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“My dearest Henrietta,” she wrote, and then stopped and chewed on the end of her quill for a moment. From what she’d read, quoting poetry in love letters was de rigeur.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Not that Shakespeare was her favorite poet. Henrietta had a secret passion for John Donne. Moreover, Darby was far too vain to adopt Shakespeare’s self-deprecating attitude. He would never assume that his beloved thought he was too old or not beautiful enough. She balled up the paper and threw it to the side.

Darby would only write a letter if he were forced to part from the woman he loved. Otherwise, he would just kiss her. She started over with a fresh sheet of paper, thinking of her favorite poem by John Donne. “I do not go, for weariness ofthee. Nor in the hope the world can show a fitter love for me.”

Her eyes dreamy, she stopped and blotted her quill. Time to 78 Eloisa

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move from Donne’s to her own words. Or rather, to Darby’s words.

“Never will I find anyone I adore as much as you. Al-though fate has cruelly separated us, I shall treasure thememory of you in my heart. I would throw away the starsand the moon only to spend one night in your arms—”

She hesitated. The letter would have true poignancy if Darby had to leave her after spending the night together. When Cecily Waite ran away with Toby Dittlesby and they weren’t found by her papa until the next morning, it was generally recognized as a tragedy. She squeezed in a word so that the line read, “I wouldthrow away the stars and the moon only to spend one morenight in your arms. I shall never sigh—” Die? These letters were harder to write than she would have thought. She sent a silent apology to the gentlemen whose literary efforts she had ridiculed in the past.

“I shall never meet another woman with starlit hairlike your own, my dearest Henrietta. The dangerousbeauty of your hair will stay in my heart forever.”

She stared at her head in the mirror for a moment. Her hair was obviously her best feature. Except possibly her bosom. Not that she ever wore dresses akin to Selina Davenport’s, but she privately thought that her chest was almost as bountiful, particularly if she jockeyed herself into a pair of stays like those Selina wore.

She dipped her pen into the ink again. If she wrote herself another letter she’d have to get some green ink. Colored ink was so elegant.

Time to finish the letter.

Fool for Love

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I never knew love until I met you; I never saw beautyuntil I saw you; I never knew happiness until I tastedyour lips.

In different circumstances, she would have loved having a season, and receiving love letters. And writing them, she thought with a wicked little thrill. Replying to a gentleman’s missive was considered unforgivably fast, but surely if you were engaged to be married, you might exchange a letter or two.

Without you, there is no reason for living. Perhaps that was a little too overwrought. Oh well, it was just a pretense, after all. Without you, I will never marry. Since you cannotmarry me, darling Henrietta, I shall never marry. Chil-dren mean nothing to me; I have a superfluity as it is.All I want is you.

For this life and beyond.

Tears prickled Henrietta’s eyes. It was all so sad. Imagine Darby returning to London and living alone for the rest of his life, never marrying for love of her. She shivered as a draft from the window kissed her neck.

Then her common sense resurrected itself, and a little giggle escaped her lips. An image of the cool, reserved Darby floated in her mind’s eye. That champagne must have gone to her head! The man would collapse with shock if he knew about her letter.

It would serve him right. You could tell with one glance that Mr. Darby of Londontown would never fall in love. He was far too self-absorbed to love a woman the way she wanted to be loved: with devotion.

Henrietta was absolutely certain that one day she would meet a man who didn’t care about children. Who would love her so much that it didn’t matter. Not a fortune hunter like 80 Eloisa

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Darby. A man who would love her for herself, so much that all that children business wouldn’t matter. Her hands stilled, folding up the letter she wrote to herself. It was a shame about Darby. He was perfect for her, in that he had the children she so desperately wanted. But he would never love her the way she deserved to be loved. His mouth literally fell open when she told him she couldn’t have children. It was rather pleasant, in a way, to befuddle an elegant Londoner.

He would probably marry Lucy Aiken, or some other heiress since he seemed to have taken Lucy in dislike. Lucy would have been kind enough to Josie and Anabel, although she would have likely left them in the country under the care of a nurse and governess.

Henrietta’s eyes prickled again when she remembered the sweet way Anabel said mama into her neck. Perhaps Anabel’s new nurse would make her wear wet clothing and she would get influenza and die. She shook herself. That was absurd: naturally Darby wouldn’t hire another nurse with a propensity for leaving Anabel in wet dresses. And it wasn’t as if she were much better herself—tossing water onto little Josie! Even thinking about her lack of control made her feel ill. After all the time she had spent reading books on child rearing, and all the time she had spent in the village school.

What she could do was assist Mr. Darby in selecting a nursemaid tomorrow morning. He wasn’t fit to do it. Anyone could tell that he knew nothing about children. And since he knew about her hip, he wouldn’t judge her offer as too forward. She wrote: Dear Mr. Darby,

I write to renew my offer to assist you in employing anursemaid for Anabel and Josie. I would be more than Fool for Love

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happy to join you in interviewing nursemaids. If you donot wish to accept my assistance, I, of course, com-pletely understand.