were not exclusive to those who clung to social niceties and etiquette. And the man Alastair described in his letters was not her uncle.
…The sun is setting outside my window, and it brings to mind the afternoons we spend together, wandering along the Barbican. The afternoon light caught your hair, and it blazed like a sunset. Golden, fiery hues that lit my world with your loveliness…
Words like these had filled Felicity’s dreams for years after Alastair’s disappearance. It was the precise thing he’d whisper to her before stealing a kiss. The gentleman was so adept at surrounding her with such lovely compliments and declarations, but seeing them written in black and white drained them of much of their power.
Flipping through the letters, Felicity scanned one after the other, hardly giving more than a passing glance. Each was much the same. Frustrations at their separation. Declarations of undying love. Recounting her beauty. Promises to remain true to her.
The carriage rocked, and Felicity turned her attention to the window. Buxby Hall was fast approaching, and she was grateful for a chance to speak to someone about this turn of events. Perhaps Aunt Imogene had some insight into Alastair and what she ought to do next.
Ought she to welcome his attention? Uncle George might’ve been wrong about Alastair, but he might’ve been correct. Yet here, before her, was evidence that her former beau’s heart had been true. The dates in the letters spanned years, each showing that she was never far from his thoughts. With such a sign of his devotion, it was difficult to believe Alastair’s motives to be sinister.
But even as she contemplated that possibility, her stomach turned. Not only because something felt amiss, but because even with the hope of rekindling that long-lost love, Felicity couldn’t rid herself of another gentleman who’d taken up residence in her thoughts.
Felicity chuckled to herself. Was she truly debating whether to welcome the courtship of a gentleman who seemed intent on distancing himself or the gentleman who had broken her heart so many years ago? It was laughable.
Only she could find herself embroiled in such chaos during a holiday—
Her gaze fell back to the stack of letters strewn across her lap, and clarity took hold of her, allowing Felicity to see the truth. Lined up as they were, there was no mistaking the uniformity of their appearance. They were worn and smudged, spattered with mud and showing clear signs of wear, yet the oldest had fifteen supposed years to its name and looked no more yellowed or aged than that which had been written a few days ago.
The letters did serve as evidence, but not to Mr. Dunn’s credit.
Closing her eyes, Felicity said silent words of gratitude to Uncle George, thanking him for saving her all those years ago, and she hoped Mr. Dunn’s recovery from that night had been as long and painful as he claimed.
Felicity’s lungs heaved, sucking in and out as she glared at the letters. With a sweeping motion, she gathered them up and crushed the wretched things. Her teeth ground together as her mind filled with every vile thing she could think of to describe Alastair Dunn. Stuffing the bits into the basket, Felicity felt like throwing the entire thing out the window, but the only safe place to dispose of them would be a fireplace: the last thing she wanted was for someone to find the evidence of her foolishness.
Her heart shuddered, and Felicity shriveled in on herself, her strength waning as she collapsed against the seatback. The world around her blurred, and her chin trembled as the full understanding of her foolishness struck. With little effort, he’d turned her head once more; it may have been for a short time, but that did not lessen her shame.
Felicity’s throat tightened as tears gathered in her eyes, and she sucked in a breath through her nose, letting it out in a shaking gust. In and out.
How had she allowed this to happen? Felicity’s heart had long ago healed from his first betrayal, but with a few words and a callous lie, Mr. Dunn had exploited that weakness, fracturing it anew.
A weight settled on her, and her mind drifted to the future. Was this to be her life? Forever guarding herself against skilled manipulators? To be viewed as easy prey by fortune hunters? Even going to ground hadn’t deterred them from their quarry.
The thought of returning to Buxby Hall had her stomach churning. As uplifting as Aunt Imogene’s conversation could