Free The Spinster's Secret by Emily Larkin

cleared his throat, and took a large swallow of tea. It wasn’t that he was attracted to Miss Chapple. It was that, finally, after months of believing himself impotent, his body was returning to life. He could be sitting in the presence of any woman right now and wonder what she’d taste like if he kissed her.
    “How long has Mr. Humphries resided in Soddy Morton?” he asked.
    “Two months. He has the curate’s position my uncle had hoped to gift to Toby.” Miss Chapple put aside her teacup. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Kane, I have a letter to write.”
    Edward set down his own cup. He stood and bowed. As Miss Chapple disappeared through the doorway, he found himself wondering what her hair would be like if it was released from that tight knot at the back of her head. Sleek and straight or curly?
    Edward abruptly halted that train of thought.
    His gaze turned to the window and the rain streaming down the panes. He would ride into Soddy Morton this morning. The sooner he found Chérie, the sooner he could return to London and find a nice, plump, clean whore and prove to himself that he was as virile as he’d been before Waterloo.
    …
    Mattie spent some time rubbing the stub of a wax candle over brown paper, in the hope of rendering the paper more weatherproof. She wrapped Chérie’s memoir in the paper, tied it tightly with string, and sealed the knots with wax. When she tried to write the address, the ink slid off the waxed paper.
    “Damnation,” she muttered under her breath, and she unwrapped the parcel, turned the paper over, and started again.
    This time she wrote the address before she applied the wax.
    The package wrapped and sealed again, she prepared another sheet of paper, writing the address of her friend Anne Brocklesby before waxing it. She wrapped it around the parcel and tied it with string. After a moment’s hesitation, she sealed those knots with wax too. There. With luck, the manuscript would reach its final destination unscathed.
    Mattie looked out the window. She wanted to deliver the precious parcel to the postmaster herself, but rain still streamed down outside. She imagined her drenched gown, the heavy weight of wet wool, the smell, and pulled a face. No, she’d let Durce, the footman, with his oilskins and knee-high boots, carry the parcel into Soddy Morton.
    Gathering the parcel in her arms, Mattie went downstairs. Hope and anxiety twisted in her belly.
    The fire was dead in the library, and the candles had been snuffed. Mr. Kane was gone. Mattie rang the bell and waited, shivering in the dark, draughty room. After a minute she heard familiar footsteps, slow and measured. She bent her head and quickly kissed the parcel.
    “God speed,” she whispered.
    “You rang, miss?”
    Mattie turned and smiled at the butler. “Yes. Can you please see that this gets to Soddy Morton today? I’d like it to catch tomorrow’s mail.”
    Her uncle, had he seen the parcel, would have commented on its size and weight and how much it would cost Anne to retrieve from the post office.
    Griggs merely said, “Very good, miss.”
    Mattie listened until the sound of his footsteps had faded from hearing. Her future—her freedom from Creed Hall—lay within that waxed-paper package.
    “God speed,” she whispered again.
    She had a gown to finish sewing, grey worsted, to the same pattern as every other gown she possessed, loose-fitting and fastened down the side, so that she needed no maid to help her dress, but Mattie was too restless to sit still. She peeked into her aunt’s parlor on the chance of finding Cecy unoccupied, but her friend was reading aloud to Lady Marchbank.
    Mattie backed away on tiptoe.
    She changed her shoes for half-boots, grabbed a shawl, and went downstairs and let herself out through the side door. Rain pelted down. Mattie drew the shawl over her head and dashed to the stables.
    There were stalls for dozens of horses, but fewer than a handful were occupied. Horses, in her uncle’s