Love Letters to a Lady: A True Clean & Sweet Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Finch, Fanny

  She suspected it to be a confession of love but one could never be certain. It might be some other sort of dire secret.

  She did have a responsibility to read until she found out, didn’t she? Just in case? She would go wild with curiosity if she did not. Always wondering what it might have been about.

  And nobody had to know that she had received and read this letter, did they? She could easily burn it in the fireplace. That would erase the evidence.

  Mother wouldn’t think to ask about the letter she’d received and even if she did, Julia could think of a hundred excuses.

  Set on her course, she read on.

  And so it is like a coward that I must tell you such things in a letter. I beg your pardon in possibly compromising your propriety, an unwed man writing to an unwed woman.

  So it was a man! And a single one. Julia could feel herself blushing. Oh, this was simply too marvelous. She could hardly stand it. Could this really be happening to her? Was it not a flight of fancy or some dream?

  She pinched herself, just to be certain. No, she was awake.

  I hope, however, that you will excuse me just this once. Now that you will know my thoughts, there will be no need to continue correspondence.

  But… she must continue correspondence. She must know who this person was. Did they think to give her such a lovely letter and then disappear into the ether?

  You must know—although sometimes I fear that you have guessed it. That I have been too obvious. Too attentive to you and too neglectful towards other women. Too intimate with you and too curt with men who try to take your time.

  It seems, however, that you have not. Or if you have, you have been so courteous in ignoring it to spare my dignity.

  Either way, circumstances are such that I cannot remain silent any longer:

  My affection for you is the deepest that a man can hold for a woman. I do not know when it is that I started to feel this way. All I know is that one day I looked at you and it stole over me, like warmth from a fire, that you were no longer merely a friend in my eyes.

  You were the woman I wanted to marry.

  I cannot begin to express the depth of my regard for you. To say ‘I love you’ feels like a gross understatement. That it does not do justice to the way that I feel when I look at you.

  I now perfectly understand why poets must go on for ages and in such language. They were trying to grasp at something that would flit out of their hands. They were trying to define and describe an emotion that refused to be so categorized.

  You are chief in my heart. When I picture my future, it is with the hope that you might be standing at my side.

  Hope is not something that I had come to associate with my feelings for you. I had long ago become aware that you did not and would not return my affections.

  But a wise person told me today that of course there was no chance with you. How could there be if I had not told you of how I felt?

  It made sense to me, at any rate. You could not become aware of there even being a possibility in me if I did not tell you of it.

  Now that you know, I hope that you will consider the idea. I hope you will know that I do not judge you if you turn me away. I understand if your affections lie elsewhere, or if they simply cannot find a home with me.

  But I also hope that you know that I would do anything to make you happy. I would let you host as many dinners and balls as you pleased. I would spend hours walking and talking with you, about any subject under the sun.

  I would take you to the theatre and show you off. I would sit through hours of opera, even those annoying French operas that you seem to love so well. I would make sure that your parents were taken care of, for I know how much they mean to you.

  Even when you complain about them.

  I would bestow as many kisses upon you as you could stand. I would proudly introduce you to everyone as ‘my wife’, for I could think of no greater sweeter words in my mouth. Except, perhaps, for those three little ones.

  You must forgive me for the frank nature of my writing. When emotions have been ignored and suppressed for so long there must needs be some overflow in the telling of them.

  I do not hope that you will turn around upon reading this letter and accept an immediate proposal. It would take time, I should think, for someone to adjust from thinking of a person as a friend to thinking of them as a husband.

  But if you would let me, I would happily court you. Show you the ways in which I would endeavor to make you happy as my wife. I would do everything in my power to ensure that you would want for nothing.

  You may take your time in your answer. I know that you must have many thoughts on the matter. You always do. Your wit and thoughtfulness are two things that highly endear you to me.

  I do hope that I will not remain in the pain of indecision for too long, however.

  Whichever answer you give, know that I will respect it.

  Should you choose to refuse me, I will not press you further. You need not provide any explanation to accompany your answer.

  But if you do choose to allow me to show you the depth of my admiration and love for you, I would not fail you. I would stake my life upon that.

  And there was where the letter ended.

  Surely this was where the name was supposed to be signed. There was even some space for it at the bottom. Just enough room for someone to write I remain, or yours ever, or sincerely, or something of that nature. Followed, of course, by their name.

  But there was nothing.

  It couldn’t possibly be on purpose. The person said that they were awaiting her answer. That meant that they must have intended to put their name down.

  Julia had to laugh a little. This man had been so carried away with the idea of writing to her that he had forgotten to put down his name at the end!

  It was rather sweet, when she thought about it.

  The idea that she made someone’s heart flutter. That they reacted to her in such a way. It was intoxicating.

