7thJune, 1881
Buttercup,
The Axminster is quite lovely, but I’m afraid your beast has besmirched it on no less than three occasions. All aforementioned outrages occurred in my study. I do think he loathes me. Furthermore, eight shillings a yard seems a trifle profligate as I’m reasonably certain the going rate is six.
Your beast and I both miss you profoundly.
Yours,
Sebastian
Daisy pressed a hand to her mouth as she read Sebastian’s latest letter, suppressing her unexpected mirth.
“What’s so humorous? Do tell.” Today, Georgiana held a midnight-black kitten in her arms. He was purring loudly, snoozing so soundly that his tiny mouth had fallen open.
“Hugo is marking his territory on the new Axminster.” She grinned.
“Serves him right, doesn’t it, Kitty Quixote?” Georgiana gave him a chin scratch, but he kept purring and snoozing just the same.
It was Daisy’s turn to raise a brow. “I’m not sure which is more egregious, Lady Philomena Whiskers or Kitty Quixote.”
“I can’t be sure.” Her friend’s tone was musing, thoughtful. “One could say we’re all tilting at windmills at one point or another, no? Perhaps the only thing that’s egregious is the crime of taking ourselves too seriously. What do you think, Daisy dear?”
A smile equal parts sad and reserved curved Georgiana’s lips. The scandal she’d wrought with Daisy hadn’t roused her husband. He hadn’t charged back to England from New York, determined to fight for her heart. He had continued to ignore her. Georgiana was a strong woman, but even Daisy could see that the duke’s indifference hurt her.
“I think I’m growing more confused by the day,” she admitted.
11thJune, 1881
Dearest Buttercup,
You were right about my scars. They aren’t from a fire when I was a lad. An anarchist set fire to a merchant’s building in Cheapside during one of my missions, and I was fortunate to escape with only burns on my arms and hands. The anarchist didn’t prove nearly as lucky.
Additionally, I applaud your replacement of the portrait of the Third Duke of Trent, Lord Privy Seal. His wig alone was enough to make a man bilious.
Ever yours,
Sebastian
He paced the confines of the library, Hugo trotting at his heels. The room smelled of leather and paper and oiled wood. Familiar, comforting. Books were organized by subject now. He’d discovered that in his peripatetic journey. Down one row of books, up another. Daisy had made sense of each title, organizing every bound volume to her liking. Not a spine was out of place.
He stalked the library again and again, taking in all the books waiting for her. Hundreds. Millions of words. So many stories, worlds, characters. All hers for the taking. Those books taunted him, because they waited for her return the same way that he did.
Each day, he wrote her, hoping it would be the day she could forgive him and return home. Each day, he was met with her silence. Not even a one-word response. Keeping his distance from her as she recovered had almost been his undoing, but he had wanted to observe her wishes above all else, even above his concern for her. Her father had robbed her of the power of choice for her entire life. She’d been through so much upheaval—learning that her father and her lady’s maid had been engaged in an affair, and that they’d been plotting together against her, that they’d framed her—he couldn’t begin to imagine.
He didn’t wish to add more stress and worry to her life. But she couldn’t remain encamped with the odd Duchess of Leeds forever. He wanted his wife back. He wanted a life with her.
He stilled, his eyes settling on one spine above all.
Gulliver’s Travels.
He wondered if she’d read it.
Hugo nudged his leg, making a needy canine sound and drawing his attention away. He lowered to his haunches, scratching the dog’s soft head. Warm, brown eyes stared into his.
“We need her back, don’t we, boy?”
Hugo licked his face, and that was the only answer he required.
