Chapter Thirteen
You’ve Got Mail
Dearest Marquess,
Recently, I followed your advice and tempered my ire when dealing with a particular enemy when we crossed paths.
And the encounter was surprisingly cordial.
Enjoyable even. I confess, I do not know what to think.
I have spent so much time wishing this person ill, that no longer doing so feels…
odd, to say the least. Though unexpectedly refreshing.
The weight of my anger has been lifted, and I have found myself focusing on more pleasurable pursuits.
As with so many other things, I again owe you my thanks, my dear Mayhem.
Much more happily yours,
Millie
Dearest Marchioness,
I read your letter (as always) with a great happiness that increased with every word upon the page.
While I cannot take credit for your actions (those are yours to own regardless of whatever poor advice I might have given), I read your news with exceeding delight.
Though I have no doubt any poor sod who had the temerity to become your enemy deserves all the misfortune that befalls them in this world.
Should you find yourself desiring delayed restitution for any lingering ill feelings, please consider me at your disposal.
In that way, you may keep your newfound relief while the villain still receives their just desserts.
A happy compromise that allows me the pleasure of ensuring the scoundrel pays for their past trespasses against you.
As for these pleasurable pursuits in which you have now immersed yourself…
I am intrigued. Tell me more. I do, as a whole, immensely approve of such past times.
In truth, they are the only pursuits that I deem worthy of my own time.
Or such was the case in the past. I am trying to expand my horizons somewhat.
The journey to doing so is, unfortunately, tedious.
Therefore, I find myself infinitely interested in both what you have found worthy of your precious time and, most especially, in what you find pleasurable.
Tell me about the passions that bring you joy.
You, and your secrets, are ever safe with me.
…
Eagerly awaiting your response (as always),
Mayhem
My Noble Mayhem,
I had thought to be astonished at the sheer impudence of such a request. Though upon further reflection, I find I am neither exceedingly surprised nor particularly offended. Nor should I be, in all fairness, as it was I, not you, who began the conversation.
I have warned you about my obtuse nature.
Under normal circumstances, the very act of imploring me to trust you would, in fact, make me distrust you even more.
However, you are you. My Mayhem. So, very well.
I shall trust in you—and our anonymity—at least in this one instance.
Now that I have considered it, perhaps it will be fun to reveal a secret of which no one but myself is aware.
Then here it is. I adore books. I read voraciously, far more than is seemly for women, or so I have been told by more than one person in my life.
I will read anything and devour every book I can get.
I am fond of poetry and histories. I recently read a book on botany by the Duke of Beaubrooke that was surprisingly fascinating.
But my favorite by far are novels. This, in and of itself, is not so scandalous. However, my interests lie specifically—I hardly dare utter it, even to you—in those of a romantic or, on occasion, scandalous nature. I enjoy Austen. I also quite enjoyed The Mysteries of Udolpho.
But most recently—and if you betray my confidence and tell a single soul, I shall deny it to my dying breath—I read two novels that I have not been able to remove from my thoughts.
One entitled The Monk, and the other Les Liaisons Dangereuses.
They were both… disturbing in many ways.
Far more descriptive than I had anticipated.
Yet exciting. Tantalizing, even. Perhaps more so because had I been discovered, my father would certainly forbid me from ever reading another word.
I hid them tucked between the pages of an ancient tome on philosophy.
I can hardly believe I have committed such a confession to paper. If I were wise, I would throw this letter directly into the fire. But then, I have rarely been wise where you are concerned. I suppose it is futile to begin now.
Well. There you have it. The revelation of one of my dearest passions and deepest secrets. I shall await your revelations with great anticipation.
Your strangely exhilarated partner in secrecy,
Millie
Dearest and most surprising Millie,
I love that your dearest passion is reading.
Though I am saddened at your need to hide any part of what brings you such joy.
Rest assured, you will never need to do so with me.
As for your choice in reading material…I confess I am a bit surprised.
And exceedingly delighted. And in truth, encouraged that such subject matter has tantalized rather than frighten you.
I would like to know what exactly you found so tantalizing.
I could think of a good many examples. I wonder which of them appealed to you more?
The murder? The mayhem? (A personal favorite, as I’m sure you’ve deduced).
Or perhaps it was the passionate scenes.
I am not afraid to admit it is my dear hope it is the latter.
And if that is the case, it is a subject I should be happy to explore more deeply with you at any time you wish.
As for my own passions, I share your love. Which is no surprise to me as we seem to have much in common. I also draw. I have yet to expand this dabbling into actual painting. But I do enjoy sketching a good deal.
Before you protest that our passions are not at all similar, I must confess, I do not sketch mere landscapes, or birds, or whatever bowl of fruit might happen to be nearby.
I sketch my fantasies. The images that dwell in my mind when I close my eyes and plague my thoughts when I wake.
You feature quite heavily in these scenes, despite my never having seen your face.
I have told no one about this hobby of mine. And until this moment, no other living being has ever seen one of my sketches. Save you.
I pray that it does not scandalize or offend you.
The dream was so vivid and beautiful I simply had to capture it the moment I awoke.
I dreamt I had visited the hat shop, hoping they would have a letter for the marquess.
Instead, upon entering, I found you, reclining on a chaise, lit by the warmth of the sunbeams streaming in through the window and scarcely covered in unwound spools of soft velvet ribbon.
And nothing else. The scene was quite literally breathtaking.
I hope you find it so as well. I have included this sketch with my letter.
Always and most passionately yours,
M.
Postscript—if you enjoyed The Monk, I would recommend Rosa Matilda’s Zofloya. I think you will find it equally tantalizing.