How nice it was to talk to a woman, and one of good sense like Verity. “I asked Christian to make love to me, in France, but he refused. He insisted we wait until we married.”
“Then perhaps his sense of honor has something to do with this.”
“It’s unlikely we’ll meet again.” Henrietta chewed her bottom lip. “I suppose I’ll never know for sure. But I’m sure he did love me.”
“You could write to him.”
“Wouldn’t that be improper?” Henrietta picked up the kitten. She held the small body against her muslin bodice and stroked the soft fur. Pirate purred.
“I’m surprised you’re concerned with propriety after all you’ve been through.”
“Aunt Gabrielle will be.”
Verity laughed. “I doubt it. We French are more inclined to follow our hearts. You have French blood in your veins, Henrietta.”
Henrietta put down the cat. “I’ll write to him now.”
Sitting at her father’s desk, she took a fresh piece of bond from the drawer and dipped a quill in the inkpot. Her hand poised over the blank sheet. Words failed to come. She needed to see Christian’s face, even if his cool attitude made her suffer another blow to her pride. She put down the pen. When her aunt arrived for the wedding, she would tell her that she’d decided to return for the rest of the Season. They could take her with them to London. It served the dual purpose of giving her father and Verity some time alone.
