“Thank you,” Finn said and picked up the pile of letters she left on the edge of his desk. Invitations, which he put to side due to lack of interest. Then he came to one letter and paused. It was from her. He just knew. Before this, he hadn’t been aware he knew her handwriting. Or maybe he didn’t. He just knew it was a letter from her.
His primary instinct was to tear it open and to see what she wanted. Maybe it was to admonish him for being silly, or to apologize, which she really had no reason to. In all of this, she hadn’t been unreasonable at all. She wasn’t responsible for his feelings. Or It could be an invitation coming from her, completely ignoring his wish for distance between them.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t to his benefit to open this letter. It would only mean more engagement with her, which was the opposite of what he’d tasked himself to do—to not deal with her further. It would be so easy to give himself an excuse to open that letter and read its contents. Even if he didn’t write back, he would be drawn into dealing with her further, to know her thoughts, to understand her feelings—which were not for him—and to be privy to her plans. None of these things served his objective.
Pulling over a piece of paper, he picked up his pen and dipped it in ink. This wasn’t a rejection set to anger and dismiss her, and he felt he needed to communicate that when he sent the letter back to her unopened. Hovering over the paper for a moment, he considered what he could say, how he could say that he needed her to keep her distance.
My Dear Miss Hennington,
The pen paused above the paper. He still didn’t know what to say.
I wish you the very best for your future. Everything you could wish for, but as I said, I cannot any longer be involved. Hence I am returning your letter unopened. It is not a sign of anger. Simply out of necessity. I do not require anything from you, and I will be delighted for you in the event of reading of your upcoming nuptials.
Your Servant,
Finn
Sealing it, he sent it quickly with her letter included, in case he fold and change his mind. The temptation to know what she wanted was so strong. The mere fact that she might need him itched under his skin. It was the very reason this distance was so necessary. If he was caught up in her life, he would see no other.
It was with finality that he put down the pen he’d just toyed with. This still ached painfully inside him, but it had to be done. This pain in exchange of years of heartache.
Maybe he should peruse his invitations, but he just couldn’t be bothered. It could serve him to do something, perhaps take a trip to France to personally refill his wine cellars. It would get him away from here and any subsequent letters from her. The worst of the ache would pass and by the time he came back, he would be more open to invitations. Most of the season would be over, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
It was definitely worth thinking about, especially as he struggled to get out of this malaise. With a sigh, he sat back and watched the fire for a moment. He should call on someone this afternoon, but decided not to. The honest truth was that he wasn’t receptive enough just at the moment. His mind wasn’t in the right frame, and hopefully, this trip would sort him out. What he could do was go to the club and talk vineyards—gather some recommendations.
And he should go through the investment proposals sitting on his desk. Ever since his accident, his life had felt too tumultuous to focus. More accurately, that was probably since he’d met Octavia. She was like a storm—awe-inspiring and surprising at every turn.
Telling himself off, he pushed her out of his mind again. He was behaving like a starry-eyed schoolboy—in the throes of his first love.
Actually, he should take stock of what was in his wine cellar at the moment. Maybe even taste some of the ones he hadn’t tried yet. He had nothing better to do, and what better than to make drinking wine analytical?
Plan made, he headed down to the cellar, past the surprised kitchen staff into the deepest part of the house, which was little more than a stone-walled grotto. Surprisingly, it was cool, but not extremely cold. A few lanterns lit and he could work well enough. He got lost in the task of cataloging what existed. Someone else could do this, but it was a task he quite enjoyed.
“My Lord?” Mr. Walters called from the stairs. “There is a visitor here to see you.”
“Oh?” he said with surprise. His visitors were rare and usually well anticipated.
“A young lady.”
Octavia. He knew right away. She’d received his letter and had become incensed by it. “Fie, I’m coming,” he said curtly. This was entirely inappropriate. “Did anyone come with her?”
“No. Just her.” Even more inappropriate.
She stood just beyond the door, wearing a hooded cape, which showed she’d concealed her identity. She knew this was beyond inappropriate. Yet she’d still done it. Not that he was entirely surprised.
“You can’t be here, Octavia.”
“What was I supposed to do? You refused to read my letter.”
“I explained in the letter I returned it with.” People would take note. If someone saw
