More Than a Stranger: A Sealed With a Kiss Novel (2 page)

Dear Lady Evelyn,

I would first like say that, as a dear family friend to your brother, I give you leave to address me simply as Hastings. I hope you will likewise allow me to address you as Evie, since that is how I think of you, thanks to your brother’s many stories.

Second, I would like to point out that Richard is free to befriend whomever he chooses. As it is, we get along rather well, so I don’t expect I shall abandon our acquaintance, particularly over his little sister’s complaint. We are, as I have stated, great friends by now.

Third, as Richard is here at Eton, and you are off in the country, I don’t think it is very well done of you to begrudge him a friend. As his friend, I, for one, would want him to have as many acquaintances as would make him happy.

And finally, I am sure you do ride very well—for a girl.

I am, my lady, your most humble servant,
The Honorable Benedict Hastings

Evie’s mouth hung wide at the impertinent response. Why, the little weasel! Insinuating that she, who loved her brother most of all, would begrudge him a friend. And to further goad her by claiming to be such
dear friends
already—it just made her sick.

Dear Hastings,

You have it all wrong. Richard may have as many friends as he likes. You just need to know he already has a best friend. And just so you know, I am eleven years old, and I can tell when someone is taunting me.

Regards,
Lady Evelyn Moore. NOT Evie.

Dear Evie,

Yes, I see now how I must have misinterpreted your meaning when you wrote (and I quote), “Kindly leave Richard alone.” You see, I seem to have a wild imagination and thought you wished for me to leave Richard alone. I do apologize.

I would like to propose a compromise. I shall be his friend (best or otherwise, it is up to him), as long as he is on Eton’s grounds. At all other times, I leave him to you. Does this sound fair enough to you?

Awaiting your response with a hopeful heart, I am, as always, your most humble servant,

Hastings

Dear Hastings,

Fine. Just be sure not to visit Richard here during breaks. Speaking of Richard, what a pity it was to hear from him that you almost failed your English literature exam. I suggest you spend less time playing your silly sports and more time studying.

And stop calling me Evie.

Lady Evelyn

Dear Evie,

Thank you for your concern about my academics. Have no fear; I have passed my exams and will be back next term to keep Richard, my best friend, company. How is your pony, Buttercup? Have you taken her for a nice, slow, ladylike walk recently?

Hastings

Much to her surprise, it wasn’t long before Evie began to actually look forward to Hastings’s letters. Over the years, his biting wit made her laugh out loud, and she spent hours crafting tongue-in-cheek replies. Hastings never failed to promptly respond, and she considered him to be one of her most reliable correspondents.

And then, the letters stopped coming.

After nearly five years of constant communication, a veritable river of correspondence flowing between them uninterrupted, suddenly the waters had dried up. There had not been a single word, not even one small note from Hastings in almost two months. It was positively rude—not to mention uncharacteristic.

Leaning forward as far as she could manage from her place on the sofa in the Rose Salon, Evie squinted at the wavy image of the butler through the front window. The bright sunshine glinted off Finnington’s bald pate as he waited for the dark-clothed rider to hand over the post.

Why was it when one was anxious for something, things seemed to move at an extraordinarily slow pace? She tapped her fingers on her knees, willing the men to move faster.

Honestly, for all her anticipation, there had
better
be a letter in there from Hastings. If not . . . well, she didn’t know what she was going to do, but she would certainly do something. The bothersome, inconsiderate boy. Make that man—
she
at least had sent him a very nice letter upon his eighteenth birthday not five weeks earlier, which was more than she could say for him and what he had done for
her
birthday.

Which just happened to be today.

Evie blew out a frustrated breath and slumped back onto the cushions. Surely Hastings would send her something to commemorate her sixteenth year on this earth. For him to do otherwise was simply unthinkable.

At last, the front door creaked open, and Finnington shuffled inside. Evie hastily straightened and grabbed up her book, pretending to read as she listened to the approaching footsteps. When he paused at the doorway and cleared his throat, she looked up, a serene, questioning smile on her lips. “Yes?”

“A letter for you, my lady. From Lord Raleigh,” he rushed to clarify, his wrinkled brow betraying a hint of sympathy for the space of a second before his expression cleared to its normal impassiveness.

Blast.

Blast, blast, blast. She was going to kill Hastings—death by tongue-lashing. Pressing her lips into something she hoped resembled a smile, she accepted Richard’s letter and waited while Finnington retreated from the room. Thank goodness for the man’s loyal discretion—it was embarrassing enough simply knowing he knew she was desperate to hear from Hastings. She couldn’t bear it if anyone else suspected.

The second the door closed, she ripped into the letter, nearly tearing the thick paper in the process. Her eyes skimmed over Richard’s words, hunting for mention of Hastings. Nothing. Not a single mention. Really,
what
was going on?

Pushing to her feet, she headed for the small writing table in the corner situated below the imposing portrait of Papa’s father. His stern, accusing stare bored straight into her as she plotted what she would write. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, riffling through the drawers for paper and quill. “As far as I’m concerned, he has it coming.”

Dear despicable, reprehensible, no-good, sorry excuse for a nonfriend,

We are in our fourth fortnight since last you put quill to paper for my benefit—and now you have officially missed my birthday. Yes, I am certain you think yourself very busy and important now that your graduation from Eton is at hand, but I believe “rude” must be added to the list if we are to properly describe your current state.

You must agree I am owed some sort of explanation. If I don’t hear from you before we come for the ceremonies, you will sorely regret it. Really, do you want our first meeting to be one of animosity? I should think not. Now, you’d best get to work composing your response. I shall watch the post with bated breath to read what is sure to be a riveting explanation for your delinquency.

Yours in annoyance,
Evie

P.S.—It occurred to me that you might be nervous about losing in the race we were to have. Rest easy, for Mama has utterly forbidden me from bringing Epona along. You may continue (erroneously, of course) to believe you are the superior horseman, though someday I shall prove you wrong.

* * *

Eton College, Windsor, England, 1809

He should have known.

Benedict Hastings tossed the letter onto his desk, causing the single flame of his candle to waiver in the small gust of air. He should have realized delaying writing to Evie would only make matters that much worse.

His wooden chair creaked in protest as he leaned back and scrubbed a hand over his eyes in frustration. This was madness. Here he was, only a week away from turning his entire life upside down, and still he hadn’t found a way—or the proper resolve—to cut this one last tie to his old life. He should have done it weeks ago, but really, how could he ever find the right words to sever the truest, deepest relationship he had ever known?