The needle hit her finger, and she hissed, biting her finger to combat the sharp pain with a duller one. She held a handkerchief against the tiny wound as her gaze darted, for the thousandth time that day, to the window. And beyond the glass to the garden, the statue, that low-branched tree where Clearford had kissed her.
She was decorating her stockings to avoid the letter she must pen, but perhaps the needle in her flesh was a sign. She could put it off no longer. They’d not met today because they’d kissed last night, but that did not absolve her of her duties.
She must complete a full report on Felicity’s progress seeking a match. Written in ink because she’d kissed him, and he’d kissed her back, and if he’d taken things further, she would have complied. Gladly. Written in ink because what if they did it again?
Paper, ink, sand—she arranged it all and sat, hand poised and waiting for the words to come. Did she acknowledge the kiss? Or not?
Not. Absolutely not.
Your Grace,
As we discussed last night, your sister’s suitors appear more ardent with the arrival of more competition. I have gathered the following information about each man:
Mr. Sinclair comes from a large family, and he has many younger siblings, which you likely know, but what you might not be aware of is how lovely he is to them. I have seen them interact in the park. A man good with children is a man for your sister, I am convinced.
But Sir Rexley is not without his own charms. An only child, he appears hungry for attention, but not without deep connection. His friends are those he has maintained since childhood, and they are all solid, dependable fellows, a few of whom are married and quite devoted to their wives. Additionally, he enjoys playing parlor games, as does Felicity. A man and woman who play well together and often are likely to make a happy match.
As I suggested last night, you should have a discussion with Lord Bransley. I know I cannot be there to listen to the conversation, as I would like, but I trust you to tell me everything.
Lady Emma Blackwood
Should she cut out the first part of the last sentence? It clearly referred to reasons she could not be in the same room as the man. No, she would send it on its way and spend no more time on it. Fussing over half a sentence felt too much like fussing overthe man himself. Her heart ached badly enough today without that further fear. She sanded it, folded it, and sent it across the street.
Samuel traced the curves of his mother’s name with his fingertip. Emma’s letter lay glowing on the dark wood of the desk, her handwriting lovely and looping, catching him up, tying him in knots. He liked her even at a distance. The letter… a necessary distance, but somehow also… intimate. The letter his sign, his means, of remaining entirely cold and formal with his matchmaker.
Yet damn it right to hell, he felt playful reading it.
Formal.
Playful.
Formal…
His finger curled around the letters carved into his desk more quickly, and then in one sweep, he picked up his pen and added to the paper just below her writing.
Lady Emma,
I believe I prefer Sir Rexley so far. If he makes Felicity laugh, I can trust him. But do you think his hunger for attention may prove a difficulty? What if he becomes overly jealous or if he decides the attentions of a wife are not enough? Can you discover the answers to these questions? Please do so and report back to me.
As for Bransley… How should I speak to the man, do you think? I’m planning to entertain him in the art gallery as I sharpen my knives. I’ll throw open all the windows, and you can walk beneath them at the appointed time. I’ll speak loudlyenough for you to hear, and if Bransley does not, I have ways of making him yelp.
S.M.
He should not send that. But it was written, and he was too damn tired to write another. So, he blew the ink dry, folded it along the same lines her fingers had created earlier, and sent it back across the square.
The first letter had been so very difficult to write, but the next was easy.
S.M,
Absolutely not. You possess a study, Your Grace. Or did you forget? You will, of course, conduct the interview there. Without knives. Without any hint of anything pointy.
But you may leave the window open if you like. And tell me the time and date the window will be open. If I happen to be out for a stroll at the time, it will only benefit the both of us.
And yes, naturally, I will discover answers to your questions. (They are excellent questions. See, you are not so bad at courtship as you think.)
E.B.
Using her initials felt more intimate, but he had started it, and perhaps it leant their exchange more anonymity. She sent the letter across the street in the hand of a jogging footman, then returned to her embroidery.
