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London

C hrissy Westfall’s slender fingers brushed away the cobwebs as she lifted another dusty crate away from the damp walls and ceiling where rain had been leaking through the roof.

The attic, with its steeply sloped ceiling and musty air, was a forgotten realm above the cozy rooms below where she lived with her grandmother.

Today, however, it demanded attention. The incessant dripping from the ceiling in a corner of the kitchen below announced a leak that could no longer be ignored.

“Truly, this place is a repository for all things ancient and neglected,” Chrissy murmured to herself.

She had taken upon herself the task of clearing out the water-damaged items to see how bad the damage was, but what began as a chore now teased her curiosity.

Among the crates, she spied an ivory-colored hatbox, edged in faded gold.

It was oddly pristine compared to its surroundings, and something about it called to her.

With a gentle touch, Chrissy lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled atop a cushion of aged silk, lay a bundle of correspondence tied neatly with a ribbon that time had worn from crimson to a delicate rose hue.

She hesitated, aware that these were private words shared long ago, but her curious nature got the best of her as usual.

Carrying the hatbox with reverent care, Chrissy descended the narrow attic stairs to the solitude of her bedchamber. In the privacy of her room, she settled into an armchair by the window, the soft light illuminating the yellowed papers as she unfurled the ribbon.

The script was elegant yet bold, dancing across the page with confident flourishes—a stark contrast to her own plain, utilitarian hand. Her eyes danced over the date at the top of the first letter, several years before her mother’s birth.

Dearest Eleanor , the letter began, and Chrissy’s heart fluttered seeing her grandmother’s name.

The letter continued with news of business travels, descriptions of distant cities and their bustling markets.

And there, at the bottom of the page, was the signature.

Yours evermore, Jonathan . Her grandfather, who had died before she was born, was alive on the page in her hand.

Transfixed, Chrissy flipped through the letters, one after another, each a picture of a life once vibrant and filled with adventure. These were missives of love and longing, sent across miles and inscribed with the deepest affections of her grandfather’s heart.

With each letter, her understanding of love—what it could be, what it should be—shifted and expanded like the petals of a rose reaching for the sun.

She felt a connection to the grandfather she had never known and the grandmother so different to who she was now, a bridge across generations formed by ink and paper.

And as she read on, Chrissy couldn’t help but dream of a love as grand and enduring as theirs.

Chrissy unfolded another delicate sheet, her fingertips grazing the aged paper as if it might crumble under the weight of her touch. As her eyes traced each line, the words took on a more intimate tone.

Your lips, my dearest Eleanor, are the sweetest petals of my existence. Yet it is the hidden blossom in the soft folds between your thighs that calls to me in the night…

Chrissy’s breath caught, her cheeks flushing with a heat that seemed to ignite from within.

She stumbled over the next words, unversed as she was in such explicit terms—a kiss bestowed not upon lips that smile but on those that remained unseen?

Her heart raced as she pieced together the implications of the kiss described.

One placed upon a woman’s most private area.

A rush of scandalized curiosity mixed with embarrassment surged through her, and for a moment, she acknowledged she was spying on a moment never meant for her eyes.

Her own innocent experiences, mere pecks on the cheek or fleeting brushes of the lips, stood in stark contrast to the fervent desires penned by her grandfather’s hand.

She dropped the letter in the box and replaced the lid, then glanced nervously toward the door when she thought she heard footsteps in the hallway. But no, it was just her nerves and the whispers of the past, now silenced by her trembling fingers.

She looked around her room for a place to put the box.

She dared not reveal her discovery to her grandmother.

To do so would be to admit she had trespassed into the sacred privacy of their love and passion.

Perhaps the attic was the best place for the box, in an area not exposed to the leaking rain.

When the hatbox was safely tucked away, Chrissy left the attic, the door closing softly behind her.

She wished she could shut away the questions that now fluttered through her head.

Did all married couples do what Grandfather described?

