She set the letter on a clear patch of table, making it the base of what would become a small, yet steadily growing stack.
They worked through the envelopes, one by one. A few invitations for long-ago events went into the Insignificant heap, as did the months-old newspapers and charitable appeals. Estate reports and accounting tables went in the Significant pile.
Izzy pulled a thin envelope from the sea of unread letters. “Here’s something that was franked by a member of Parliament. It must be very important.”
“If you think every letter bearing an MP’s frank is important, you have fairy-tale notions of government, too. But by all means, read.”
As she opened the letter, a hint of stale, soured perfume assaulted her senses. The penmanship within was scrawling and florid—very feminine. It would seem the letter was not written by the MP himself. Most likely by his wife.
“ ‘Rothbury,’ ” Izzy began aloud.
Well, there was a remarkably familiar salutation. The letter must come from someone who knew him well.
She continued. “ ‘It will shock you to hear from me. It’s been months, and we are not the sort to exchange tender missives. But what is this news of you suffering a mysterious injury? In Northumberland, of all the godforsaken places. I hear a hundred rumors if I hear one. Some report you’ve lost an eye, your nose, or both. Others insist it was a hand. I, of course, care little which appendages you might lop off, so long as no harm comes to that marvelously wicked tongue of yours, and no inches disappear from your magnificent—”
Izzy froze, unable to read further.
“Do go on,” the duke said. “I was enjoying that one. And I’ve changed my mind—feel free to be creative with the voices. Something low and sultry would be excellent.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary for me to read on. Clearly this letter belongs in the Insignificant pile.”
“Oh, Miss Goodnight.” His unmarred eyebrow arched. “Weren’t you paying attention? There’s nothing insignificant about it.”
She burned with embarrassment.
“Don’t think you’ll shame me with your prim silence. I’m not ashamed in the least. Just because you make friends by acting as though you were found under a turnip leaf and raised by gnomes, it doesn’t mean everyone takes pleasure in being prudish.”
“Prudish?” she echoed. “I’m not a prude.”
“Of course not. The reason you stopped reading that letter had nothing to do with being England’s innocent sweetheart.”
He laced his hands behind his neck and propped his boots on the opposite arm of the sofa. If an artist were to capture this image, it would have been labeled, Smugness: A Portrait. She wanted to shake him.
“Cock.” She blurted it out. “There. I said it. Aloud. Here, I’ll say it again. Cock. Cock, cock, cock. And not just any cock.” She glanced at the paper and dropped her voice to a throaty purr. “ ‘Your magnificent cock, which I long to feel deep inside me again.’ ”
He went quiet now.
She released her grip, letting the paper drop from her hand. “Satisfied?”
“Actually, Goodnight . . .” He sat up on the sofa, shifting awkwardly. “I am the furthest thing from satisfied. And heartily sorry I pressed the matter.”
“Good.”
Izzy huffed a breath, dislodging a stray curl from her forehead. Her whole body was hot and achy, and a low throb had settled between her thighs.
Worst of all, her mind was a buzzing hive of curiosity. When it came to a man’s organ, just what constituted “magnificence” anyhow? There were clues in the letter, she supposed. Something about precious inches and the ability to reach depths.
She propped her elbows on the table and extended one index finger into the air. How long was that, she mused? Perhaps four inches, at the most? Four inches didn’t strike her as a measurement one associated with magnificence.
She extended both index fingers toward one another, letting them touch at the tips. Their combined length was more impressive. But also a little bit frightening.
“Goodnight.”
Oh, Lord.
Her elbow slipped, sending a sheaf of papers cascading to the floor. Thank heaven he couldn’t see her. “Yes?”
“Do you intend to carry on with your work?”
“Yes. Yes, Your Grace. Of course. Yes.”
Enough with these missives from his former lovers.
Izzy searched through the letters, hoping to choose something dry and boring. A report on the state of his tenants’ barley crop. Something with absolutely no evidence of his career as a virile, unapologetic, magnificent libertine.
“Here’s something that was sent as an express,” she said, plucking a battered envelope from the bottom of the heap. “It was addressed to you in London, but your people must have forwarded it here.”
He sat up, giving her his full attention. “Read it.”
“ ‘Your Grace,’ ” she began.
But before she could read further, she lowered the letter. “So strange. I must have opened twenty of these now. Not one of them has begun with a warm salutation. Not a ‘My dear duke’ or ‘Dearest Rothbury’ in the bunch.”
“It’s not surprising,” he said flatly. “It’s the way things are.”
She laughed a little. “But not always, surely. Somewhere in these hundreds upon hundreds of letters, there’s got to be one that’s mildly affectionate.”
“Feel free to think so. I wouldn’t advise holding your breath.”
Truly? Not one?
Izzy bit her lip, feeling like a heel for bringing it up. But if no one dared to address him with warmth, it could only be because he forbade it with that stern demeanor. Surely someone, somewhere found him lovable—or least admirable. Hopefully, for a reason that had nothing to do with his financial or physical endowments.
She went back to the letter at hand. Within a few lines, she realized that this was a very different letter than any of the ones she’d read before.
“ ‘Your Grace. By now, you will know I have gone. Do not think I will have regrets. I am sorry—most heartily sorry—for only one thing, and that is that I lacked the courage to tell you directly.’ ”
The duke’s boots hit the floor with a thud. He rose to his feet. His expression was forbidding. But he didn’t tell her not to continue.
“ ‘I realize,’ ” Izzy read on, clearing her throat, “ ‘forgiveness will be beyond you in this moment, but I feel I must offer some explanation for my actions. The plain truth of it is, I could never lov—’ ”