“Be thankful you did not see the first, second, or even third drafts of those letters.” Blake made a face. “They were truly abominable.”
“And you did?” Jane cocked her head.
“Of course, I did. He wanted a critical eye, and I lent him one. Though it was rather painful at times.” Blake shuddered as he remembered a particularly awful letter. “Honestly, if I had let him send those letters, I suspect we would not have a wedding to attend.”
“I doubt it. Cressida was utterly besotted with him. I do not think he could have done anything that would have put her off.” Jane smiled fondly.
“Love truly is blind.” Blake shook his head in wonder.
“Indeed, it is,” Jane agreed.
“I am glad they have found each other,” Blake murmured.
“As am I,” Jane agreed, her face softening as she thought of her friend.
She is so pretty when she smiles, and it is clear she loves Cressida deeply.
Blake realized what he was thinking and shook himself firmly.
“Shall we head to the stables together?” Jane asked. “After all, that is where he proposed.”
“What, no tricks?”
“Not yet.”
“Very well, let us walk together then,” Blake agreed, though even as he did, he felt an odd twinge in his chest, and wondered if it was the wisest decision.
ChapterEleven
Romantics
Jane glanced at Blake, who had fallen into step behind her, still dripping wet from his adventure in the lake. Her own clothes were wet, though she knew she would have been in a much worse state had he not caught her.
She blushed as she remembered the feel of his arms around her and hastily pushed the thought out of her mind, casting about for some topic.
“You seem rather critical of your friend’s poetry, but what of your own?” she asked after a while, wishing she was better at conversations.
“I am very much of the opinion that one need not write poetry when we have such a rich selection to choose from.” Blake shrugged and gestured around him vaguely.
“And I assume you would probably quote Byron.” Jane wrinkled her nose in distaste.
Though in fairness, I have read precious little of him, given his reputation.
“Of the romantics, Byron’s verse is the most flowing. Say what you may about the man’s life, his verse is impeccable.” Blake pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Though I also enjoy Charlotte Smith.”
“Really?” Jane could not keep the surprise from her voice.
Blake chuckled. “What is not to like? Sonnets may have gone out of fashion, but she has revitalized the art.”
“Do you have a favorite work?” Jane asked curiously, her excitement piqued in spite of herself—she loved Charlotte Smith’s work.
Blake thought for a moment and then replied, “It would be hard for me to pick a favorite. I love them all but for different reasons. How is one supposed to pick a favorite amongst so many one loves?”
Jane groaned. “That is the most rakish answer you could have given.”
“Do you have a favorite?” Blake asked pointedly.
“I think it would have to beTo Fancyor perhapsTo The Moon.” Jane tried to think but found that as she tried to pin down a hard favorite, others kept popping up in her mind. “Actually, I think it might beReturn of the Nightingale. Oh goodness, it is hard.”
