Page 2 of Burning Secrets of a Lady's Pen
When I dared you to drink that brandy that night on the terrace, I expected you to back down. Most well-bred ladies would have. I’ll confess that your doing so, and the way that you laughed after you did, only furthered my affection toward you. Not because I believe your claim that you thoroughly enjoyed the taste. I still believe you to be a rotten liar on that front. But because of your determination to prove me wrong. An odd thing to further my affection, I’ll admit, but…
Every day, my thoughts drift to you, lingering in the memory of your grace and charm. The way that you never failed to make me laugh and the riddles you were constantly trying to make me solve. Were you testing my intelligence or trying to vex me?
Though distance separates us now, know that my affection for you only continues to grow.
As an aside…No, that last night was not the first I dreamed of kissing you. I’ll confess to many a night doing the same. I’ve just had to re-pen this letter at least a million times on account of every other way I phased it came out far more than just forward and borderline scandalous.
Yours devotedly,
Corin
My Beloved Corin,
I’ve been quite beset with trying to figure out how one might love women in an abstract way. Your penned tongue-tied state is as endearing as it is amusing, I assure you. I like to think that I, of all people, might make the great Corin Langford forget his renowned silver tongue.
I shall admit to no such heinous lies such as not loving the taste of brandy. How would you know? You were too busy laughing up your sleeve to pay any real attention. As for the riddles…I will admit to testing your intelligence there. I’ll go a step further, even, and admit that I was, perhaps, trying to trip you up and find some flaw within you. You seemed quite…inhuman in many respects. Too good to be true.
I was trying to fight my growing affection for you, probably.
To avoid a scandal, as you mentioned in your last letter. Though now I admit I dream about that as well.
Ah, we are being frank. There was no probably about it. You frightened me. You still do, you know. I expected this flame to fade, not be fanned by the distance. I expected the distance to dull the spark between us, but it doesn’t at all seem to be the case. And that frightens me as well.
You spoke, during our last dance, of showing me London. You spoke of parading me about on your arm and I took that all in good fun. I tried not to imagine that there was any such chance…and yet…now…
Tell me if it is only a dream, please.
The Florentine splendor seems…smaller without your presence in it. I wander amidst it and feel like a shadow.
Eternally yours,
Imelda
Dearest Imelda,
I wish you wouldn’t fight it. You would make me look the fool you know, rather than just occasionally sounding one in these letters. I do not want to frighten you. I wish for nothing more than to do the opposite. Is it unmanly of me to admit that that fact frightens me?
All of that still holds true. I wasn’t trying to talk my way into that kiss goodbye or any other rakish pastimes either. If you are a shadow, you are a beautiful one. If you are a shadow, you are mine. I feel you all the time, in the background of my day, laughing at quips that everyone around me misses, writing to me in the margins of books like you did throughout those two weeks.
Don’t tease me with talks of scandals. Or tempt me. However it is that I mean to phrase that I hardly know. You have the softest skin of anyone I’ve ever touched, did you know that? I dream of making that blush stain your cheeks permanently, of what words or touches might accomplish that, of—well, I digress.
The passage of time seems cruel in its slow march, yet it does nothing to dim the flame burning within me. I say admiration. I say affection. But those words seem pale. There is another, four letters and all the more frightening for it, that hangs heavy in my mind.
Consider me reformed.
My intention, upon your return to London, my dear Imelda, is not to simply parade you about and show you the sights. My intention is to keep you on my arm. My intention is to visit you at home and meet your four siblings and your father. My intention is to court you.
I am being very blunt, forget frank, because I do not wish there to be any misunderstanding between us.
I think of your chestnut-colored hair and the dimple in your right cheek. I think about the way your hand fit so perfectly into mine and the freckles like constellations across the bridge of your nose.
I think of you, daily, Imelda.
Yours faithfully,
Corin
My Dearest Corin,
