Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways, #5)

by Lisa Kleypas

Dearest Christopher, I can’t write to you again. I’m not who you think I am. I didn’t mean to send love letters, but that is what they became. On their way to you, my words turned into heartbeats on the page. Come back, please come home and find me.

And when I asked why, Captain Phelan said it was to help the Rifles stay concealed, which makes no sense, as everyone knows that a British soldier is far too brave and proud to conceal himself during battle.

“Patriotism has nothing to do with the fact that the War Office, in its enthusiasm, didn’t do nearly enough planning before it launched thirty thousand men to the Crimea. We have neither adequate knowledge of the place, nor any sound strategy for its capture.”

“We even have opinions.” Prudence’s eyes widened. “My goodness.

She dreamed of a man whose force of will matched her own. She wanted to be passionately loved … challenged … overtaken.

Beatrix had met Christopher Phelan on two occasions, the first at a local dance, where she had judged him to be the most arrogant man in Hampshire. The next time she had met him was at a picnic, where she had revised her opinion: he was the most arrogant man in the entire world.

And she knew that although she wasn’t a great beauty, she had her own charms. More than one man had commented favorably on her dark brown hair and blue eyes.

These moderate attractions, however, were nothing compared to Christopher Phelan’s golden splendor. He was as fair as Lancelot. Gabriel. Perhaps Lucifer, if one believed that he had once been the most beautiful angel in heaven.

tall and silver eyed, his hair the color of dark winter wheat...

I’m sitting in this dusty tent, trying to think of something eloquent to write. I’m at wit’s end. You deserve beautiful words, but all I have left are these: I think of you constantly. I think of this letter in your hand and the scent of perfume on your wrist. I want silence and clear air, and a bed with a soft white pillow

“You find this boring?” she asked mildly, while her blush spread like spilled wine on linen.

I want to shoot him, but I’m too tired of killing.

Families are grieving for the lives I’ve taken. Sons, brothers, fathers. I’ve earned a place in hell for the things I’ve done, and the war’s barely started.

I’m changing, and not for ...

The man you knew is gone for good, and I fear you may not like his repla...

could have come from the arrogant Christopher Phelan. It wasn’t at all what she had expected. There was a vulnerability, a quiet need, that had touched her.

“Pru, you have the depth of a puddle.” Prudence grinned. “At least I’m honest.”

“You’re actually delegating the writing of a love letter to one of your friends?”

it never ended well when one did something morally questionable for the right reasons.

She felt entirely inadequate to the task of writing to him. And she suspected that Prudence did as well.

Audrey has a problem with honesty. She wouldn’t send the letter if she knew I hadn’t written it.”

Only one thing was certain: it was better to answer, no matter how ineptly, than to withhold a reply. Because sometimes silence could wound someone nearly as badly as a bullet.

Have you ever noticed that each month has its own smell? May and October are the nicest-smelling months, in my opinion.

Worse still, it has been suggested that the mare is a shameless lightskirt and did not try nearly hard enough to preserve her virtue.

Do you really think you’ve earned a place in hell? … I don’t believe in hell, at least not in the afterlife. I think hell is brought about by man right here on earth.

How I wish I could offer better comfort than to say that no matter how you have changed, you will be welcomed when you return.

Do what you must. If it helps you to endure, put the feelings away for now, and lock the door. Perhaps someday we’ll air them out together.

And wasn’t a letter written under false pretenses better than nothing at all? A man in Christopher’s situation needed all the words of encouragement one could offer.

He needed to know that someone cared. And for some reason, after having read his letter, Beatrix found that she did indeed care.

And he did it all with great discretion, seeming almost embarrassed to be caught in a good deed.

“My brother-in-law Cam is very knowledgeable about herbs and medicines,” Beatrix volunteered. “His grandmother was a healer in his tribe.”

Regardless of the reports that describe the British soldier as unflinching, I assure you that when riflemen are under fire, we most certainly duck, bob, and run for cover. Per your advice, I have added a sidestep and a dodge to my repertoire, with excellent results.

May and October, the best-smelling months? I’ll make a case for December: evergreen, frost, wood smoke, cinnamon.

I feel I should at least feign some kind of digestive problem for the sake of decency.

you wonder at my apparent fondness for mules, I should probably explain that as a boy, I had a pet mule named Hector, after the mule mentioned in the Iliad.

I wouldn’t presume to ask you to wait for me, Pru, but I will ask that you write to me again. I’ve read your last letter more times than I can count. Somehow you’re more real to me now, two thousand miles away, than you ever were before.

P.S. Sketch of Albert included

froze as she felt an unfamiliar object. A metallic handle … and the silk bristle of a shaving brush. Blanching, she realized that she had unintentionally taken the shaving brush from Christopher’s dresser.

AHHHHHH IS THIS THE LISA KLEYPAS MOTIFFFF

Every now and then when Beatrix was nervous or worried, she pocketed some small object from a shop or residence.

Stealing the objects was never any trouble at all. It was only returning them that presented difficulties.

Note the tassel and string at the bottom—when you pull it, the merrymaking gentlemen on the left will quaff their goblets of wine. (“Quaff” is such an odd word, isn’t it?—but it’s one of my favorites.)

P.S. I share your affection for mules. Very unpretentious creatures who never boast of their ancestry. One wishes certain people would be a bit more mulish in that regard.

I’m afraid I was indeed the bayoneted one. How did you guess?

I’m hungry. Last night I dreamed of food. Ordinarily I dream of you, but last night I’m sorry to say that you were eclipsed by lamb with mint sauce.

😫😫😫😫

I also like the word “quaff.” As a matter of fact, I’ve always liked unusual words. Here’s one for you: “soleate,” which refers to the shodding of a horse. Or “nidifice,” a nest.

Have a care for your safety, Christopher—for my sake if not your own. My request is entirely selfish … I could not bear for your letters to stop coming.

I’m so far away, Pru. I’m standing outside my own life and looking in.

Amid all this brutality, I have discovered the simple pleasures of petting a dog, reading a letter, ...

I beg you to forget what I wrote before: I do want you to wait for me. Don’t marry anyone before I come home. Wait for me.

This is the perfume of March: rain, loam, feathers, mint.