by Lily Maxton
Lord Thornhill
~
Dear Lord Thornhill,
Ha! I see I’m not the only one who writes dreadful apologies. A little refinement, indeed!
I don’t know how to answer your letter. You make me feel like a three-eyed fish or some such mutated creature. I’ve always been the way I am, as far as I can remember. I’m not attempting to be contrary; I simply don’t see why a woman shouldn’t speak her mind or have strong opinions or be allowed to do the things a man does.
I sound like a bluestocking…if only I had a voracious appetite for reading like my sister Olivia, I would truly fit the definition.
I don’t think my mother knows what to make of me, either, nor do the men she attempts to pair me off with. But it doesn’t matter overmuch. I like the way I am. I don’t wish to change myself to fit someone else’s expectations.
And really, proper debutantes are boring, aren’t they?
To keep in the spirit of impropriety and to satisfy my curiosity—have you read Confessions of a Courtesan?
Yours,
Miss Middleton
~
Miss Middleton,
I cannot fathom why I’m answering this question, but here it is: I bought the novel yesterday and read the first chapter. I’d like to point out that the part about Duke M’s insatiability is most likely exaggerated. A man making love to a woman four separate times in the span of an hour is highly implausible.
Do three-eyed fish exist? Have you ever seen one?
You shouldn’t change yourself to fit someone else’s expectations. I like the way you are, too. You simply require a little getting used to.
Yours,
Lord Thornhill
~
My lord,
I bow to the master of backhanded compliments. What next? Will you compare me to new boots that need to be softened with wear? A horse that needs breaking? A dreadful wine that needs to be gulped before one acquires a taste for it?
I have not seen a three-eyed fish, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.
Speaking of exotic things, you lived in India for some time, did you not? Do you ever miss the adventure?
Why is Duke M’s insatiability implausible?
Yours,
Miss Middleton
~
My dear Miss Middleton,
It was only a compliment. Not a backhanded one. Some of the finest things are acquired tastes—because of their complexity, I think. It’s easy to immediately take to something. It’s not as easy to peel back layer after layer and make new discoveries.
I thought I would miss India more than I do—I left home to find adventure (and partly to escape my parents) and I did, but it’s a hard land. I’m lucky I didn’t acquire malaria or something worse. And taking on the responsibility of an earldom is like its own adventure, albeit with less heat and insects, which I can’t say I miss.
I won’t go into the physiology of the act (you could “borrow” an anatomy book), but I will say that men need some time to recover after making love.
Horses? I recall you mentioning horses on another occasion.
Lord Thornhill
~
My lord,
Very well, I shall take the compliment as it was intended. Thank you.
You went to India to escape your parents?! I often dream of escaping my parents, but I don’t think I’d travel halfway around the world to do so. What’s wrong with them?
Did you see any tigers in India? I’ve never seen a live one, but I’ve viewed illustrations of them and they look like lovely, fierce creatures.
Changing subjects—how much time does this recovery take?
I wanted to ask you about an act I read on page one hundred and two with Earl L. Do men actually enjoy this as much as our anonymous courtesan would have us believe?
Anne
~
Dear Anne,
Nothing in particular is wrong with my parents. I simply never quite lived up to their expectations. I was small for a boy—I didn’t grow much until I was nearly sixteen, and I looked odd, I’m afraid—a gangly, thin lad with a nose that took up half my face. I was painfully shy for several years before I grew into my features and gained more confidence.
My parents would look at my cousin Charles and wonder why I wasn’t more like him (extraordinarily handsome, charming, never lacking any sort of confidence). They weren’t very good at hiding their disappointment with me.
And I don’t mean to seem self-pitying. But yes, it was a large factor in my decision to board an East Indiaman and sail to an exotic land. Perhaps I was too rash. But I wouldn’t trade the experience.
I did see a tiger. I went on a hunting expedition with a few other men. I never thought it would be difficult to pull the trigger (it seems odd—the joy men garner in exerting their dominance over nature). The tiger came crashing through the underbrush, an orange and black blur, snarling like a creature from hell.
It was beautiful. I couldn’t kill it.
One of the other men did. As I watched the powerful creature draw its last breaths, all I could think was that it was a horrible thing we’d done. I didn’t go on another expedition after that.
I’ve spent too much time speaking of myself. Tell me something about you.
The time to recover depends on many variables—age, health, and so on. I cannot give you one answer.
And I cannot believe I’m addressing this, but yes, I would suspect most men enjoy the act described on page one hundred and two. Women can be the recipients, as well, and they enjoy it if done with finesse—refer to page one hundred seventy-six.
Yours,
Michael
~
Dear Michael,
I am glad you could not kill it. I would be disappointed in you if you had. I think your inability to pull the trigger doesn’t show weakness, but strength. You didn’t fail to act because you were frightened, but because you recognized that a thing of power and beauty shouldn’t be harmed.
