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Dearest Penelope,

I look forward to learning the recipe for the best chocolate in England. It is almost worth getting married for this sole purpose.

As for my father… we are quite estranged, and I would prefer to leave that particular topic of discussion for another time, if you’ll permit me. You have your family secrets, and though not as exciting, I have mine.

Regarding my hobbies, although I’d love to share in my knowledge, I should confess that they are decidedly gentlemanly. I spend rather more time than is strictly proper at Johnson’s Boxing Academy, and I’m known to frequent Angelo’s fencing school. However, given your own admitted departure from proper ladylike pursuits, perhaps you might find such activities intriguing? I should very much like to see you wielding a foil.

Sincerely,

Thorn

P.S. Now that your sister is not looking over your shoulder, I feel bold to announce how fortunate it is that my friend Chaos (yes, that is what we call him, for reasons that become apparent upon meeting him) has promised to install his latest invention—a shower bath—in my home. It should prove most convenient for washing away the evidence of your artistic endeavors. Though I must admit, I find myself rather charmed by the image of you covered in paint.

* * *

As time passed, Thorn found himself looking forward to every letter from his bride. She was clever, witty, and quite entertaining. Her letters were easy to read, and their conversation flowed naturally. He had this feeling as though he’d known her forever, and he was exchanging letters with an old friend rather than a woman he’d known less than a month.

At first, he’d thought they would quickly run out of things to talk about. Turned out it was the opposite. With every missive he sent, he wished he could say more. He wished he could talk to her in person so he wouldn’t need to wait for days to get her replies, or to tell her things he’d thought about during lulls in between their letters.

He could not wait to see her, be close to her, and hear her voice. He imagined them lying on the grass staring at the stars all night… talking. He didn’t remember what she sounded like. The only time they had a conversation was during a ball surrounded by loud music and a chattering crowd. He wondered what her voice would be like when she was relaxed, quiet. What would be the first thing she would say to him? She would probably find his house rather boring, but she could decorate it in her own unique way once they married.

Marry her… For the first time in a long time, getting married didn’t feel quite so daunting.

The thought was strange, yet here he was, sitting in his father’s study and planning his future.

And it didn’t seem so bleak. He had something to look forward to, to plan.

Suddenly, looking out for the estates was not such a burden. Looking out after himself—eating right, picking out clothes, and going for walks was a pleasure. He even let his valet shave his face consistently. He enjoyed riding every morning, fencing and boxing with his peers. Those things had been just a distraction, to keep his mind away from his life, but now… It brought him joy. Not to mention it gave him something to talk about in his letters to his betrothed.

And most of all, the revenge on his father was almost forgotten.

Almost.

Because he couldn’t shake the ever-present pit in his stomach which told him that this—what he was doing—was wrong. He didn’t deserve to be happy. He didn’t deserve to fall in love with another woman.

Love?

Was he falling in love with his bride? He had only met her once. Was it even possible to fall in love through correspondence?

Thorn scrubbed his face with his hands as he reread her missives time and time again. He started doing it often. First, he reread the letters just to craft a perfect reply, not to forget to address one of her many questions. Then he started to reread them even after he’d replied. They just soothed him. Her letters spoke to his soul on a level no other woman had been able to reach him before.

No other woman.

But there was a young girl who had reached him in quite the same way.

He shook his head. He couldn’t live his life chasing her ghost anymore. He ought to move on. Surely, she’d understand.

The mild scratch on his door interrupted his thoughts. Thorn looked up. His butler used the scratching in lieu of knocking, a leftover habit from catering to the sick marquess and his whiny wife. Thorn’s lip curled in disgust. “Please, knock next time.”

“Of course, my lord,” the butler said with a bow. “A letter for you, sir.”

Thorn fought the urge to jump from his seat. A letter. From her?

The butler handed him the missive and left.

Thorn impatiently ripped the envelope and devoured the text.

A smile found its way onto his lips like it always did when he read her words. She was flirtatious and witty as ever, making fun of her sisters, telling him about this book she’d read, and then…