Page 32 of War of the Wedding Wagers
Pernilla had such a dowry, but clearly her father had set his sights on a bridegroom considerably more illustrious than poor recently impoverished William.
Amelia read the tender sentiments in the letter with a sense of sadness before she realized that William would never have received it.
And yet, he clearly had received messages from Pernilla conveying the state of her heart. Unless, of course, the letter they’d found in the tower had been forged by Lady Pendleton in another of her grandiose acts of theatre.
Thoughtfully, Amelia closed the book and put it back on the shelf, first removing the letter.
Now she needed to discover if William had in fact written any letters to Pernilla or if the romance was a figment of Pernilla’s mind or not reciprocated. She couldn’t set any store by the letter Lady Pendleton had clearly written.
Perhaps Amelia could spot the forgery. She had three letters supposedly in Pernilla’s hand.
Holding aloft the candle, she studied the looped handwriting, deciding with satisfaction that there was a difference. LadyPendleton had used a more contemporary style of executing certain letters. It was a good forgery, but it proved that the others were indeed real.
A little spurt of excitement propelled her more thoroughly into her task. If Pernilla and her lover were real, there really might be good reason to continue her quest for more correspondence.
Now where to look?
Perhaps close to the delightful novels of Jane Austen. She liked the fact Sir Frederick was familiar with some of them. Who would have thought it?
Who would have thought he’d be so kind to Miss Playford, and not in a romantic sense.
But he was a philanderer and, being with Amelia, he’d have realized it would not do to appear to play fast and loose with the young lady’s affections.
Although the page she opened did not contain a letter, the tender sentiments of the fictional characters upon a page ofEvelinaby Frances Burney compelled her to read.
“I could not speak; but my heart was too full to serve me as interpreter. Lord Orville, at length, broke the silence. ‘I fear,’ said he, in a faltering voice, ‘I fear that I have offended you;—I have been too precipitate,—too presumptuous;—forgive me, my Evelina, while I own my error, and—’ He stopped; but when I turned to him my eyes full of tears, his own instantly overflowed, while he exclaimed, ‘Oh, my Evelina! most lovely of women—forgive my impetuous feelings! Your virtues, your innocence have conquered, and I dare no longer struggle against my passion!’”
Amelia put her hand to her heart and drew in a trembling breath.
How foolish for her to be affected. Romance was for mindless misses and this was a flowery, unrealistic romance designed totoy with innocent hearts who were too innocent to know that real, long-lasting love was rare.
Quickly flicking through the pages, Amelia moved onto the volume beside it and was nearly at the end when she gasped.
Another letter. Oh, dear Lord, this time from William!
Withdrawing the delicate paper, she replaced the book on the shelf and held the letter to the light.
“My dear Pernilla,
Tonight was the most wonderful of my life. Not only to have danced twice with you at the Assembly ball but to then have been satisfied that my feelings were reciprocated has made my pleasure all the more complete.
I know your father looks unkindly upon me as a suitor, I nevertheless wonder if I could be so bold as to request a few moments to discuss those subjects which are so close to the hearts of both of us.
Perhaps at the stables, for it is where my father sometimes seeks advice on his horse from one of your father’s grooms. It would not be too unlikely that such a ‘coincidence’ could occur at 10 o’ clock tomorrow morning.”
Amelia considered the letter thoughtfully, then placed it in her pocket. She was about to pick up the book beside it when her eye was drawn to a title that elicited a fragment of memory: Sir Frederick’s shock when Miss Playford had opened the same book.
Feeling a twinge of wicked guilt, Amelia withdrew the volume and contemplated it thoughtfully.Julietteby the Marquis de Sade. She’d not heard of this writer, but he was clearly one that was not considered “respectable”.
What did a not quite “respectable”’ book contain? Should she read it?
Hesitating, she leaned against the bookshelf and opened the book more fully.
Well, there was no one here to stop her. No one would ever know.
She had just begun to read when she became aware of the sound of someone in the room before a low, masculine voice intruded.
“I really don’t think that is suitable reading for a young lady.”