Your command is rather vague, but I shall endeavor to do my best. My favorite place to be is Middleton Hall, where I can roam about the countryside freely and escape my mother (much easier than traveling to India, you see). I love to dance, but I prefer being outdoors to in. I like riding in the evening so I can gallop toward the sunset…it’s fanciful (especially for me, as I don’t consider myself fanciful), but it feels like I’m chasing the sun. I like to make ridiculous wagers with my sisters and I’m a poor loser. Now you have probably learned more about me than you wished to.
Actually, you could give me one answer regarding the recovery issue—yours.
You are outpacing me on Confessions of a Courtesan. If you’re not careful, I’ll assume you are actually enjoying the book.
Yours,
Anne
One last question—have you done the acts on those pages?
~
Dear Anne,
I would hate to have you disappointed in me. And thank you for saying that it was an act of strength.
I prefer the outdoors as well. though with my new responsibilities I can’t follow my whims as often. I should demand my steward meet me in the park if I have something to discuss with him. I cannot be the first earl to make strange demands.
I do not mind dancing, but I’m not particularly fond of it. I wager on occasion, but I don’t gamble reckless amounts as some men do. I would also consider myself a poor loser—though as the title requires, I always act supremely confident, even when losing. However, I win more often than I lose.
I’ve never chased the sunset—I think I would like to. I imagine you riding at dusk with your hair streaming behind you. Astride, not sidesaddle. (See, I can be shocking, as well.)
I assume you dislike the Season, then, aside from the dancing?
Though your thirst for knowledge is admirable, I’m not going to answer your questions.
Unlike you, I am only willing to push the bounds of propriety so far.
Michael
>
~
Michael,
You make it sound as though I’m placating you—I don’t placate, my lord. Well, occasionally I do, but it tends to come out awkward and obvious (for reference, see my apology letter which you so nicely remarked on).
Now I will return the shock—I do sometimes ride astride.
I’m not overly fond of the Season—which is a shame as this is my fourth. My mother has lost all hope of a good match. She will have to settle for some penniless cousin who wants my dowry.
Your reticence has answered my question. It must be yes. But I’m curious about which act—or, heaven forbid, both of them!
You are not featured in Confessions of a Courtesan, are you? Is there an Earl T I haven’t yet read about?
Anne
~
My dearest Anne,
You deserve far better than a man who values you only for your dowry.
Rein in your imagination. I will not tell you of my past experiences, whether it’s proper or not (it’s not, of course). It simply doesn’t seem gentlemanly to me.
But I can answer your last question—no, I’ve never employed the services of a courtesan. I prefer to let these affairs happen in a more natural manner.
Yours,
Michael
Anne was still thinking about that last letter as she sat with Olivia and Elizabeth toward the back of a public assembly hall in Brighton. There was a scattering of uncomfortable chairs for the chaperones, older women, and wallflowers to make use of. The Middleton sisters fit right in—a countess who married a bookseller and who, though still beautiful and charming, was no longer quite as sought-after at the few events she was invited to; Anne, who had never been sought-after because she was too direct and opinionated for most men’s tastes; and Olivia, who wasn’t sought-after because she had the opposite problem, being shy and reserved around men.
They were quite the trio.
But Anne was barely paying attention to the fact that no one had asked her to dance yet. Michael’s letter took up the forefront of her mind. Not the letter itself, but the way he’d addressed her.
Most likely, he hadn’t meant a thing by it. Most likely, he hadn’t even noticed he’d called her “my dearest.”
She’d noticed. She had paused as her eyes skimmed the first familiar ink swells of his handwriting. For a moment, an infinitesimal foolish moment, her breath had quickened along with her pulse. And then pragmatism won out.
If Michael Grey, Earl of Thornhill, was in love with Elizabeth, he could never care deeply for someone like Anne. She loved her sister, but they were as different as night and day. No, Anne was merely a novelty to him, and nothing more. A passing amusement. Someone who was so entirely wrong in all the ways he deemed important that his dislike had turned into a reluctant fascination.
And why would she want to be his second choice, anyway? She didn’t compare to Lizzie in some ways, but she had her own good qualities. It wasn’t her fault that her good qualities, while accepted—even admired—in a man, were undesirable in a woman.
Anne had too much self-respect to be anyone’s second choice. She would rather be a spinster for the rest of her life.
She scanned the crowded ballroom. The Middletons had been in Brighton for a few days now. They were planning to spend the majority of their summer at the seaside instead of in the stifling heat of London. She didn’t know if or when Lord Thornhill would make an appearance, and she didn’t know what she would say to him if she saw him. Writing letters had been easy; the idea of speaking to him face-to-face formed a pit of tension in her stomach.
But she didn’t see him among the glittering, winding throng and her tension eased. She took a casual sip of watered-down lemonade and looked at Elizabeth. “Have you read Confessions of a Courtesan?”
Her sister eyed her over the top of her fan. “Don’t tell me you’ve acquired a copy. You’d best not let Mama catch you with it.”
“I won’t,” she said, “but have you?”
“I’ve read it. I’m acquainted with the author.”
Olivia and Anne gasped at the same time. They leaned in closer to their older sister, forming a tight circle. “Will you introduce us?” Anne asked.
