Chapter 3
Dear Friend,
One wouldn’t guess at first glance that such an imperious soul could be so clever!
But I’m reminded of your earlier words to me: “A person can be two things at one time.”
The one caveat I make to such a pronouncement is this: a person can only be what one is allowed to be.
Perhaps I’d like to be a lady and some other characteristic or honorific that a lady is not allowed to embody?
An inquisitive mind wants to know: what would you be if you were born under a different fate? I’d say it’s for research; but maybe I just want to know I’m not the only one who grapples with this by the hour.
Sincerity abundant,
N
This woman turned Fitz’s brain into a churn of butter.
He picked up a paperweight from atop his desk and turned it over in his hands.
He’d never thought so many intertwined and intrinsically insightful thoughts could come from a debutante with eyes like molten honey and a figure like a marble deity.
Moreover- he’d never thought so many… thoughts.
Fitz was certainly no wordsmith of her caliber; but he liked the easy candor he’d developed with Lady Noelle, always flirting with the line that was there of his own making.
No, that wasn’t entirely true, was it? He had upheld the line for duty’s sake at the outset.
He continued to uphold it not only for fear of Lawrence Pembrooke with a blade in his hand; but for her.
Surely, once she debuted, she’d find, as many did upon getting to know him, that better options were available.
Fitz set down the paperweight and scrubbed a hand over the stubble coating his jaw.
He was the one who’d written to her under a blasted guise.
Although, he had originally thought he’d have run out of things to say to the chit a long time ago; but surprisingly, the tenor of their letters was familiar, honest, witty.
Their letters had revealed more of Lady Noelle that had been waiting beneath the surface or hiding behind a book she usually placed in front of her pretty face like a shield.
She had goals and things she wanted to accomplish that, curse her, had made her even more attractive to him. This… familiarity had been worth the great expense he’d disbursed to maintain such a grandiose ruse and to keep his friend from discovering it.
The butler entered with a tray bearing more correspondence.
His secretary combed through the pile. Letitia was (usually) helpful and discreet, tactfully changing a word here and there and offering suggestions to better word his thoughts and requests.
She was much more efficient at reading and responding to his leagues of letters and never made him feel inadequate for his lack of proficiency with either task.
She had proven a trusted confidante over the last few years of their working relationship, and didn’t waste time trying to make him better or tell him to focus more.
The swipe of her pen knife through expensive paper kept his thoughts on a tight leash. They were prone to wander in the direction of pretty ladies, sports, sport of a different sort, carousing at gaming hells…. until her. Now there was only one woman his thoughts wanted to skitter toward.
“Your solicitor, again,” Letitia plopped a letter down on the tray, “Your lady mother, The Dowager Viscountess,” another envelope deposited with a thwap that let Fitz know just how deficient she found his timeliness to reply, “an invitation to a dinner party,” yet another, “and one from Mr.
Lawrence Pembrooke. My lord,” she added the last with a flare of her familiar impudence.
Fitz’s brows shot skyward. Had his friend Lawrence discovered Fitz writing to his younger sister? Perhaps Fitz hadn’t concealed the ruse as well as he’d thought.
“Open the last one first, please.”
The woman across from him slid the letter opener underneath the seal with long, bare fingers, and removed it. He stifled the urge to take the penknife from her hand. Surely his own hands could complete the task faster?
“And?” Fitz questioned, leaning forward on his elbows.
She cleared her throat and looked up at him. “He has invited you to the country to stay for a week. He mentions something about his sister…Lady Moria?”
Fitz rested his chin on his hand and scratched at the golden stubble along his jaw.
Lady Moria? Why had Lawrence mentioned her?
Fitz recalled her blonde hair and her blue-green eyes, her fashionable figure.
They’d always been friendly to one another; but it wasn’t Lady Moria who had carved her impressions on the inside of his mind in a sloping, confident hand.
For that matter, she wasn’t the girl whose penmanship he knew by each stroke.
He liked how it felt to be trusted with Lady Noelle’s observations, her misgivings, her questions. He only wished that he could be the one to comfort her, as himself, not under a guise.
He turned his attention to the silver tray before him on the table and asked, “And the other letters?”
before leaning back in his chair, his head against his hands.
His mind swirled with thoughts. He didn’t want to know what his uncle demanded from him or objected to this time.
Something about the odious man’s begrudging acceptance of the Dowager’s refusal of his help after Fitz’s father’s passing had bothered Fitz.
He’d done his best to keep his mother out of Sir Cranmer’s reach.
The Dowager Viscountess had once been a great beauty; but neither life, her husband, or her health had been kind to her.
Now Fitz was mere months away from turning five and twenty, old enough to take up his inheritance, estates, lands, and everything that came with it all on his own without his uncle’s interference.
He crossed his arms tautly across his chest. He couldn’t look forward to the event, something in his gut led him to believe that his uncle was already setting some sinister design in motion. Fitz shook his head; he was only being paranoid, surely.
Fitz heard his secretary reading his correspondence aloud across the desk.
His mother’s declining health had improved in small increments; the late viscount’s solicitor wanted to review the terms for his inheritance upon his impending 25th birthday; his uncle issued more demands of Fitz’s time or expenses or character.
Fitz pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut tightly until the thoughts clamoring for space in his mind lined up single file in order of precedence.
He finally spoke to the woman across from him.
“Write to my mother and tell her I’ll come and visit her the day after tomorrow. Tell the others I’m going to the country in two days’ time. Tell my body man Travers to go to my mother’s house. Make sure he keeps the order to bar Sir Cranmer’s entry, no matter what he says.”
“My lord,” the woman pushed, “these other letters do seem somewhat urgent.”
Fitz snorted. “Urgent? I’m a viscount. They’re on my time, not the other way around.”
The secretary straightened and nodded, as though she were unconvinced.
“Besides, I’ve been invited to visit a childhood friend in the country. Refusing would be the height of rudeness.”
The woman tilted her head to the side, sighed, then set her quill to paper begrudgingly. “As you wish, my lord.”
Fitz grinned, picturing the surprise on a certain young lady’s face when he made his entrance.