would not stay long on that sofa, reading. Too well do I remember your exquisite body. How I ache to hold your rosy softness against me. There was no softness in Spain, querida, only you in my dreams.
Let there be no untruths between us: there were other women. I am just a man. But none were you, none moved me to my soul, with none did I feel the love in lovemaking. Two more days, my darling. Two more nights.
Martine’s cheeks were flushed, even under the bedcovers. Goodness, she thought, Mr. Shakespeare was not half so stirring as Digby Hines. Her rosy softness? Oh my. Yes, her bones were turning to mush at the very thought of…of what he was thinking. She must be a fallen woman indeed, to become overheated by a letter.
Martine was a bit surprised at Digby’s ardor. They’d only made love twice before her father found them. The first time was messy, awkward, painful, and uncomfortable. The second time was simply uncomfortable. Just when she was beginning to feel there might be something appealing about this act, it was over. And messy. From the giggles and snatches of conversation at the ladies’ sewing circles, she gathered not every woman felt that way. She was willing to try to enjoy herself. From her reaction to Digby’s warmish letter, Martine doubted she’d have to try very hard. At the very least, she vowed, if he got so much delight from the act, she could gain her own pleasure from giving him his.
That night she left out a valentine. Two pink velvet hearts, scraps from her new gown, trimmed with lace bits and ribbon roses, were firmly joined by enough glue to hold together a piano.
Thursday
When Martine broke the seal on the letter, a gold heart on a chain fell out.
Please wear this, until I can lay my own heart at your feet tomorrow.
When shall I come? Must it be a proper morning call lasting a proper twenty minutes, or shall I come for tea with you and your duenna? I am wishing you can be rid of her, so I can take you in my arms, but I want no blot on your reputation, my dearest. Should I meet you at the assembly in Wolford then, and greet you among strangers? Tomorrow would be the longest day of the year in that case. Tell me your wishes, cara, I’ll make them mine.
Tomorrow was going to be the longest day in history if Martine had her way, but only because it was going to start the earliest. She was not about to meet him for the first time in four years in full view of the population of Chelmstead or Wolford, or under the gimlet stare of Mrs. Arbuthnot. That harridan would never leave them alone long enough to pledge their love, much less seal the pledge. Martine fully intended to give Digby the only valentine she had left to offer, herself in her new pink gown.
Martine put an extra measure of medicinal rum in Mrs. Arbuthnot’s tea that night. Then she let George in, but didn’t lock the door, and didn’t snuff the candle in the upstairs hall. Outside was an old, broken clock, as if left for the trash. The hands were set to a minute past twelve. She wrote “midnight” above the twelve, to make sure he understood. Then she went upstairs to change.
The pink gown whispered around her hips, the gold heart nestled between her breasts, the combs pulled her auburn curls back off her forehead before letting them tumble down her back. Would he still think she was beautiful? Her figure was fuller now and her face thinner, paler, except for the spot on her chin from eating all that candy. She blew out another candle.
The fire burned low in her sitting room, a bottle of wine and two goblets waited nearby. George was snoring. Martine was pacing. The ormolu clock on the mantel must have stopped running, so she shook it to make the hands move faster.
Then she heard what she’d been waiting for, the sound of the door handle turning. She waited at the head of the stairs, in the shadows, merely whispering “Shh” when he appeared. She could just make out the scarlet uniform as she beckoned him up the
Let there be no untruths between us: there were other women. I am just a man. But none were you, none moved me to my soul, with none did I feel the love in lovemaking. Two more days, my darling. Two more nights.
Martine’s cheeks were flushed, even under the bedcovers. Goodness, she thought, Mr. Shakespeare was not half so stirring as Digby Hines. Her rosy softness? Oh my. Yes, her bones were turning to mush at the very thought of…of what he was thinking. She must be a fallen woman indeed, to become overheated by a letter.
Martine was a bit surprised at Digby’s ardor. They’d only made love twice before her father found them. The first time was messy, awkward, painful, and uncomfortable. The second time was simply uncomfortable. Just when she was beginning to feel there might be something appealing about this act, it was over. And messy. From the giggles and snatches of conversation at the ladies’ sewing circles, she gathered not every woman felt that way. She was willing to try to enjoy herself. From her reaction to Digby’s warmish letter, Martine doubted she’d have to try very hard. At the very least, she vowed, if he got so much delight from the act, she could gain her own pleasure from giving him his.
That night she left out a valentine. Two pink velvet hearts, scraps from her new gown, trimmed with lace bits and ribbon roses, were firmly joined by enough glue to hold together a piano.
Thursday
When Martine broke the seal on the letter, a gold heart on a chain fell out.
Please wear this, until I can lay my own heart at your feet tomorrow.
When shall I come? Must it be a proper morning call lasting a proper twenty minutes, or shall I come for tea with you and your duenna? I am wishing you can be rid of her, so I can take you in my arms, but I want no blot on your reputation, my dearest. Should I meet you at the assembly in Wolford then, and greet you among strangers? Tomorrow would be the longest day of the year in that case. Tell me your wishes, cara, I’ll make them mine.
Tomorrow was going to be the longest day in history if Martine had her way, but only because it was going to start the earliest. She was not about to meet him for the first time in four years in full view of the population of Chelmstead or Wolford, or under the gimlet stare of Mrs. Arbuthnot. That harridan would never leave them alone long enough to pledge their love, much less seal the pledge. Martine fully intended to give Digby the only valentine she had left to offer, herself in her new pink gown.
Martine put an extra measure of medicinal rum in Mrs. Arbuthnot’s tea that night. Then she let George in, but didn’t lock the door, and didn’t snuff the candle in the upstairs hall. Outside was an old, broken clock, as if left for the trash. The hands were set to a minute past twelve. She wrote “midnight” above the twelve, to make sure he understood. Then she went upstairs to change.
The pink gown whispered around her hips, the gold heart nestled between her breasts, the combs pulled her auburn curls back off her forehead before letting them tumble down her back. Would he still think she was beautiful? Her figure was fuller now and her face thinner, paler, except for the spot on her chin from eating all that candy. She blew out another candle.
The fire burned low in her sitting room, a bottle of wine and two goblets waited nearby. George was snoring. Martine was pacing. The ormolu clock on the mantel must have stopped running, so she shook it to make the hands move faster.
Then she heard what she’d been waiting for, the sound of the door handle turning. She waited at the head of the stairs, in the shadows, merely whispering “Shh” when he appeared. She could just make out the scarlet uniform as she beckoned him up the
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