Some of those intimacies were beyond imagining.

She shuddered and squashed the idea that her parents…

her sister and brother-in-law? She gasped. It was too shocking to think about.

Then Chrissy remembered why she’d gone to the attic. The leaky roof. She should send a note to her brother-in-law, the Duke of Abingdon, and ask for him to send someone to repair the leak.

That was what a sensible person would do… write the note so she didn’t have to look Abingdon in the eye while she still had the words of her grandfather’s letter lingering in the back of her thoughts.

But Chrissy was never sensible, unless she had to be.

And how would she ever learn the answers to life’s questions if she didn’t ask?

Her sister Dinah might berate her for reading the letters, but in the end, Dinah would explain such matters, Chrissy was certain.

Thus, going to her to ask for help with the roof was the smart thing to do.

Certainly, it was much smarter than asking Abingdon, whom she probably could never look in the eye again. She was likely to burn up in a heated blush if she saw him, thinking of what he might have been doing with her sister.

If she left now, she could catch Dinah in the office of Sutcliffe’s Gentlemen’s Club, the gaming hell owned by Abingdon and his two friends, the Duke of Nomansland and the Duke of Dainsfield.

Chances were good of catching her alone in her office, since her husband would be busy elsewhere.

She could never even think about asking questions about what her grandfather wrote with any man in the room.

Her embarrassment would be bad enough with just her sister there. But her curiosity would never let the subject drop without answers.

* * *

After receiving a shopping list from Grandmama when she mentioned going to ask Abingdon for help with the roof leak, Chrissy slipped through the bustling streets of London on her way to see Dinah.

The late afternoon sun cast its golden glow upon the pavement, dappling it with light and shadow.

She clutched her small reticule in her hands, the excuse of seeking a repairman for their leaky roof at the forefront of her mind.

Their father had been an employee of the club until his death, and Dinah had helped him with the bookkeeping when he’d taken ill.

Dinah was smarter than Chrissy in so many ways, and was so much like their father.

Even after she married Abingdon, she insisted on continuing her work.

She didn’t trust others, either in their honesty to report income without pocketing any for themselves, or in their ability to notice when the books didn’t match the nightly reports.

So, the Duchess of Abingdon continued to monitor the books of her husband’s gaming hell.

As Chrissy neared the notorious club, a carriage pulled to a stop in front.

She paused, the imposing facade of the gambling club looming before her—a world away from the quiet domestic life she knew.

The grandeur of the establishment was a beacon for those who reveled in games of chance and the perilous dance of seduction in the private rooms available for whatever entertainment the members might desire.

The door of the gleaming black carriage opened, and the Duke of Nomansland, one of the three owners of the club, stepped down from his coach with the grace of a predatory cat.

The air seemed to thrum with his presence, an invisible energy that drew the eye and held it captive.

Beside him, a vision of feminine allure stepped down, a young woman who was every inch his match in poise and beauty.

The lady’s gown was a work of art, crafted from the finest silk, it appeared.

Its ivory hue was pure and lustrous, setting off her companion’s dark attire in stark contrast. Embroidered roses cascaded along the hem, each petal meticulously stitched in shades of blush and crimson, as if plucked from the garden of Eden itself.

They twined around her form, a delicate dance of flora that hinted at the lush curves hidden beneath.

The gown seemed a bit formal for the time of day, Chrissy thought, but she was certainly no expert on fashion standards for the ton .

Chrissy watched, mesmerized, as the couple approached the door of the club, the woman’s gown swaying gently with each step. The duke offered his hand, assisting her through the entrance, his touch lingering just a moment too long, suggesting intimacies Chrissy wondered about.

The memory of her grandmother’s letters and their enticing words sent a flush of warmth across Chrissy’s cheeks.

With a deep breath, she gathered her courage, drawing the shawl tighter around her shoulders against the chill that hadn’thing to do with the afternoon air.

She stepped forward, resolute in her quest for knowledge.