My dearest Benedict,
So much has changed since we last wrote.
Yeah, Gretchen thought to herself. Like winter into spring. Not exciting.
I cannot believe we are to be parted once more. The three months we spent together were Heaven on earth. I wake up in the morning, wanting to feel your form next to mine, but you are gone. My hands slide into my pantaloons and I must touch myself, trying to remember the feel of your mouth against my most delicate of female parts.
Gretchen’s eyes widened. Holy shit. That was . . . graphic. “Lulabelle, you little Victorian sexpot, you.”
My father is very against our marriage, as you know. However, I cannot help but think that if he knew of the carnal ways that we had tasted each other, the hours we had spent in each other’s arms, that perhaps he would relent. Still, I shall keep our secret as you have instructed.
Tell me when you will return to me and, until then, imagine my hands where yours should be.
All my love,
Lula
Well now. Things had just gotten a bit more interesting. Curious, Gretchen reached for the next letter and was surprised to see a masculine handwriting. Benedict had actually written Lulabelle back. Interesting. All the prior letters had been penned by one hand—Lula to Benedict.
Lovely flower,
It shall only be a few months that we are to be parted. You know that I cannot marry you as long as my fortune is no more than that of a beggar’s. Your father will never look upon me as a proper suitor for you unless I become more successful. Give my business time to take off, beloved, and we shall soon be together.
Your letter to me fired my loins and my imagination. My body aches to sink deep into yours once more, to feel your plump thighs wrapping around my waist as I move deep inside you. I know what we write is scandalous, but I do not care. If we cannot be together in person, let us be together in spirit. I know my mind is filled of thoughts of your mouth upon my maleness. It is an image burned into my mind.
Write me again,
Your Ben
Wow. So Lula gave old Ben a blowjob? She is a total vixen. Good for her. Gretchen pulled out the next letter, fascinated, and began to open it. The project had taken on new life with these latest letters, and now she couldn’t seem to read them fast enough. They were dirty and wrong—terribly wrong considering they were dating back to the Victorian period, but man, were they juicy.
For the first time, she tried to picture the duo. Lulabelle would have been dressed in some sort of frothy concoction of a dress befitting the times. Her appearance was never mentioned, other than she was concerned with fashion.
She pictured Benedict like she did Hunter, though. Tall, serious, and deliciously, wickedly scarred. Wounded inside and out. Maybe that was why he’d never written Lula back until now. Maybe she’d reached out to him over that three-month break and crashed through his barriers, and now he’d let her in.
I know my mind is filled of thoughts of your mouth upon my maleness, Benedict had written.
Gretchen suddenly envisioned herself, kneeling in front of Hunter, taking his c**k in her mouth and working it as his hand knotted in her hair. Warmth pulsed through her body and she resisted the urge to fan herself with one of the delicate letters. Whew.
The door to the library opened and Gretchen jumped in her chair, whirling around.
Eldon stood there, looking just as surprised as she was. Of course, Gretchen couldn’t stop blushing now that she’d been more or less caught reading the letters. Not that she wasn’t supposed to be reading them, of course. It was just that they were . . . dirty. And it made her feel weird to be seen reading them. Did Eldon or Hunter have any idea how incredibly graphic the letters were? Was that why they’d wanted someone to transcribe them?
“You’re here early,” Eldon said, his voice disapproving. He held a tray in his hands.
She waved a letter at him. “Thought I’d get a head start on things. Don’t bother making me breakfast, by the way. I made my own.”
“I did not make you breakfast,” he said flatly, as if it were the last thing he’d planned.
“Yeah, I guessed.” He never made her breakfast.
Eldon moved into the library and set the tray down on the nearest end table. On her tray was the rose of the day, singularly beautiful and crisp, the bud just beginning to unfurl. Today’s color was a red so deep that it almost seemed like velvet.
To her disappointment, there was no note from Hunter inviting her to dinner. That was fine. She wouldn’t let him retreat away from her. She had plans.
When Eldon straightened, he turned to leave.
“Wait,” Gretchen said, jumping to her feet. She grabbed the folded paper on the edge of the desk that she’d written this morning and held it out to him. “Can you please give this to Hunter?”
Eldon eyed it, and then her. Ever so reluctantly, he reached out and took the paper from her.
Gretchen kept the smile on her face, though inside she was a bit gleeful at his capitulation. He’d taken her note. “It’s very important that he gets it as soon as possible,” she told Eldon, trying to seem innocent.
To her dismay, Eldon flipped open her note and read it aloud. “Dear Hunter, I would very much appreciate it if you would join me for dinner tonight in the kitchen. Nothing fancy, but I promise you I’m a much better cook than Eldon. Sincerely, Gretchen.”
All right, that was embarrassing.
The butler’s mouth pursed unpleasantly as he finished the letter. “I don’t see anything urgent in this.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t for you,” Gretchen said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Just deliver it, all right?”
“Shall I bring back a response?”
“Nah,” Gretchen told him. “I’ll know tonight if he shows up or not.”
“Very well.” He refolded the letter she’d given him and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Gretchen counted to ten slowly, waiting, and then crept to the door. Her slippers muffled her footsteps, and she ever so slowly eased open the library door, glancing down the hall.
Eldon turned a corner and vanished.
Excellent. With quiet steps, Gretchen tiptoed down the hall after him, keeping her distance. If Eldon did as he promised, he’d deliver that letter to Hunter. She could always wait for him to arrive tonight and apologize then, but Gretchen liked to be on the offensive, and what better way than to get things ironed out than to confront the man herself?