If he’s taken aback by my boldness, then we have an issue to work through. I’m no blushing maiden, eager to hand the relationship reins to him. This will make it clear, as it needs to be.
I tuck the note inside his novel, leaving it sticking out enough that he can’t miss it in the morning. I watch him for one final moment, resisting the urge to give him a goodnight kiss, and then I return home.
20
I sleep in the next morning, too exhausted for dawn’s light to wake me. When I do rouse, I go straight for the floorboard. Under it is another note . . . and another black velvet pouch that jingles when I lift it. I toss the pouch aside and pounce on the note instead.
Dearest Bronwyn,
I am pleased to hear you returned home safely. I am not nearly so pleased by your note, however.
My stomach drops as I force myself to read on.
Exactly how do you expect me to go about my daily chores now that you have placed that image in my mind? It was quite bad enough that I retain vivid memories of that first night, the most pleasant and stimulating dream I can recall. Now, you tell me that you were in my room last night, considering a repeat performance.
At least you did not provide me with details, or I would get absolutely nothing done today.
There were details, were there not? You didn’t simply stand by my bed, and think it looked terribly comfortable and dream of crawling in and sleeping beside me. That would be dreadfully disappointing.
Reading between the lines of your note, I feel there were details more to my liking, ones you thankfully omitted. When I say, “thankfully,” note that I also mean, “regrettably.” My busy schedule thanks you for not providing details. The rest of me is fraught with regret, my imagination forced to fill in those details, and now it is eight in the morning, and Mrs. Shaw has already knocked to be sure I am not ill as I lie abed thinking of your note.
I must rise and head to the stable. Speaking of regrettable situations, I will be away for most of the day. Would you have the evening free for me? I should have asked yesterday, but our parting was sudden.
If you cannot visit this evening, I will ask that you cross over and leave me a note while I am gone. Also, if you were inclined to share more of your thoughts from last night, I would not complain.
I will see you this evening, I hope. Seven o’clock my time would be perfect. I shall be away until shortly before then.
Yours,
William
I may have read the letter three times, grinning the entire time. Then I pen one of my own. In it, I assure him that I’ll be there at seven his time. I also give details of what I envisioned last night. Details, admittedly, more worthy of a sensual romance than a hot sex scene. There’s no need to rush to the latter. I dwell on the lead-up, on what I imagined doing as I stood over him, the kisses and the caresses, where I wanted to kiss, where I wanted to caress.
When I reread the letter, my cheeks burn. I tapered off before anything explicit, but yearning leaps from the page. I don’t discard it, though. He asked for details, and I delivered.
I fold the note and close my eyes, thinking of William. Then I’m in his room. His empty room, as expected. I tuck the note into his book, in hopes that if Mrs. Shaw cleans his chambers, she won’t move it.
I return to my time and scoop up Enigma, who has been watching the proceedings with confusion . . . and growingly urgent cries for breakfast. We go down and dine on our respective morning meals, and I curl up in the sitting room, reading and luxuriating in a lazy morning.
It’s not until I go up to dress—nearly noon—that I remember the pouch. While it feels mildly mercenary, it’s a decadent pleasure to be sitting cross legged on my bed, running gold coins through my fingers, imagining all the ways I’ll use it, both sensible and indulgent, as William demanded.
Speaking of imaginings . . .
After I’m finished playing with my gold like a comic-book miser, I lean over the bed to peek under the floorboards. There’s a new note. As I snatch it up, I grin.
Of course, the moment I