had his interest faded, he'd have simply let lapse.

What had turned it into something sincere, belatedly, was the moment he saw Lucas and Enya together.

Or more precisely—Lucas's provocation had fanned his impulse into flame.

And so he'd held no great expectations for the lesson itself….

Raphael had been suppressing the laughter threatening to spill out of him for some time now. Because the woman, wearing a rather serious expression since the lesson began, had started hurling insults in a voice to match—thoroughly earnest.

“Idiot. Trottel. Dummkopf. Arrogantes Schwein.”

Idiot. Halfwit. Dumb bastard. Arrogant pig.

Every last one was so tame it nearly induced a yawn. Anyone who flung around insults like those in an argument would unmistakably be taken lightly.

Though to a noble young lady, even this much would doubtless feel scandalously extreme.

Then Raphael imagined those small lips producing something truly coarse—something like fuck this—and his brow creased. The feeling hadn't been entirely unpleasant, which was precisely why he found his own reaction absurd.

All the while, the woman's voice continued its steady repetition.

“Idiot. Trottel. Dummkopf. Arrogantes Schwein.” The language should already be familiar to your ears, so it won't be difficult. I don't need to write anything down separately, do I?

Claiming she would speak informally, yet at some point slipping back into the familiar honorifics—Raphael feigned deliberation before answering.

“You're going too fast. I think it'd be better if you wrote them out.”

This from the man who had christened Lucas an Arschloch just yesterday, wearing the face of someone who knew not a single curse word.

Fortunately, Enya seemed to have forgotten the son of a bitch he'd hurled. She regarded Raphael the way one regards a slightly difficult student. More precisely, her face said: is it really all right to be teaching this man profanity?

Raphael swallowed yet another laugh on the verge of escaping and looked back at her like a diligent pupil.

Faced with that look, Enya let out a faint sigh, drew out her notebook, and began taking notes. Raphael's eyes, laced with amusement, traced the curses she enumerated in her neat, precise hand.

Then, quite naturally, his gaze drifted to the small hand gripping the fountain pen. Left-handed? A very tiny dot sat upon her hand—the back of it, running into the ring finger of her left. A ring of slightly generous size, he judged, would conceal that dot completely.

He studied her ring finger a moment longer—absurdly slender around its circumference compared to his own finger. Against skin so white the fine blue veins showed through, any color of jewel would have suited.

And just as he thought that—just as he found himself, without meaning to, picturing the sort of ring that would sit perfectly on that finger—

“Now try writing it.”

The clipped voice cut his imagination short.

“Ah….”

Letting out a short, involuntary sound, Raphael met the woman's hazelnut eyes with a slightly foolish expression. He was half-exasperated with himself, too, for what he'd been thinking only moments ago.

With a quiet laugh, he took the pen she offered. By the time he registered the brush of their fingertips, her hand had already retreated far out of reach.

Faintly, inexplicably disappointed, Raphael began to write.

Idiot.

Idiot.