Pity the verses I tend to admire are not of the socially acceptable variety. Therefore I shall endeavor to find something more proper:
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate…
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Oh, how could you try to bamboozle me with that one?
I doubt anyone with half a modicum of any brain matter at all would be unable to pull that out of their hat. But you do earn points for entertainment (if not for effort). And I must commend your penmanship as well. It’s bold and sprawling (much like I surmise your shoulders and chest would appear sans shirt if I were given to considering such a thing).
“Dorothea Jane, should you be so vulgar? Hinting that you want to see his chest…”
Hinting? You came right out and wrote it!
“And blast me to Bedfordshire and back if I’m not about to leave it!” With a hearty (and unfamiliar) feeling of burgeoning confidence, she continued…
After all, he’d started it.
And though I should be shamed to admit it to anyone save you, I find your inappropriate, illicit Shakespeare much to my liking. The thought of your head upon my lap sounds lovely indeed. Have you a picnic in mind? Gazing overhead at the clouds as they skitter past?
Or perhaps you have something more earthy in mind?
I—
Thea’s quill leapt from the page as though blasted backward from the mouth of a musket. “Nay, I cannot write that.”
She couldn’t. Shouldn’t. It was wicked. Wanton beyond measure. But oh, how the naughty thought tempted…
Follow his lead.
Thea reasoned, given the sage advice Sarah had imparted, she could really do no less. After all, if she couldn’t be boldly flirty with him in person, then why not indulge the urge now, when he’d been the one to include the erotic wordplay?
Determinedly, Thea re-inked the tip and continued.
I confess, upon first reading, my eyes skimmed your letter so quickly they fairly skipped over part of Hamlet and Ophelia’s exchange. Imagine my astonishment when I thought I read of your head lying between my legs. (Forgive me! I most ardently intended to write his head, his—Hamlet’s—between a maiden’s le— Oh, bother it!)
Face flaming, Thea lifted the quill and watched her shaking hand hover above the page.
She should cross it out. The entire last paragraph. It was completely beyond the pale.
Nay. She should trim the page and start anew.
She looked at the thick stack of fresh paper, then back at the sheet before her, only half filled in.
Starting anew would be very wasteful. And had Thea not learned economies, in every aspect of her life, the past few months?
Tell yourself the truth, girl. It wasn’t thrift that had her continuing on the same page. It was the tingling awareness Lord Tremayne’s presence had brought to her body last night. The awareness that had only grown in hours since he’d left…
You see in me a pokered-up prig of a tutor? My lord, how you wound me with such a comparison. Could you not think of me more along the lines of a spruced-up sprite of a governess? Or a buttoned-up— (Fiddletwig! I must cry off here. I cannot think of any suitable, single-syllable B-word that might meld with “barmaid” which is where I was going—though please do not stop to inquire why. Assuming you’ve remained awake through the reading thus far.)
Madness. Sheer madness. It’s this magical quill, I assure you.
So have you decided Mr. Shakespeare might, after all, suit your stringent literary tastes? How wonderful I am sure. (And I vow that’s not a single speck of sarcasm you perceive. Not a single, solitary one. All right, perhaps a half.)
Shall I share a few lines of my own with you? Ones composed during my childhood? Or might you think less of me when you see how very, ahem, less is my talent?
I will refrain from troubling you with them unless you ask.
Thea (who vows she hasn’t smiled, or written, this much in an age)
Thea waited and waited (and waited) for his response, growing ever more appalled by her actions. With every second that passed without a pithy, entertaining reply, she worried she may have overstepped not only the bounds of propriety but the boundaries of mistress as well.
So it was with complete and utter dismay, and an impressive (and instantaneous) elevation of spirits, that she received not one but two notes in response.
Both delivered at the exact same moment.
And both by the very man she’d been afeared of offending.
Daniel was greeted at the door by Samuels, a strapping man of early-senior years possessed of a barely perceptible limp and few hairs atop his balding pate. He’d met the couple briefly upon his leave last night. Recognizing how they’d roused themselves from sleep upon his departure, Daniel had simply thanked them for having the room prepared on such short notice and bid them good night. Now that it wasn’t after one in the morning, the latest servant in his employ seemed inclined for a more effusive greeting.
“Come in, my lord, come in,” Samuels encouraged without preamble, opening the door wide. “Horrible rains we’ve been having today, just horrible.” It had been raining? He hadn’t noticed. “Glad to see it didn’t tamper with your plans tonight.”
Before Daniel could acknowledge the man—or the weather—Samuels was circling to help remove his greatcoat, talking all the while. “Molly and I have been looking forward to your visit. You’ll join Miss Thea for supper this eve?” Samuels came around and reached for gloves and walking stick. With a slight rub of his thumb over the ivory knob, Daniel released it, delighted to find the man so given to
