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Her breasts had been aching a great deal. Maybe ache was the result of the kind of pleasure he’d given?

If so, the satisfaction was worth the ache. Ah, the sheer delight she had experienced in Simon’s arms...

The memory of his parting expression, a blend of yearning and steadfast resolve, could still make her skin prickle with anticipation.

Usually, her worries disappeared like water on a hot slate when she remembered Simon when he was in their final moments together—passionate, protective, and fierce.

But, this time, as she brought the version of Simon in Barker’s bedchamber fully to life, bedchamber-Simon fused with other, earlier Asquiths. And instead of evaporating, her worries muddied her mind.

When he’d suggested they marry—she could hardly call his words a proper proposal—she’d been startled by his sudden and complete change of heart.

Would their long separation give him too much leeway to reconsider?

He was too honorable to withdraw his offer after what they’d done, but he might begrudge her willingness to yield.

He’d said he would never resent her, but how could he be sure? Resentments built on resentments until the walls between them were too thick to fell.

Or at least that was what she’d witnessed between her parents.

She glanced down, wished she could communicate her fears. She could not, any more than she could articulate her hopes. Which left her with a blank page.

She closed her eyes and waited for another bout of nausea to pass.

She was no stranger to digestive upset. Her stomach and her sentiments were more deeply linked than in anyone else she knew. And naturally, being apart from Simon had left her upset.

She’d thought writing him her first letter would help. If only the words would come.

She frowned down at the paper. Why did she persist in complicating matters? For herself, all she wished was to be safe. For him, all she wanted was happiness.

“What’s wrong?” Nettie asked over her shoulder.

She jumped, and another splatter hit the paper.

“Nettie! Can’t you see I am trying to write?”

“What are you attempting to write? A sonnet in iambic pentameter?”

She moved to the chair’s side. “Now why would I write a sonnet?”

“I haven’t any idea.” Nettie shrugged. “But you cannot be composing a letter. You’ve had your pen floating in the air for a quarter hour, and dozens of peculiar expressions have been parading across your face.”

Had she been so obvious? Lenora grimaced. She scanned the room. Everyone else was busy with other things.

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m trying to write to Asquith.”

Nettie’s eyes grew wide, and she recoiled. “I know you’ve been maudlin and temperamental of late, but really, Lenora.”

Lenora recoiled in turn. “I don’t see why you look so scandalized! You are the one who helped arrange our clandestine meetings.”

“Meetings meant to convince him to wed.” Nettie gripped the back of the chair. “Are you betrothed?”

“Not quite.”

Nettie glared. “You either are, or you aren’t!”

“In that case, we aren’t.” Their understanding was private. A true betrothal would require the Lord Chancellor’s approval. His unconditional approval.

Nettie lifted her chin. “You shouldn’t be writing to him if you’re not yet betrothed.”