Page 8 of Jillian’s Wild Heart (Ladies of Munro #4)
Pushing herself from the steady wood of the door, Jillian strode purposefully to the writing desk that had been provided for her.
She settled herself with pen and ink and began writing at once, her thoughts clear, the sentences tumbling easily from her.
Having a gentlewoman for a friend had definite advantages.
Expressing herself well was one of them.
And the confidence that she gained from the certainty of her goal lent further eloquence to her words.
Ha! Ellena thought Jillian would make a poor gentleman’s wife!
What did she know? Jilly had a gift for fine speech—some might say far beyond her station.
A few fashionable dresses and a lady’s maid like Ingsley who had a skilled hand for hair, and Jillian would fit right in!
They wouldn’t be able to help themselves.
After all, everyone commented on how likeable she was.
And they wouldn’t bother to compliment her just because she was Ellena’s friend, would they?
Of course not! They would merely have politely avoided her.
Especially when she became “chatty,” as Ellena called it.
An unfortunate habit, to be sure, but not a disaster.
It was simply a way to deflect her own nervousness.
Sometimes, she filled the silence when the listener was more nervous than herself, this being far more likely, as Jillian was too brazen with the ton , according to the viscountess.
Well, she had no desire to mix with anybody who didn’t want her, so that was the end of that matter. She would lavish her good nature on those who deserved it and simply disregard the rest. Mr. Bradford would not object. He was of a similar opinion.
Jillian lowered her gaze to the letter, a golden curl slipping from her shoulder down the length of her arm.
She pictured Mr. Bradford brushing it back, then cupping her cheek with his hand.
She could almost feel the skin of his palm—smooth, as a gentleman’s hand should be—against her own.
If they were wed, his hand would slip down the curve of her neck and the rounding of her shoulder, drawing the puff of her sleeve with it. And then he would…
There was a soft knock on the door.
“Who is it?” Jillian asked, a tad more sharply than she usually would have, flipping the letter over so that the blank side was displayed instead.
“It’s me, Miss Kinsey. Ingsley. The mistress said you’d be wanting to get ready to sleep. May I come in?”
“That won’t be necessary. I will undress myself tonight, thank you.”
There was a pause. Jillian could imagine the maid’s conundrum. Whose wishes should she respect? Would she be in trouble either way? Bother these stupid rules!
“I can manage on my own,” Jilly repeated. “But I’ll tell Lady Howell how helpful you were. Good night, Ingsley.”
She could almost hear the relief on the other side of the door.
The servants had long hours. While dressing someone was some of the lightest work there was to do in a house of this size, even lady’s maids would not mind an early night.
Besides, it was a ridiculous task to begin with.
If it weren’t for all these silly fastenings and falderals they insisted on adding to perfectly sensible clothes, she would have no need of assistance in the first place.
Jillian waited until Ingsley’s footfalls grew faint before turning the letter back over again.
One of the words had smudged a little, but it was still legible.
Good enough. She folded the page into a self-concealing design as Ellena had taught her, addressing it with painstaking accuracy.
This was one item of correspondence that absolutely must reach its intended destination without delay.
She blew on the wet ink, then waved the tightly folded and tucked letter gently to and fro until she was satisfied it was thoroughly dry.
On tiptoes once more, she left her room and crossed to the staircase, which she descended with greater-than-usual care. Any stomping would give her away utterly, as she was the only person in this household who ever did so.
At last, she reached the foyer. Given the hour, and the fact that no one was expected, there were no footmen about.
But a faint light shone down a side corridor from the viscount’s study.
Jillian listened for any indication that he was moving about.
Nothing. In all likelihood, he was elbow-deep in paperwork.
Within a few strides, she was at a side table, upon which rested a silver tray.
A small heap of correspondence lay on display.
Lord Howell would be adding to it before morning if the lamplight in his study was any indication.
She drew her own letter from her pocket and slipped it in at the bottom of the pile so that it did not catch the viscount’s eye.
First thing in the morning, all these little sheets of writing would be spirited away and delivered by hand to local addresses or the post office.
There should be ample time for her mission to succeed.
With a final act of self-restraint, Jillian climbed the stairs as silently as she could, entered her room, and clicked the door shut behind her.
Released from the necessity for composure, she launched herself onto her bed, shuffled up to the head of it, and threw herself back so that her tresses splayed out like a golden fan across the goose-down pillows.
So many times, she had lain in this way in the daisy-dotted field near Trenton Grange.
No four-poster drapery then shielding the view.
Only sun and clouds and the passing of birds like fish in the current of the sky.
She could see herself sharing such moments with Mr. Bradford.
Not in his barrister’s wig, of course. Odd little accessory of his profession that it was.
He would have no need to wear it when with her.
When they were together, it would just be their simplest selves.
Their hands would reach for each other’s, fingers intertwining.
The sun would warm their faces. Their children would bound about, their laughter rounding off the perfection of the day.
Jillian closed her eyes. Her hand slid to the side, her fingers reaching. No answer yet. But it was so close, she could sense it. His touch. Just one question and they could have it all. If Mr. Bradford was lucky, she would even allow him to finish asking before she said yes .