Page 32

That, he’d never considered—that something he was forced to do for school could be seen as a coveted gift by someone else.

He studied her then, really looked at her. She was young, probably no older than him, though a few years older than his little sister. Sixteen or seventeen, if he had to guess.

In the moonlight, her hair was like a living flame, loose strands escaping their pins to frame a face that was… not beautiful, precisely, but striking. Her full lips pouted slightly, soft and expressive, and her eyes… he’d love to see their color.

He should send her away. Back to the servants’ quarters where she belonged.

Instead, he heard himself say, “Come.”

He walked toward the hearth and settled into one of the chairs. Lighting the candle on the small table before him, he deliberately relaxed his posture, hoping to put her at ease. When she hesitated in the shadows, he called out again, “Are you coming?”

She emerged slowly, like a woodland creature uncertain of its welcome.

He grinned and gestured to the chair opposite. “Please, sit.”

“I can’t,” she protested, but he saw the longing in her face as her gaze lingered on the book in his lap.

“I shall read to you,” he coaxed.

She stood frozen for a long moment, clearly warring with herself. Then, with a small nod—more to herself than to him—she perched on the edge of the chair.

He smiled, opened the book, and began translating the ancient words into English.

As he read, he stole glances at her face, watching as wonder slowly replaced fear. Her hands unclenched from her skirt, and she leaned forward slightly, lips parted, caught up in the tale. Her eyes—wide and captivating—were an extraordinary light shade of brown. In the soft candlelight, they shimmered like liquid gold.

He had almost forgotten how magical reading could be. But through the golden eyes of a red-haired servant girl, he found the wonder in it again.

Chapter 10

“Look at this.” Lydia’s fingers smoothed the crumpled paper for the hundredth time as she strode along the Serpentine in the pale dawn light, her friend hurrying to keep pace. “She says that she had the pleasure of conversing with him during the ball and is happy that he agreed to exchange letters with her so they can get to know each other better prior to their wedding.” Her lips curled into a bitter smile.

“So what, Lydia?” Honoria’s voice cracked with exasperation.

“So what? Can’t you see?” Lydia’s eyes remained fixed on the letter. “They barely know each other. They’ve only met but once.”

Honoria planted herself in Lydia’s path, forcing her to halt. With gentle but firm fingers, she pushed the letter down until Lydia met her concerned gaze. “You need to take this letter back, Lydia. It isn’t yours.”

Lydia scrunched up her nose, fingers tightening on the paper. “I can’t. I tore it open.”

“You… what?” Honoria’s eyes widened. “It is unlike you to be this careless, Lydia! What happens when he finds out that the letter is missing?”

Lydia huffed a breath, a strand of hair flying up from her forehead. “You don’t understand. I need this letter.”

Honoria threw up her hands. “For what?”

“You don’t think that this is relevant, but it is. I can’t take the blasted ring off Art’s body, I’ve tried and failed!” She grimaced. Twice. “And do not wish to do so again. But with this”—she thrust the letter in front of Honoria’s face, making her friend take a step back—“I can.”

“What do you mean?” Honoria asked on a sigh, her shoulders sagging.

“I mean,” Lydia said in a softer voice as she leaned forward, “his bride obviously wants to know more about him. And as his bride, it won’t be intrusive if she asks him personal questions.”

Honoria briefly closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Are you going to ask her to help us? Because I don’t think she will oblige.”

“I am not planning to involve anyone.” Lydia made a dismissive gesture. “At least, she won’t know she’s helping us. We’ll be corresponding on her behalf.”

“We?” Honoria’s jaw dropped, her normally composed features twisting in horror. If the situation weren’t dire, Lydia would’ve laughed, for she had never seen such an expression overcome her friend’s beautiful face.

“I can’t do it alone,” she pleaded instead, clasping her hands together. “After all, I cannot forge Miss Prescott’s handwriting.”