“In truth,” Henry broke in, left hand gripping the arm of the chair, “I’d rather lost confidence after the call at her house. The letter was just what I needed, at just the right time.”
“A letter from Caroline was just what you needed?” She was ransacking the conversation now, looking for some small shard of hope that she’d misunderstood.
He nodded, and his expression softened. “She has a gift for kindness without pity.”
Frances sank against the back of her gold-velvet chair. Shushhhhh went the dress.
Yes, what else could she do but shush? If she told him the truth—that she was the one who had reached out to him—she didn’t know whose embarrassment would be greater: hers or his.
Probably hers. And she had too much pride to watch his delight turn disappointed. If he needed a letter from Caroline so badly, it was better to let him think he’d gotten one.
She swallowed that pride, the thwarted hope, the flush of humiliation. It was a lot to choke down all at once, and it caught in her throat. She coughed, cleared her throat, and took several seconds to reply again. “I’m glad you liked the letter.”
That, at least, was true. There was no need to lie to him at all. His own enthusiasm set the tone of the conversation, and all she need do was play along.
She slipped on her companion’s mask, capable and cheerful. “So, you want to write her a letter. Or rather—oh, blast, your right arm. Do you want me to write the letter for you?”
He looked a little taken aback. “No, indeed. I must maintain some pride. I might ask for secret insights and hints about gifts, and I might inflict my first name on you, but I would never ask you to write a letter of courtship for me.” That rueful grin again. He was more at ease with it than other men were in all their puffery.
“Of course not.” Frances returned his wry tone. “I beg your pardon. I’d quite forgot the rules of assisted courtship.” Her nervous hands smoothed her bronze-green skirt again. Shhhhhhh.
Henry’s eyes flicked over the garment. “That’s an excellent color on you, if you don’t mind my saying so. It’s the precise shade of your eyes.”
There was no need for Frances to feel a squirm of warmth again. Certainly no need for it to shoot through her body from scalp to toes. It was, after all, merely an observation from an artist, who could be expected to notice color. “Thank you. It’s Caroline’s. She insisted it would be acceptable with my complexion.”
There was no way she was going to repeat the word ravishing to Henry. Not when his face had just softened a little, as though he had only required this evidence of Caroline’s thoughtfulness to fall completely in her thrall.
“So.” Frances spoke up before he could begin rhapsodizing about Caroline. “If you don’t want me to write your letter, why have you summoned me?”
He drew himself up straighter, and his withered arm sank into the cradle of his left. “My handwriting is atrocious. Infernal, really. I hoped you could help me assemble an acceptable reply with a minimum of misshapen words.”
He cleared his throat, shrugged, and looked faintly mortified. “You were right about not bringing roses, after all. So I thought you’d know what to—ah, now that I’ve said this aloud, it sounds rather… well. You know, maybe we’d better forget the whole thing.”
“No, indeed.” Perhaps it was unworthy of her to want him to fidget a little. “I understand you perfectly. You want me to write you a love letter to Caroline, and then you’ll transcribe it. And it must be very short.”
She put a hand on her chest and intoned dramatically, “‘Bed me, my sweet.’ There, we’re done. Shall I ring for tea?”
Henry’s lips bent in an expression of wicked humor. “If that’s your idea of a love letter, perhaps you had better ring for tea, and I’ll write it myself.” He shook his head. “What am I saying? I’m not even writing a love letter. It’s a reply, that’s all. It’s a possibility letter.”
Frances permitted herself another jibe. “Still, Henry. This is one of the oddest things I’ve ever been asked to do, and I once helped Hambleton and Crisp tie their cravats together.”
He rolled his eyes. “I don’t want you to compose it, only to advise. And you needn’t do anything with my cravat.”
So of course, she had to look at his cravat when he said that. The starch-white points against his tanned skin, his blue eyes, the sun-golden of his hair. He was a bright palette, all stark colors and clean lines, and his faint scent of soap and evergreen woke something eager within her. She wanted to draw closer to him, breathe deeply, and remember how it felt to be near a man.
He began tapping his knuckles against the arm of his chair, a pillowed pat that pulled her attention back to his words. “I’ve never written with my left hand before, and I hoped you could help me learn how. My first foray was not a success. I didn’t manage a single legible letter, though I did spoil a very nice desk and cuff with ink.”
Frances chuckled, and he added, “Ah… that’s why I’ve taken the liberty of removing my coat. I hope you are not offended.”
“No, certainly not.” Not at all. Her eyes wanted to rove over his form again, but she fastened them to his face with admirable tact. “It wouldn’t do for formal company, of course, but we’re in your home and we’re quite alone.”
He seemed to become aware of that fact as well. “I apologize if this is not an appropriate request. I thought since you help Caro in so many ways, that this would not be wrong. To help her receive her reply.”
She relented at last. It wasn’t his fault he had misinterpreted the letter. It wasn’t his fault that he wanted Caroline. As Frances truly did like him, she ought to give him the friendship he seemed to want so keenly.
Even if she would rather be selfish.
“No, no. I was only teasing. I always deal with Caroline’s correspondence, so there’s nothing wrong with this, Henry.” Frances savored the taste of his name, of the intimacy he had granted her.
But that wasn’t why she’d been summoned here. Apparently.
She drew two chairs over to a graceful tambour writing desk positioned near a window to catch daylight. It held pens, ink, paper, and sand for blotting. Everything they needed.
“Do sit,” she said, sinking into a chair. “Take this pen in your hand and see how it feels.”
He hefted it sharply in a clenched fist. “It feels wrong.”
Frances pressed her lips together to hide a smile. “It’s not a riding crop, you know. Just wrap your fingers around it the same way you always did with your right.”
She slid the quill between his second and third fingers. He looked surprised at the contact, and Frances drew her fingers back. “It would be easier if we had a quill from the right wing of the goose, for those fit the left hand better. But these will work well enough until you can lay in a supply. Try forming some letters—very large, at first, just to get accustomed to the movement.”
He didn’t move; he only stared at his left arm.
“What is it?” Frances asked.
A sideways flick of his eyes. “I’m sorry to ask this, but would you roll back the left sleeve? This is my brother’s shirt, and…” He trailed off, ruddy from chagrin under his tan.
“Oh, of course,” Frances blurted. “Writing with the left hand does tend to make a muck of one’s hand and wrist. How thoughtful of you to consider the fate of your brother’s garment.”
“It’s a kindness to his valet, actually. The man almost wept when he saw what had happened to the shirt I wore last time I wrote. To say I ruined it is an understatement; I don’t think it’ll even be suitable for dustcloths.”