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“Of course, Thomas wrote to me,” she said stiffly, holding the letters in her lap, almost protectively.

“But did he use the language of a lover? Clearly the young William from these letters was either clever at manufacturing the kind of sentiment he knew would win over Miss Pernilla. He knew her family was deeply opposed to a match between them. He knew he was beneath her.” He shrugged.

“Or maybe he really was a man who felt deeply and everything he says was, indeed, straight from the heart.”

“Oh, that’s a terrible thing to say, Sir Frederick. You suggest that there could be a calculating aspect to these letters?” She waved one of them in front of him. “How could he make up something like this if he didn’t feel deeply.” Holding it up so she could see, she began to read,

“My dearest, most cherished Pernilla,

Though I may not possess grand estates or noble titles, I swear to you that my love and devotion will provide a life richer than any fortune could buy.

Trust in me, and I will work tirelessly to ensure your every comfort and happiness.

Our home may be modest, but it will overflow with laughter, warmth, and the unshakeable bond of true affection—”

She glanced up. “Lady Pendleton claims he was a stable boy and that the letters I found suggesting otherwise were false. But this letter really is more than a hundred years old. It’s real. And those are not the words of a stable boy.”

Sir Frederick smiled. “He may have had someone else write it. Regardless, he was not a young man the family approved of.” He patted her hand.

“I think it charming that you have taken up their cause, but do remember that these star-crossed lovers are long dead. Do you suppose that enlightening Lady Pendleton will soften her stony heart?”

“You think she has a stony heart, too?” Miss Fairchild dropped the letters into her lap and clasped her hands together.

“I thought I was the only one, for she does pretend to be most charming. And yet, have you heard the way she speaks to Lady Townsend who, I believe, has been her friend for more than thirty years?”

Frederick felt a surge of unexpected affection for the young woman beside him.

Of course, it was irregular that they should be conversing, alone, in the middle of the night.

And he’d written her off earlier as unapproachable, though in truth his opinion of her wavered all over the place.

But now that she’d warmed to her theme, which was really quite a sentimental one, she was quite natural and unfiltered.

Dropping his guard, he told her so, adding with another fond smile, “You obviously have less of a stony heart than I had believed, Miss Fairchild.”

And then he immediately recognized his mistake.

“Sentimental?” she repeated, moving away from his hand which rested over the armrest and was quite close, though not touching, as she retreated into the depths of her chair.

“Thomas deplored those who were sentimental. He saw intense emotions as a distraction from spiritual devotion and rational contemplation of God’s will and said it was opposed to logical thinking. ”

Sir Frederick nodded. “So, that is what your Thomas thought. But what do you think?”

Her eyes widened, as if his question were unusual. Then she seemed to lose herself in thought. “I think that sentimentality might be confused with kindness.”

“Precisely. And kindness is a virtue. And you, Miss Fairchild, are both kind and virtuous. Not sentimental. I apologize for being guilty of confusing the two.” Slowly, he extended his hand to grip hers, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss.

The room was very quiet suddenly. Only the gentle hiss and crackle of the fire could be heard over the hushed and muted whisperings of the ancient castle.

In a moment of fancy that might have embarrassed him in a more rational moment, he imaged the ghosts of the long-dead lovers, Pernilla and William, watching with quiet satisfaction as he leaned over to put his arm about her shoulders to draw her closer so that he could gently touch his lips to hers.

He felt her response; a quiet exhalation of pleasure as she succumbed.

She liked it. The previous kiss in the fields had been fueled by something more urgent, but this was an extension of his compliment; his recognition and appreciation of her virtue and her kindness in being invested in the happiness of others, while at the same time she seemed to decry happiness for herself.

But too quickly she broke the kiss, though he was sure he sensed it caused her effort and was not done through anything other than that same cursed emotion: the belief that she was wrong to accept pleasure.

She stood up quickly, still clutching the letters to her. “It’s very late, Sir Frederick, and I must get some sleep if I’m to be a good guest in the morning, for Lady Pendleton has solicited my help with some of her entertainments.”

“Very well, Miss Fairchild, if that is what you’d prefer.”

“I… I’m not saying I prefer it, but I do think it would be best,” she said, awkwardly. “Good night, Sir Frederick.”