Page 59 of Presenting Miss Letitia (Once a Wallflower 1)

As she was carried back to Hawkshead village, she thought over her time in London, from her first experience with Aunt Edith right to the distressing conclusion. She was not looking forward to facing her uncle and aunt with what had occurred. She would struggle to find words to explain it when there was so much she couldn’t say. Although a blatant lie did not sit well with her, she finally decided on the brief account of Arietta’s sad end that Mr. Willard had instructed her to say.

As the miles passed by, it was the vision of Arietta’s pale body entwined with that of the swarthy Frenchman’s, which seemed to stay with her, the bedchamber filled with their moans and murmured declarations of love. She hadn’t had much idea of what occurred between men and women, although growing up in the country, you were familiar with the mating of animals. The passion expressed by the two lovers was so sensual and exciting, and when she thought of the act in terms of her own possible future, it was Brandon taking her in his arms; Brandon sending her pulse racing. She couldn’t imagine any other man being on such intimate terms with her. She only hoped that time would lessen her memory of the warmth of his blue eyes, the sound of his voice, and the way his very presence seemed embedded in her soul.

But he didn’t want her. He would soon forget her as he sailed for France, his mind on the Paris assignment. Could she believe him when he’d said it was not dangerous? She simply must for her sanity’s sake.

“Are you returning home, miss?” The middle-aged lady opposite smiled at her as she took out her knitting.

“Yes.” Letty gave an answering smile. Home? There was some comfort in the thought of their quiet village where one could be fairly confident that each day passed like another.

“I hope you’re not too sad,” the woman said, her fingers flying over the needles as she settled in for a chat.

“Perhaps a little.” Her distress must be obvious. Writ large on her face, she supposed. Letty didn’t have the strength to pretend otherwise. She didn’t want to talk, she’d rather have a good cry before she reached home. But the lady’s bright eyes observed her, and it appeared Letty would be denied the opportunity.

“Leaving your young man behind?” The lady nudged the cleric seated beside her. “Such a good-looking, robust fellow he was, too.” She cast Letty a hopeful glance. “Will he be coming after you, miss?”

The elderly gentleman sitting next to Letty gave an impatient rattle of his newspaper.

Letty smiled and shook her head. She must not allow herself to dream of such a possibility, not for a moment.

Brandon watched the mail coach until it was out of sight. So, she was gone. Home to marry some fellow, he supposed. While he found it hard to accept that she would marry, he fervently hoped it wasn’t Geoffrey, Letty should have passion in her life, not settle for friendship. Nor Delridge, who was probably too fond of London to travel all the way to Cumbria. Brandon groaned softly. Shouldn’t have hugged her, certainly shouldn’t have kissed her, but he needed to hold on to some memory of her. Her slim body in his arms, how her soft lips opened beneath his, drawing a response from him that he struggled to dismiss. He walked do

wn the street to where his curricle awaited, the horses held by his groom, while admitting that London had soured for him. He’d be glad to get away for a time.

Hove awaited his instructions. The packing of Brandon’s trunk had become a matter of great importance since his valet learned he was to accompany him to Paris. He was enveloped in a fever of organization, which Brandon would prefer to avoid if he could. While Hove considered Paris to be deplorably overflowing with the French, a voluble lot who had no sense of decorum, the gentlemen were well-dressed. And as Brandon’s valet, he expressed the view that he would see to it that his master was turned out in the epitome of good taste.

His valet fussed about the bedchamber and dressing room seeking direction from Brandon who attempted to read the newspaper in the adjoining sitting room, his unsettled mind refusing to take in either Hove or the news articles. Instead, he could only think of Letty, her face at the window as the mail coach took her away.

“Does sir wish to take his undercover gear? Might two dozen neck cloths suffice? Who knows what the laundry service is like in those hotels? Have they heard of starch? Does sir want the carmelite brown coat? Sir has never expressed much fondness for it. But if left behind, it would mean abandoning the bronze silk waistcoat, which didn’t look well with the blue coat. Might the gray greatcoat with the four capes be too warm for a French summer?” And so on, until Brandon ordered him to surprise him, folded his newspaper, and quit the room, taking his thoughts of Letty with him.

The next day, they sailed for France.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Hawkshead Village, Cumbria

Six weeks later

Geoffrey shepherded Letty from the dance floor. “Shall I fetch you a glass of ratafia?”

“No, lemonade please. It is dreadfully hot.” Letty employed her fan vigorously, the assembly rooms were crammed with guests tonight, all of whom she knew. How unlike London. One could depend on these people to behave more or less in the same manner from day to day, week to week, and month to month. She should be grateful for that, but found perversely that she wasn’t.

Mrs. Crosby passed her with a knowing nod. Everyone anticipated she and Geoffrey would soon marry because one did not often surprise the village by doing something completely unexpected. Not since Mrs. Downer, the banker’s wife, ran away with the young man who worked in accounts. That happened some years ago and was still spoken of.

Brandon’s life in Paris must be so different to hers. Her thoughts turned unwillingly to him again, along with that hollow sense of yearning. She tried to be patient, to wait until the memories of her time in London, the thrilling and the glamorous, along with the dangerous, and the eventual wretchedness, had lost its hold over her. But it took far too long. She smiled at Geoffrey, while struggling with the guilty knowledge that she was unworthy of him, and any other suitor. She wanted Geoffrey to be happy, and she feared he wouldn’t be if married to her.

Letty waved to the widow, Anne Wilson, as she walked past in a pretty lavender dress. “Mrs. Wilson has cast off her mourning clothes,” Letty said to Geoffrey. “She looks quite lovely tonight, doesn’t she?”

Geoffrey handed Letty the glass of lemonade. “Eh?” His eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting? That Anne Wilson and I should be more than acquaintances?”

“No, for I know you won’t allow it. I suspect she would like it to be so, however.” Anne had been widowed after Timothy Wilson died in a wagon accident two years ago. “Anne is too young to be a widow. She is the same age as you.”

“There is nothing between Anne and me. If you are trying to dissuade me from declaring myself, I should like to know why.”

“No, but you wished to marry her, until your parents expressed their disapproval because her father owned the haberdashery,” Letty persisted. “Anne accused you of not fighting for her. And then she gave you up and married Timothy.”

Geoffrey glared at her over the top of his wine glass. “You are accusing me of being spineless.”

“It’s hard to oppose one’s parents when we are young. We wish to please them. But broken hearts are not easily mended.”

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