Page 29 of Entertaining the Earl (Vows in Vauxhall Gardens #2)

C olin sat down at his desk and pulled out several sheets of parchment. He was not one for writing lengthy letters, even though one might think that with all his time spent abroad, he would have gotten into the habit.

He only wrote when it was necessary: figures in ledgers, brief notes to explain where he was headed. But now he felt the need to apologize, to explain. Because, try as he might, he could not get Miss Susannah Lyttleton out of his mind. And he wasn’t sure he ever would.

He didn’t know when it had changed from being an interest in her to being something that consumed him.

Looking back on his actions, he felt terrible.

His behavior had been appalling, and he could not blame her for not wanting to listen to his apology.

But he needed to tell her. He needed to know if there was any way she could forgive him…

and perhaps whether she felt anything real for him after weeks of pretending they were enamored with one another.

He pulled out his quill and dipped it in ink, hoping the words would come to him.

Dear Miss Lyttleton , he wrote, then struck a line through it. Dear Susannah… That sounded better, but perhaps it was too informal for the brief relationship they had shared, especially since he was hoping to earn her forgiveness.

He crumpled the parchment and threw it in the direction of the fireplace, missing his target by several inches.

The fresh sheet of paper before him seemed to taunt him. What did he want to say?

I’m sorry. That was the main thing. I’ve been a fool… and I think I might be in love with you.

His heart began to pound erratically in his chest. He had not considered that before. That this feeling, this longing for her—could it be love?

But what else could it be?

When he rested his quill upon the parchment again, words began to flow.

But they were not the ones in his mind; instead, they were those of a story.

A story in which a foolish man does not realize what he has until it is too late.

A story in which the perfect woman is right in front of him, and yet somehow he and all of society miss it.

He had never written a story in his life, and he had not intended to start now.

But the words poured from his quill, and the more he wrote, the more it seemed like the perfect way to express what he was feeling to Miss Lyttleton.

After all, she loved to read and write. Surely, it was the medium she would understand the most.

He did not realize how long he had been at his desk until there was a knock on the door, and the footman politely informed him that supper was ready.

He stretched out his hand, which felt rather cramped after gripping the quill for so long, and wrote the final line of his story, a line of dialog he hoped he would be brave enough to repeat in person when he saw Susannah again:

“Will you marry me?”

It was the only way he could see his life going now. He didn’t want to be without her, and he realized that he didn’t care where they settled—as long as they were together.

He didn’t want to stay locally forever. The grand dining room, which was far too big for him alone, only reminded him of that. He had no wish to stay in this house, but if she wanted to, he would. He had no desire to live in London, but if she wanted to, he would.

Everything had changed so drastically since he had come to London, since he had returned to England.

On the boat, he had not even been able to imagine wanting a wife, let alone feeling like he could not live without one.

He had thought that someday it would just become the next task on his list. Someday in the future, when everything was in order, when he had laid the ghosts of his father’s past to rest, and he had found a woman suited in every way to being a countess.

He smiled to himself as he ate the pie that Cook had prepared.

Susannah was not perfectly suited to being a countess.

She didn’t care for society, she didn’t enjoy shopping for fine clothes or gossiping with other women.

She liked to hide away from the world, instead of being the focus of attention.

And yet, for him…she was the perfect countess. The only choice.

He just hoped he could persuade her of that.

*

With a satisfied flourish, Susannah reached the end of her story. It was only short—nothing like the length of the novels she devoured—but it was the first piece she had ever completed from start to finish.

It had not erased the terrible sadness she felt at Colin’s leaving, at him finding her so woefully unattractive.

But it had at least taken her mind off it.

She had snatched every moment she could in the week since he had left, scribbling away and breaking more quills than she could count.

Her mother had commented on the ink stains covering her fingers and the amount of time she was spending writing rather than reading.

But as long as Susannah attended every function requested of her—having scrubbed the ink thoroughly from her fingers—her mother seemed to accept that whatever she was doing was not a problem.

With a sigh, Susannah slid the sheaf of parchment into the drawer of her bureau and locked it. She had no plans to show it to anyone. Her parents would surely think it ridiculous. And she was not brave enough to submit it to a magazine.

She thought she might have shown Colin, for he had seemed so interested in her…

but he had probably just been feigning that as well.

Besides, she would hate to be laughed at—and he would surely think it ridiculous that she thought her words might be important.

That she hoped they might give someone else the same sort of escape the words of Miss Austen or others gave to her.

For now, the words would remain hidden in a drawer, known only to her.