Titus had dismissed his old schoolmate’s request to observe his militia when he received his letter. Caspian was eager to return to the front, despite his war injury, and Titus knew Caspian hoped Titus would let him return to the continent after witnessing his prowess at creating a well-run militia.
Still... The thought of meeting the lovely Miss Keen Decoder over Christmas was intriguing. The name she’d given him had sounded distinctly romantic, and his heart had fluttered. Ophelia. But then, his letter writer was romantic. She insisted on keeping her identity secret, and because he trusted his shy second footman, he’d let her have her anonymity.
Titus had never visited Northumberland before. And he had been searching for a remote place to hide Prince Rafael. Northumberland would be perfect.
Titus thrummed his fingers against his desk, then smiled.
While Titus’s business was keeping and decoding secrets, he was not in the habit of keeping them himself. But Titus had a secret.
As far as secrets went, it was a pleasant secret, even if dreadfully disconcerting. He wasn’t a murderer. He wasn’t engaged in a clandestine romance with a widow, and he hadn’t diverted funds from his government job.
Titus was in love.
He was certain: all the signs were there. He’d been taught about falling in love and the dangers that went with it. The government wanted to ensure their people could guard themselves against seduction from spies. Miss Keen Decoder was not a spy, though. She had regularly decoded top-secret messages for England that only benefitted the kingdom. His heartbeat quickened in regularity when he thought about her, and he had the absurd instinct to thrust his lips upward into a smile.
There was only one problem: He hadn’t actually met the woman. Christmas would be the perfect occasion.
My Dear Miss Keen Decoder,
How curious you are holidaying in Northumberland. I will be visiting for a brief time over the Christmas holidays. I would be eager to meet a friend there.
Would you care to meet me at the local tea shop? I know your fondness for tea and will be certain not to spill it on your reading material. Perhaps we can meet at 2 pm on Boxing Day? Bring a sprig of mistletoe so we can identify each other. I wish you a happy Christmas.
Your friend,
Titus
Titus gave the letter to his assistant, then hummed as he continued on his day.
“You seem cheerful,” his assistant observed.
Titus shrugged. “It’s these Christmas carols. They get stuck in one’s head.”
“Ah.” His assistant gave a short bow, and Titus continued to smile, even though he was thinking about clever romantic women and not seasonal music.
SNOWFLAKES drifted from the now-grey sky, and Hazel pretended she was not lonely and not apprehensive as she watched them descend from the comfort of the castle’s drawing room. Those states were for other, less happy, people to experience, and Hazel made it a point to stay far away from either emotion. She hadn’t corresponded with Lord Aston in the two weeks since arriving at the castle. She tapped her fingers against her armchair in boredom.
The castle was quiet. Miranda’s sudden departure and rumored elopement with the Duke of Concord was disconcerting. Miranda had founded the Spinster Society. She’d hardly seemed a likely candidate for an abrupt elopement.
But then, Hazel had never told Miranda about her secret pen pal. Her secret male pen pal. Her utterly inappropriate secret male pen pal, who wanted to meet Hazel.
The clock chimed to eleven. Normally Maggie would have given her a fresh letter from Lord Aston by now.
Beatrice stepped into the room and dusted snowflakes from her hair. “There was a letter at the post office. It was addressed to a Miss Ophelia Davenport. The person thought it might be for one of us.”
“Indeed?” Hazel’s heartbeat quickened, as if she’d hurried to reach a bookstore before closing hours.
“It’s probably for Cassandra,” Beatrice said airily. “She’s the only one who might correspond with a man and would dare to use a fake name.”
“You know it was a man?” Hazel asked faintly.
“It was posted from Parliament. The place is swarming with men.”
He wrote me.
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “You look flushed.”
“Do I?” Hazel forced her voice to sound innocent, but she had the horrible thought she was only acting even more suspiciously.
“Indeed,” Beatrice said. “Are you quite well?”
“I’m fine,” Hazel squeaked. “Just worried you took somebody’s letter. Why don’t you give it to me? I-I can run it back to the post office if it doesn’t belong to Cassandra.”
Beatrice handed it to her absentmindedly, and Hazel scurried to her room.
She recognized Lord Aston’s handwriting immediately. Had something happened? Did he require her assistance?
She undid the familiar red seal, then unfolded the letter. She scanned the letter quickly, then reread it. He’d signed his first name. And he’d also called himself her friend.
She pressed the letter to her heart.
He was coming here for Christmas. He wanted to meet her.
Excitement fluttered through her, then she remembered she couldn’t possibly meet him.
If she met him, he would know she was Miss Hazel Howard, a woman with no dowry, about to be sent away to be a companion to an aunt of her half-brother’s wife. Sent away because her half-brother was tired of her presence.
She swallowed hard.
Hazel had read penny novels before. She knew what was supposed to happen when the hero of the story laid eyes on the heroine for the first time. She knew his heart was supposed to warm, his skin was supposed to itch, and his knees were supposed to quiver.
But Lord Aston had met her before, and he hadn’t done one of those things. Instead, he’d looked at her with bland indifference after speaking with George, then excused himself to ask another woman to dance.
She didn’t want them to meet now, then see his smile fade into politeness, watch him fail to mask the disappointment in his eyes. She’d been presented at court, but she’d been immediately relegated to the row of wallflowers.
Should she accept his invitation?
Of course, the answer was no. That’s what propriety would say. But Hazel found herself very tempted to forget all about propriety.
He’s a friend, she reminded herself. It would be normal to meet a friend.
Except Lord Aston was not simply a mere friend. He hadn’t been one for a long time. Friends didn’t muse over their favorite romantic poetry.
In truth, he knew more about her than her dearest friends. She’d written him every day for a year, and if she was lucky, she saw her friends once a week. She should be overjoyed he would be in the area, and she should be even more overjoyed he had asked to meet her.
And yet how many other men had she met? She’d been a debutante; she’d been presented at court. She’d been in ballrooms filled with men, some of them even young and eligible, including Lord Aston. And what had they done when they saw her? Had they asked her to dance? No, they’d been wary of her, avoiding her with the care of a sea captain steering away from a rocky shore, and they’d asked other women to dance. She hadn’t been pretty enough. She’d lacked the charming effervescence that came naturally to so many debutantes