Page 96
I trust him. She mouthed again.
Her worries were born of fatigue and separation.
Her finger moved along the softened edge of the side she had folded and cut in secret. She positioned that portion on the sloped, soft, leather-covered writing surface, dipped her quill into the inkwell, and held the writing implement aloft.
How should she begin?
Dear? Dearest? Beloved? The latter seemed forward indeed. She chose dear.
Now, what name should she choose? Lord Asquith? Asquith? Simon?
A drop of ink landed on the paper. Bother.
She had wished to create thin, flawless lines on the paper; hence the crow quills. Carefully, she drew out the blob, turning it into the dot of the “i” in Asquith. She tilted her head. She probably should have written “Simon.”
Her heavy shoulders drooped. What was wrong with her?
She was so tired lately. So, so tired. No matter how much she slept, she could not seem to stay awake. Double bother.
She pulled herself together and composed in her head. I cannot help but think of you and feel admiration. Such superior judgement and sensibility, so loyal and passio—
She bit her lip. No.
She gazed out the window down to the yew maze, still green in a December gray garden. She tried again. Observing where we first kissed, I marvel—
She wrinkled her nose.
Should she mention kisses? What if Lady Asquith opened the letter? Worse still, the message could reach someone with ill intent.
She worried her lower lip.
Slander spread like wildfire. Any destructive rumor would soon reach the Lord Chancellor’s ears. The indelible and acrid nature of gossip could permanently tarnish Simon and her sisters. Alternatively, the intercepted letter could be used as blackmail.
Her eyelids fluttered shut.
Used as blackmail by someone who cared nothing for Simon’s well-being.
For heaven’s sake...
Her tired mind and churning stomach would not allow her to properly compose. Beyond her romantic fancies, what did she hope for Asquith?
She chose a less fraught topic.
“I hope,” she forced herself to write, “You and your stable project are getting on well.”
Stable project. She scowled. She’d made his serious pursuit sound like a pastime.
Having written the thought, she could hardly begin again. Paper was extremely expensive, and she refused to waste an inch, especially since he’d made the purchase especially for her.
She’d have to trust that he would forgive her clumsy wording.
Conversing with Simon felt simple, but transcribing thoughts proved hard.
She pressed onward, scrawling a few more lines in her finest penmanship, first inquiring about the weather, and then about Lady Asquith.
She paused again.
Despite the risk, she longed to tell him she’d dreamt of him every night. She longed to write that sometimes, when she thought of him, her breasts ached, and she grew hot and restless.
