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CHAPTER ONE

Eliza Carden, the Dowager Countess of Hartwell, held the parchment as far away from her body as she could.

The papery missive had sent a jolt to the pit of her belly.

His Grace— Robert, as she forever called him in her mind—had posted his regular letter.

Eliza had been widowed eight years, and her late husband’s funeral was the last time she had spoken to Robert in person.

He had offered his condolences and said he would write to see how she fared.

She had received a monthly dispatch from him ever since.

Even seeing him at a social event did not elicit any verbal exchange, just a brooding gaze that left her feeling naked and exposed.

And instead of shame, she felt fluttering akin to swallowing a hundred butterflies.

His letters had evolved in the ensuing eight years.

At first, he had been formal, almost cold.

Over time, he had begun to soften. He began inquiring after her health, providing advice on any estate matters, and even sharing little titbits from his own life.

Eliza delighted in learning how passionate he was about horses and how he too enjoyed reading the works of John Donne.

They had been exchanging lines of poetry for the last two years, and she yearned to see him in person, the book between them in front of a roaring fire…

“Lady Hartwell, you look most peculiar. Is something amiss?”

Eliza had been so engrossed in her own spiralling thoughts she had not heard her lady's maid, Lucy, enter the drawing room. What an odd picture she must make, standing so stiffly with the letter held out in alarm.

“Yes Lucy”, she replied, lowering her arm and taking a seat on the cushioned chaise, “I was just in deep thought about the letter I received from His grace.”

Lucy nodded knowingly, taking a seat beside her.

Eliza had confided the correspondence in her.

She had also told Lucy of the night she had first met him—before Michael had begun to court her—and the secret hope she had harboured that Robert would seek her hand.

She had been eighteen years of age and a diamond of the season, Michael and Robert already in their third decade, titled and at a marriageable age themselves.

It had been a warm spring evening, the ballroom overflowing with fragrant flowers and cheerful chatter.

Her chaperone had been ensuring that any man who asked her to dance had a worthy title and reputation.

She had informed Eliza that The Duke of Stanworth had requested a dance, but that he had a terrible reputation as a rake and a buck.

Eliza had insisted on dancing with the dashing man anyway.

He had hair black as ink and skin kissed by the sun, and all the ladies were smitten.

Ignoring her chaperon’s tsk tsk, she had allowed him to take her arm.

She still remembered the warmth in his brown eyes as he had peppered her with questions and she had wondered why this charming man held such a reputation as a rakehell.

But that was all it had been—a dance. Weeks had gone by, and when Michael had begun his courtship and she learned he was a friend of the duke, she had closed that door in her mind–and heart.

Over the years since her Michael’s death, that door had started to slowly creep open.

And if she accepted Robert’s invitation, it meant she was opening the door with reckless abandon.

Reading over his words again, she made up her mind.

“It has been many years that we have been writing to one another. It has occurred to me that it may be time we converse in person. I am retreating to a cottage I have in the country, a small estate with few servants and a peaceful isolation from the beau monde. I very much enjoy the vision of reading verse with you and indulging in your company. If you say yes, I will send a carriage for you.”

This was an opportunity. Her chance to convince him that they could be more than just correspondents or a brief affair in his secluded cottage. They were a perfect match.

Eliza was not experienced in such matters, but she knew enough to understand what he was asking of her. “More than kisses, letters mingle souls”—it seemed they were to challenge this line.

“Lucy, we need to pack.”