“But if you choose to begin nosing around where you shouldn’t,” he added to himself, “that is my concern.”
Augusta putdown the newspaper with an unladylike snort. It was outside enough that the earl had unsettled her private thoughts. Now he was playing some sort of May Game with the cause closest to her heart.Confound the man!She almost wished she would run into to him again, so that she could tell him what she thought of such behavior. Her lips compressed—no, on second thought, she wouldn’t be able to say a thing, not without revealing a passion that was best kept hidden away.
Once again she muttered an inward curse at the constraints on females. It was most annoying, to have to keep her opinions stifled in all but one forum. But at least her ire at the earl had inspired the topic for her next essay.
The time seemed right for a ringing peal at the indifferent attitude of the privileged class, who chose to turn a blind eye on the misfortunes of those beneath them. Marcus’s speech, though no doubt inspired by some practical joke, contained a number of sensible ideas, even though she was loath to admit it. He had hinted that thetonmust shoulder some of the blame for allowing such horrors to exist. She would elaborate on the theme, even though Pritchard was becoming a tad nervous over the increasing heat of her tone. But he’d not kick up a dust quite yet, not while people still flocked to buy his publication and read the latest incendiary words from Firebrand.
However, the essay could wait for later. She put aside the paper to regard the thick sheets of cream stationery that lay folded on her desk. It was strange how her pulse quickened whenever an envelope addressed in the bold, sweeping stroke she had come to recognize immediately appeared on the butler’s silver tray. She found she looked forward to the arrival of her friend’s letters—for friend was how she thought of him.
Considering the intimacies they had exchanged, they could be no less.
She repressed a slight smile on recalling some of the words on the pages before her. As he himself had said, it appeared that both of them had become unfashionably honest with each other, laying bare their most private emotions, which they dared not to reveal to anyone else. The smile stole back as she re-read his half-joking suggestion that they meet at White’s to share a bottle of port and conversation long into the night.
So he, too, felt the writing of letters was becoming increasingly frustrating, what with the ideas that always seemedwoefully unexplored, the questions that remained unanswered until the next missive arrived. However, if he only knew how impossible his wish was, and not for the reasons he imagined!
She took up her pen to finish off her reply.
… As to your sentiments that an evening at one of our clubs would prove most delightful, I have no doubt that would in many ways be true. But think on it. Part of the honesty we have derives, no doubt, from the anonymity. Much as I should enjoy meeting you face to face and pursuing our talks in a much more animated way, I fear that it might mean risking a friendship that has become quite special, at least to me, or altering it in ways that neither of us would care to do. Therefore, I think it best to continue as we have …
A final paragraph followed, then the letter was set aside for the afternoon post. Augusta turned her attention to more mundane things—penning several replies to invitations, copying out a recipe for chilblains for Lady Setterwhite, sending off a report of what she had learned so far back to Mrs. Roberts at Greenfield Manor—before her thoughts came back to pages meant for her friend. She chewed thoughtfully on the end of her pen. It was clear from numerous asides he had let drop that he moved in the highest circles. Also, more than apparent was the fact that he possessed a sharp mind and a keen eye for observation. Her lips pursed, then she reached for the last sheet of her letter and added an impulsive postscript.
Perhaps I should not so bold as to ask, but there is a matter on which I could use your help …
The last chordsof a lively country dance ended with a flourish, leaving the capering couples flushed with a touch of color. Augusta watched Marianne laugh merrily at some whispered remark from her partner, which elicited not only a besotted smile from the favored fellow but a collective sigh from the group of young gentlemen awaiting her return from the dance floor.
With such unaffected charm, angelic blonde looks, and sweet disposition, her sister seemed to inspire a rapturous response from even a number of the jaded bucks of the town. Her hand was quickly claimed for the next set, and already the fellow was staring at her like a bewitched mooncalf.
Augusta’s fingers began to trace the subtle pattern of the new brocaded silk gown Marianne had chosen for her as she wondered for a flitting moment what it would be like to inspire passionate emotion in a gentleman. It was a silly thought, she knew, and one hardly likely to come to pass. Even a handsome dowry and influential family could not overcome the aversion men felt toward an outspoken, opinionated female whose bean pole figure and angular face only accentuated how little she resembled the ideal sort of wife. In another moment, her wistful expression changed to one of detached amusement on considering that the only little frisson she was likely to inspire in a member of the opposite sex would be one of immense relief at not having to face a life leg-shackled to an aging antidote.
At least her words, however anonymous, seemed capable of stirring the souls of some people. She would have to be satisfied with that.
“You appear to be contemplating some private joke.” Baron Ashford took a seat beside her. “Care to share it?”
“Hmm.” Augusta pushed her reveries aside. “I doubt you would appreciate the irony of it.” On regarding her friend’s slightly injured look, she quickly changed the subject. “Who is that dancing with Marianne?”
Never one to stay miffed for long, Ashford abandoned his pout and swept his gaze over the crush on the dance floor. “Oh, that’s Ludlowe,” he replied after a bit. “Heir to Cranehill’s earldom unless the old stallion can produce an heir with his new bride.”
“I didn’t realize centaurs were allowed to succeed to the title,” she murmured dryly. “What next? Gryphons when some old lion takes to wife a harpy?”
Ashford laughed loud enough to attract the basilisk stare of several turbaned matrons sitting close by. “You are still by far the most interesting lady to talk with, Gus. I shall miss it greatly when … “ He stopped in some embarrassment.
“When you take a wife?”
His ears turned rather red.
“Well, no doubt there will be other rewards,” she murmured, causing his color to deepen to a vivid scarlet. As he struggled to recover his composure, she eyed him thoughtfully. “Who is the lucky lady?”
“Er, well.” Ashford tugged at the collar of his shirt, then lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Miss Denton does not seem adverse to my attentions and though I’ve not spoken as yet …” His words trailed off as he watched the lady in question turn a graceful figure in the current set. “Is she not a veritable angel?” he exclaimed in a hushed tone suitable for church.
“An angel,” repeated Augusta, with a tad less reverence. “I wish you luck in ascending to heaven, Jamie. Truly I do.” On watching the diminutive blonde lower her heart-shaped face and bat her eyelashes at her current partner, she had a feeling her friend was going to need it.
“Then you aren’t … upset?” ventured Ashford.
“Don’t be a gudgeon, Jamie. I have told you, we are much better suited as friends.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. “Come, you must promise me the next dance, so that I may tell you all about Cynthia.”
She did not have the heart to tell him that even a close friendship had its limits, and so, with some reluctance, she allowed herself to be led out.
