Free A Noble Masquerade by Kristi Ann Hunter Page B

clean, white paper on the desk in front of her. She slid the quill into the ink with utmost precision, careful not to drip excess ink on the paper. Everything about this response had to be perfect.
    Moments passed.
    Silence descended upon the room. Even the faint click of the rain upon the windowpane ceased.
    The ink began to dry on the tip of her quill.
    With a groan, Miranda yanked a blue paper across the desk and began scribbling, pouring her heart out in a river of black ink.
    Marsh,
    You will be aghast over what I have done. I have inadvertently sent you a letter. It is extremely embarrassing to know that my first introduction to you is through an emotionally raging journal entry. What must you think of me?
    What else could the man think? There had always existed the high probability that they would meet one day. Writing to him for the past several years was too tempting for fate to resist. Not that Miranda believed in fate, but apparently God had decided she needed to be taught a lesson about using people without their knowledge. Or something. There had to be a lesson in there somewhere, because it could not be happening just to ruin her life.
    The thing is that I have been writing to you for years, ever since my brother told me stories about you. You were my fictitious, yet real, companion that I could tell anythingto. I have a trunk FULL of these letters. I can’t believe I actually sent you one!
    What is worse is that you must be in the district somewhere to have gotten my letter and replied so quickly! I don’t know how Marlow knew where to send it.
    And now I have to reply. I can’t not reply. Marsh, what am I going to say to you?
    I hope you don’t mind that I think of you as Marsh. It is what Griff refers to you as when he speaks of you, which isn’t often. He wrote of you when you were in school, of course. What am I doing? I have to write you a real letter!
    Having churned out much of the chaos within her head, Miranda took a deep breath, and set the written tumble of craziness off to the side. What could she possibly say to explain what the duke had received? She had to think of something fast, because if he was nearby he was probably in contact of some form with Griffith, and the last thing she needed was her brother knowing she wrote to his friend as if she were some child with a tendre for one of her big brother’s playmates. Even if that was uncomfortably close to the truth.
    With a deep breath, Miranda straightened up in her chair. She shook the ringlets back from her face and set her teeth with determination. She returned her attention to the white paper and picked up her quill again.
    Your Grace,
    I am deeply ashamed at the letter you received. I cannot imagine what you must be thinking. Please know that it was never meant to be posted, and I hope that, should our paths ever cross in the future, you will be able to forget this ever happened.
    It is a silly childhood habit I have of spilling my thoughtsto people I do not know. I find it much more cathartic than the mere keeping of a journal. It was a simple misunderstanding that caused this rambling to wind up in the post.
    My deepest apologies.
    Yrs,
Lady Miranda
    Miranda read and reread what she had written. It was calm and collected and most importantly did not sound as if she always wrote to the Duke of Marshington, but that she wrote many different people. That was much better—in her opinion, anyway.
    By the time she had finished reading and checking it several times, the ink had dried and she could fold the note for posting. She wrote the duke’s name on the front and then froze. She would have to locate Marlow to discover where to send the letter. Feelings tumbled through her faster than she could recognize them.
    How did she feel about seeing him again?
    Since their encounter in the parlor last week, the man had been avoiding her as diligently as she had been avoiding him. Considering how often they’d bumped