“No.” Mena swallowed tightly. “But they arrive at different times.”
“In that case, there is plenty of time for you to take a ride with me in my new phaeton.”
“You drove here?” Mena said in surprise.
“I did, indeed.” Phoebe rose to her feet. “Can you see Abraham being able to stop me once I set my mind to something?”
Since she couldn’t disagree, Mena stood as well. “Very well. Let’s set the ton on its ear.”
The viscountess grinned. “Spoken like a true Englishwoman.”
By the time they returned to Mena’s townhouse three hours later, it was nearly five o’clock. “I daresay I’m quite famished after such a vigorous exercise!” Mena laughed as they removed their outerwear and handed it over to the butler. “I thought you were going to scare the wits out of Lady Montague!”
Phoebe snorted. “That dragon needs some excitement in her life. All she does is gossip in the hopes of picking out the faults in others.” She waved a hand. “But enough about that old battleax. I assume you’re going to the Norrington Ball the day after tomorrow?”
Mena nodded. “Yes, with Mari and Robbie.”
The viscountess lifted a brow. “And here I thought you might have been escorted by your Mr. Solomon.”
“He’s not my anything,” Mena said firmly. But just as she was about to walk toward the parlor, Anders cleared his throat. She turned around. “Yes?”
He didn’t say a word, merely held out a silver salver with a single card on top.
“Oh, is that what I think it is?” Phoebe asked, shooting Mena a sly glance.
Mena ignored her and snatched the card off of the tray. It was a bit thicker than the usual notes she’d received from her admirer, but once she opened it, she realized why.
Every day is an eternity until I see you again.
But allow my sentiments to be expressed in the following poems.
Even then, words do not do justice for what I feel for you.
Mena slowly unfolded the five papers inside, all hand-written with the same, masculine hand she had come to know as well as her own over the past eight days. By the time she’d read the last one, tears had welled her in eyes, blurring her vision.
“My. That must be some letter, indeed,” Phoebe breathed.
With a word, Mena handed the sheets of vellum to her. Her friend read the titles aloud, “She Was a Phantom of Delight, William Wordsworth. A Red, Red Rose, Robert Burns. Fulfillment, William Cavendish. Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day? William Shakespeare. Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms, Thomas Moore.” She slowly lowered her hand, the papers still clutched in her grasp. “Whoever your mysterious suitor is, I can guarantee he wouldn’t go through all this work for a simple lark.” She paused. “This is serious, Mena.”
Forced to face the truth, Mena swallowed heavily. “It appears so.”
“Then the question is…” Phoebe lifted a brow. “What do you intend to do? Shall you choose the mysterious suitor at the end of the game? Or has your heart already selected Mr. Solomon?”
Unfortunately, Mena had no answer.
Day 9
Day Nine
Mena paced her personal sitting room that night. She couldn’t bear to enter her bedchamber just yet, not when Phoebe’s observation hung over her head like a noose, just waiting to fling itself around her neck. The truth was, she had no idea what Julian’s intentions were, while her admirer was hiding nothing. Other than his name, of course.
It certainly didn’t help matters when Julian hadn’t even bothered to call that day.
Frustrated with it all, she suddenly paused and glared at her writing desk. It was now or never. So she stalked over to it, sat down heavily, and grabbed a piece of paper, which she set it in front of her. Picking up a quill, she tapped it thoughtfully on the corner of the sheet until she forced herself to uncap the ink and dip the nib inside. It was time she made that list of possible suitors, even if it took all night. Only then would she be able to sort out the pros and cons of each one until her heart and her mind were of one accord, instead of that fickle organ pulling her in one direction, while her head spun in another.
She couldn’t give up her future on a man who might not feel anything more than friendship. Or lust.
Mena bit the end of her pen until she finally wrote down a name. And then another. And another. When she had seven possible suitors written, only then did she allow herself to write the eighth and final one.
Julian Solomon.
She dusted the sheet and finally held it up and inspected it with a critical eye. It was possible that any of these men could be her admirer. While most were only acquaintances, she knew that they were also widowers or confirmed bachelors, but they had all seemed particularly flirtatious with her after Laurence’s passing. Whether that meant it was simply in their nature to be charming or if their attentions might mean something more, she meant to find out.
It was time she took matters into her own hands.
At the Norrington Ball, she intended to unmask her phantom suitor.
Then again, as it was to be a masquerade, that might be a bit harder to accomplish.
With a groan, she put her head in her hands.
After a fitful night of tossing and turning, Mena awoke later than usual. Even then, she didn’t immediately arise like she normally did. Instead, she stared at the ceiling until boredom finally drove her to her feet. While last night she’d been anxious to learn her suitor’s identity, the morning brought a bit of irritation. She might not be in her dotage, but she was too old to be playing such childish games.
She would admit that a part of her enjoyed the mystery and excitement of it all. What woman wouldn’t? But then the rational, more mature side of her personality just wanted it to be done and over with. Her life had been perfectly calm and ordered before that first infuriating gift arrived with the promise of more. Then, with Julian’s sudden reappearance, it had only made matters more complicated.