  She had not been aware that she could stir such an emotion in someone. She had wished that she could. Hoped that she would find someone who could stir such passion in herself.

  And here it was, like an answer to a prayer.

  It felt like some kind of sign. Like fate, even. Why, just last night she had been telling Mother that she wanted a romance.

  And here it was!

  Her own personal letter writer. Her mysterious admirer. Perhaps even the leaving off of the name was a wonderful intervention by fate. A little mystery on top of the lovely words she read.

  The idea struck her that it might in fact be her mother. That it was some kind of awful prank.

  But Mother wouldn’t do such a thing. Mother had a sharp tongue but she wouldn’t go out of her way to pull such a trick. Not when she had just been so calm but serious about the whole courting matter.

  And the words didn’t sound like Mother, either. Mother didn’t have a romantic bone in her body. And Julia could not see Father writing such a thing, even in jest, to his daughter of all people.

  Nor could she see either parent putting up someone else to do it for them. It was simply not in their nature. It stung a little too deeply if it was not a real letter.

  Her parents would not wish to hurt her like that. Not in order to ‘teach her a lesson’ or anything of that nature. And besides, how could they have gotten a letter to her so quickly after her conversation with Mother late last night?

  No, it must be a real letter.

  But if so, then from whom?

  It was clearly someone who knew her well. Someone that she was comfortable with, or else they would not have dared to call themselves a friend to her.

  That, unfortunately, did not truly narrow down the list. Julia knew a great many men. She was friendly with everybody and made her interests known.

  For example, she would wax poetic about French opera to anyone who would listen. She knew that the Italian opera was technically considered the ‘better’ choice
but there was just something about the French language that she preferred.

  Her care for her parents was also well known. Her mother’s illness was an acknowledged fact among society. Although everyone was polite and rarely spoke of it other than to inquire after Mother’s health to Julia at balls.

  There was no mention of anything that could place this person specifically in her life. How could that be? Was it coincidence? Or was it in order to further obscure their identity?

  No, that could not be it. The person wanted an answer. She could not answer them if she did not know who they were.

  This person was not looking to marry her right away. They were not proposing. They were merely asking for her to consider their love and to let them court her.

  It was a very respectful letter, overall. Julia was quite impressed with it. And there was a kind of casualness to it, in the sense that this person seemed to know her well.

  Who could it possibly be?

  Well, she would just have to find out.

  There was no way that she was burning this letter. It would have been much more prudent to do so. But she could not bear it. She had to hold onto it and onto those lovely words.

  The things said in it were enough to make her heart flutter like a bird in a cage.

  She must find out who this person was. But how?

  Julia turned the letter over in her hands—and saw that there was a return address on it.

  Well, at least the person had remembered that much.

  It was for one of those little post office boxes, and not for a house. Many people had them nowadays.

  It was not a home address, but it would do. At least she could write to him and ask for the gentleman to reveal himself.

  After all, how could she give the man an answer if she did not know who he was?

  Julia hurried over to the desk. She would write to the gentleman and explain that she was quite fond of his letter. She would tell him how much he had moved her.

  And then she would inform him that she could not give him an answer for he had neglected to include his name. Would he perhaps be so kind as to tell her who he was?

  It all sounded very practical in her head. But she found that she sounded quite carried away when she tried to write the letter.

  She was simply astounded at this turn of events. That this person should be so carried away with her. It felt almost as though she had stepped into an entirely new world.

  Oh, if only she could share it with someone. She could write to Georgiana, of course. And she would. She had no secrets from her oldest and dearest friend.

  But it was not the same as if Georgiana was right there in front of her to tell her in person.

  Julia thought she might tell Mr. Norwich—but then she dismissed the idea.

  What would he want with such a fanciful romantic notion?

  She had seen his face last night when she had suggested that he ought to find a wife while she looked for a husband.

  The poor man had looked as though she had dumped a bucket of ice water on his head.

  Clearly, he was not inclined to think about romance. She had observed him closely, as she observed everyone, over the years. She had seen how he seemed to show nothing but the barest of interest in a lady.

  He clearly admired them. And he had spoken at times, with a fond tone of voice, of when he would have a wife and children of his own.

  But she had never heard him talk of the more tender side of courtship. When they discussed books he had often teased her for her romantic inclinations.

  What on earth would he care that she had received such a letter?

  If anything, he would probably demand to find out who had written it so that he could fight them over sending her a letter. Mr. Norwich was a good man and she had long suspected that he thought of her as a little sister.

  He had no sisters of his own. Just a younger brother. And they had known one another since they were practically children.

  Why should he not think of her that way? She had shown him many times that she trusted him.

  No, he would not care for the fine words and the soft sentiments. Except in the way that they skirted the bounds of propriety. And then he’d go and challenge the man to a duel or something dramatic like that.

