I Received 47 Unopened Letters Back From The War — Then The Duke Walked Into The Assembly

Part 2

The morning light filtered through the lace curtains of our drawing room as I sat in my usual chair by the window, my hands folded tightly in my lap to hide their trembling.

I waited for Brian to arrive for the private audience I had granted him against my better judgment, his urgent whisper still echoing in my ears alongside Aunt Brenda’s skeptical warnings.

She had spent breakfast reminding me that men who returned letters unopened rarely possessed honorable explanations for such behavior.

The mantel clock chimed the hour of eleven, each note stretching impossibly long as I wondered if this was merely another cruel twist in a game played with my battered heart.

The sound of a carriage drawing up outside made my spine straighten and my breath catch in my throat.

Our butler announced His Grace with formal precision, and Brian entered carrying a polished wooden box that he held with both hands as if it contained something precious.

His morning coat remained impeccable, but his face showed signs of a sleepless night.

Those gray eyes that had haunted my dreams found mine immediately with an intensity that made me grateful I was already seated.

He moved closer, setting the box carefully on the small table beside my chair, his fingers lingering on the smooth wood before he straightened.

Something raw and vulnerable flickered in his expression, completely at odds with the controlled soldier who had walked into the assembly the night before.

I demanded to know what he could possibly say to excuse returning two years of correspondence unread to someone he claimed as a friend.

Running a hand through his hair, he told me that the package I received yesterday was not a rejection, but the only way he could deliver his responses.

My mind struggled to comprehend his words as he opened the box to reveal neat stacks of sealed letters.

He claimed he had written responses to every single letter I sent him during his time away, all forty-seven of them.

Moving to the chair across from me, he reached for the teacup I had poured earlier, his hand trembling visibly as the delicate china rattled against the saucer.

That was when I noticed properly for the first time how his right hand curled differently than his left, the fingers failing to close naturally around the cup’s handle.

The morning light caught the edge of a jagged scar running from his knuckle to his wrist.

He slowly extended his damaged hand between us, explaining that shrapnel had torn through it two days before Waterloo, leaving him unable to hold a pen for months.

Tears pricked my eyes as I imagined him lying in a field hospital, receiving my letters but physically incapable of replying.

He had instructed his secretary to return my letters unopened because he could not bear having another man read my private words aloud while he remained powerless to answer them.

Once his hand healed enough to hold a pen, he had every letter read to him in order and spent agonizing months writing forty-seven responses.

He asked if we could read our letters together, as they were meant to be read, but with his formidable mother determined to stop our match, would our written words be enough to secure a future in reality?