Jillian waited until Ingsley’s footfalls grew faint before turning the letter back over again. One of the words had smudged a little, but it was still legible. Good enough. She folded the page into a self-concealing design as Ellena had taught her, addressing it with painstaking accuracy. This was one item of correspondence that absolutely must reach its intended destination without delay. She blew on the wet ink, then waved the tightly folded and tucked letter gently to and fro until she was satisfied it was thoroughly dry.
On tiptoes once more, she left her room and crossed to the staircase, which she descended with greater-than-usual care. Any stomping would give her away utterly, as she was the only person in this household who ever did so.
At last, she reached the foyer. Given the hour, and the fact that no one was expected, there were no footmen about. But a faint light shone down a side corridor from the viscount’s study. Jillian listened for any indication that he was moving about. Nothing. In all likelihood, he was elbow-deep in paperwork.
Within a few strides, she was at a side table, upon which rested a silver tray. A small heap of correspondence lay on display. Lord Howell would be adding to it before morning if the lamplight in his study was any indication. She drew her own letter from her pocket and slipped it in at the bottom of the pile so that it did not catch the viscount’s eye. First thing in the morning, all these little sheets of writing would be spirited awayand delivered by hand to local addresses or the post office. There should be ample time for her mission to succeed.
With a final act of self-restraint, Jillian climbed the stairs as silently as she could, entered her room, and clicked the door shut behind her. Released from the necessity for composure, she launched herself onto her bed, shuffled up to the head of it, and threw herself back so that her tresses splayed out like a golden fan across the goose-down pillows.
So many times, she had lain in this way in the daisy-dotted field near Trenton Grange. No four-poster drapery then shielding the view. Only sun and clouds and the passing of birds like fish in the current of the sky. She could see herself sharing such moments with Mr. Bradford. Not in his barrister’s wig, of course. Odd little accessory of his profession that it was. He would have no need to wear it when with her. When they were together, it would just be their simplest selves. Their hands would reach for each other’s, fingers intertwining. The sun would warm their faces. Their children would bound about, their laughter rounding off the perfection of the day.
Jillian closed her eyes. Her hand slid to the side, her fingers reaching. No answer yet. But it was so close, she could sense it. His touch. Just one question and they could have it all. If Mr. Bradford was lucky, she would even allow him to finish asking before she saidyes.