  Well, that left him out.

  That meant that there was no one she could tell. No one she could consult. Mother would insist that she burn the letter and make no reply. Father would probably be even worse than Mr. Norwich.

  She was not going to wait for a return letter from Georgiana to tell her what ought to be done. She would have to keep her excitement to herself for now.

  She could manage that, surely?

  Nobody would have to know. She would simply go on as before. And when her letter was received and her mystery gentleman revealed himself, she would let him court her.

  Then Mother would be so pleased.

  Unless…

  Was this man below her station? Was he someone undesirable for her?

  Was that why he had written it all out in a letter?

  The man had said that telling her in person would be too intimidating for him. But could part of why it was intimidating be that he knew she would have to reject him if she knew his identity and social status?

  Julia could feel her stomach twisting and her heart sinking. She had no wish to start a Romeo and Juliet sort of courtship. What would she do if this person who so ardently cared for her was not someone that she could marry?

  Mother and Father would never allow it. They were practical. They had come to love one another but their marriage had been one of common sense and mutual respect.

  And could she handle going down in social status? She wanted a romantic courtship but she was not the sort of person to sacrifice everything for love. She was not going to marry, say, a servant or some such.

  But of course this person had called her a friend and she was not friends with anyone who was too high above or below her in status. Was she?

  Could the person perhaps be quite horrid-looking? Or have some kind of other issue that meant he feared to be laughed at if he were to try and court her in person first?

  Julia could not think of anyone she knew who was like that.

  It was all very puzzling.

  Well, she’d never know until she wrote him and asked.

  Julia hurried over to the desk and sat down. Her hands were shaking with excitement and she had to take a moment to breathe and steady them.

  This was just like being in a play. She thought her heart might beat right out of her chest. It felt as though she was doing something clandestine, like being a spy.

  She wrote a letter that she felt was not overlong. She did not want to seem like a giddy young girl.

  Judging by the tone of the letter, this person thought her to be a woman of wit and sophistication. She could hardly ruin that impression by being overenthusiastic and giddy in her response.

  She double-checked everything after she had written it. It sounded quite all right to her. Nothing untoward.

  It was passionate. She could not deny that she was full of excitement. But it was not too full of ardor, she thought, and it did not make her sound overeager.

  She addressed it to the post office box that was listed as the return address. The original letter sent to her she hid in her desk underneath some old papers. She could not bear to burn it. Not quite yet.

  When she went back downstairs she made sure to look composed and calm. She placed her letter nonchalantly on the silver tray along with the other letters that would be sent out to the post in a short bit.

  “Your hair looks the same as before,” her mother noted when Julia reappeared in the sitting room.

  “I have changed my mind and decided to keep it in a more relaxed style today,” she replied. Her voice was calm but her heart picked up speed. How could she have forgotten her excuse for disappearing upstairs? “There is no need to make it look so fine until the ball tonight.”

&nbs
p; Mother made a noncommittal humming noise and then went back to her book. Julia had to hold in her heaving sigh of relief.

  Soon, she would have the identity of her letter writer.

  She could hardly wait.

  Chapter Six

  James chastised himself all morning for his stupidity.

  He had forgotten to sign his name! He had been in such a state over the contents of the letter itself that once that had satisfied him he had not even thought of the final part.

  He had simply folded up the letter and sent it off in order to be rid of it before he changed his mind.

  That was, he supposed, understandable. He had been in quite a state.

  But still!

  To forget such a thing—now Miss Weston could have no idea who sent the letter. He had made sure not to put too many incriminating details in it. He did not want her to know immediately that it was him.

  Rather, he had wanted her to see just how much this person cared for her. How deep their esteem for her ran. And then, only once she understood that, would she get to the bottom and see that it was him.

  If she knew that it was him right away then she might dismiss the entire thing right out before giving it a fair chance. Or even before reading it through all the way.

  Now, he cursed himself for it. There were a hundred little details that he might have slipped into the body of the letter that would have told her who he was.

  Instead, he kept it all as general as possible. And now he was paying for that folly.

  When people talked about love making fools of us all, he had rather thought it meant compelling a person to challenge a rival to a duel or to go on a great quest. Like one of King Arthur’s knights of the Round Table.

  Instead it apparently made one do horrifically stupid and mundane things like forget to sign one’s name on a letter.

  James sat down with a groan on his armchair. He had been pacing up and down the parlor for goodness knew how long.

  Ever since he’d been halfway through breakfast and realized what he’d done, most likely.

  What was he supposed to do now?

  Miss Weston would surely be confused as to who had sent her such a letter without a name attached. And it was not as though he had simply sent it for the sake of disclosing his feelings.