Elizabeth laughed. “Certainly, but it will have to wait until we’re all back in London.”
“You weren’t bothered that Mr. Cameron worked with her?”
“My first reaction was jealousy, but I realized I was being foolish. Cale would never do anything to harm our relationship.” Her voice was steady, no hint of doubt.
And Anne felt a flash of envy: what must it be like to have such faith, such confidence, in a man? Most of the ones she had met had seemed like rather fickle creatures.
Except Michael; he didn’t seem fickle.
But maybe he was, and it was unwise to regard him so highly—he had turned his attention to another sister after being rejected by the first, after all.
A cool ocean breeze came from the window next to them, bringing a tang of salt and rustling the hem of her dress.
“How long will it be before Mr. Cameron arrives in Brighton?” Anne asked. Elizabeth had come ahead of her husband to visit with her and Olivia before the couple left for the cottage in the country where they liked to spend time in the summer.
“Just a few days. He wanted to finish editing a manuscript so they can start printing before he leaves.”
“A new book?” Olivia asked, her eyes lighting with interest. “What is it?”
Elizabeth laughed. “It discusses the flora and fauna of India. Not fiction, I’m afraid.”
The mention of India reminded her of Michael’s last letter. She looked down at her empty glass. “I need to fetch more lemonade.”
“None for me, thanks,” Elizabeth said. “I had forgotten how dreadful the offerings are at these public assemblies.”
Anne weaved her way through the crowd in search of the refreshment table. She was nearly there when a rather boisterous dancer swung his partner around and released her with a little too much force. The young woman came at her with arms flailing. Everything happened too swiftly. All Anne had time to do was lift her arm in an attempt to protect her head. But then she felt someone’s hand on her waist, confident and quick, pulling her out of the path of danger.
The errant dancer managed a stumbling stop. The look she sent her partner when he rushed forward to help was as cold as a winter wind.
But Anne didn’t see if he managed to work himself back into her good graces. She was distracted by the solid heat of a male body along her back. A rather new, and not entirely unpleasant, sensation.
She turned. And nearly blanched when her eyes met a familiar, amused gaze. “Lord Thornhill!”
“Miss Middleton. I arrived at an opportune time, it seems.”
Anne stepped back, a careful, precise movement. It was difficult to think when she was close enough to smell the crisp scent of whatever soap he used. She hadn’t spoken to him since the night in the library—since his letters had become the high point of every single day. “Indeed you did.”
“Do you have the next dance open?”
“No,” she blurted out. When he frowned, she looked at her empty dance card. The next dance wasn’t a waltz. She could handle a country dance with him. They would only have to touch hands, and she would be far enough away from him to maintain coherent thought. “I mean, yes, I do.”
Anne soon found there was no “only” about touching hands with Lord Thornhill. The contact was glove to glove, not skin to skin, thank goodness. She couldn’t imagine what touching his bare skin would feel like when this alone was enough to make her pulse beat faster. Thornhill’s hand engulfed hers, strong, unyielding, exerting a firm pressure. She felt captured every time he took her hand in his, and dizzy with relief when he released her again.
Because she wasn’t sure she could have let go of him on her own.
It was maddening, this incongruous reaction to an innocent country dance.
“
Have you gone sea bathing yet?” Thornhill asked, his pleasant, mild tone contrasting with her own tumultuous thoughts.
“No,” she said, a bit harshly. Then she moderated her voice—she could make it through one dance without embarrassing herself. “No. My mother swears by it, but I think it’s a bit ridiculous.”
“I hope you haven’t told Prinny as much.”
“I wouldn’t be afraid to tell him. What will he do, cut off my head?”
“He could make social life more difficult for you,” Thornhill warned.
“Do you think that would matter to me?”
“By that, I presume not,” he said with a slight smile. “Though it probably should. Why don’t you like sea bathing?”
“All they do is put you in a bathing machine and then dip you in the water. It’s not real swimming,” she told him scornfully.
“No?”
She had to wait a moment as they separated to allow another couple to glide between them. “When we were children, my sisters and I used to swim in the lake at our country estate,” she said as they joined together again. “We would have races to see who was the fastest. My mother hated it. She told us we were acting like barbarians, not young ladies.”
“Who won the races?”
“I did,” she said. Her mouth lifted in a grin at the same time his did.
“That doesn’t surprise me.” The words, which might have been an insult a mere fortnight ago, were spoken with gentle amusement.
The dance came to an end, and she curtseyed to him, but instead of leaving to find a partner for the next dance, he guided her to an isolated corner of the spacious assembly room.
Anne tensed at the solid feel of his arm beneath her hand. She turned to break the contact.
“I’d like to make a wager with you,” he commented, taking her by surprise.
But this was better. Easier. She liked talking to Thornhill. Talking was simple. The heightening of her senses every time he touched her was a little more difficult to contemplate.
“What did you have in mind?” she asked, curious.
“I wager I could best you in a swimming race.”
Had she said simple? Her fingers, which had been playing with the edge of her glove, froze. “But we can’t race,” she said quickly. “Men and women don’t bathe together.”
