Dearest William,

Kindly do take care of yourself.

Has your doctor given you a mixture for your cough?

Mix two tablespoonfuls of both vinegar and treacle, and sixty drops of laudanum. Take one teaspoonful at night and one in the morning.

Your friend,

Lady Weis

*****

Ysabella knew that Wakefield and Thomas had had their talk and she was certain it did not turn out good. Wakefield seemed bothered and Thomas appeared to even be more...she could not completely say the man was happier, but he seemed rather content.

The morning after their picnic, Ysabella came down for breakfast and was surprised to see Wakefield alone.

"Where are your mother and Thomas?" she asked, taking her seat across from him.

"My mother needed to call on some of her friends nearby. She had not seen them for nearly a year, I believe. Thomas accompanied her," he uttered in reply. "Why? Do you miss him already?" he asked with a provocative smile or was that a frown? She could not truly tell. Another side of him she was not familiar with.

To answer his confusing question, she merely shrugged. What was she to say? Deny and let him the satisfaction? Agree and let him berate her once more about how it was not wise to marry his brother?

As the servants laid their breakfast before them, Ysabella studied Wakefield. Was he planning to stay here for the duration of her stay with his mother?

He had not done anything that one would consider of import here in Bertram. In fact, he had been tailing them for quite some time now. Was that why he was here?

She was about to voice the question but thought better of it. He'd simply divert the topic back to Thomas. He'd say he was here to watch over her as her brothers should.

So Ysabella thought of another question that had been bothering her for quite some time. "Why do you fear the sight of blood?"

Wakefield's brows arched at her question. He blinked. "I do not know."

"But surely you have been to fights, yes? You must have seen quite a lot of blood in your lifetime."

"Of course."

"Then you have fainted frequently then?"

He chuckled. "I never lost a bloody fight, little one."

"I fear I do not comprehend."

He shrugged. "It is merely my blood that I get such intense reaction to—the thought that it came from me. Those that came from others, I do not mind at all."

She frowned. "Odd."

"I have to agree." He motioned at the food. "Would you rather we discuss blood while we eat?"

"I do not find any reason why we should not, but since you are quite sensitive to it, I suggest we divert the topic." He glared at her quip and she scoffed in return.

They shared a moment of silence as they had their fill of the food.

As she buttered her toast, Ysabella thought of another question. "Why could you not believe me when I claim to be Lady Weis?" When his expression turned from a calm one to frustration, she hastily added, "It is but a mere curious and innocent question, my lord. No need to scowl." He shook his head. "Well?" she urged.

His eyes came to study her for a while. He swallowed his food. "I cannot see her in you."

A very simple answer, but one that caused a pang in her chest.

By the look on his face, Ysabella gathered that he was expecting a rejoinder. He must probably be preparing himself for one of her witty remarks. But he would have none of that. She had no desire to be desperate in front of him where Lady Weis was concerned.

So she merely shrugged and said, "Promise me you shall not blame me should you find out the truth, my lord."

He frowned. "Would you care to elaborate?" he carefully asked.

Ysabella allowed another shrug. He could suffer with curiosity and she would not care. It was not her fault he was too blind to see, really.

And she quite liked his reaction to her lack of words.

Remembering Article seven: A Lady's Guide to Silence from the book A Lady's Guide to Courtship, Ysabella chanted the words in her mind: Silence can be the strongest channel for truth.

"You seem quite different of late," he uttered after a while and Ysabella knew it took a lot for him to muster the courage to dare say it.

"What would you have me do then, my lord?"

He shrugged. "I was expecting you'd insist on your claim that you are she."

"Ah, that," she said with a laugh as though she had already forgotten their previous topic. "I no longer wish to insist on the issue as I know it makes you uncomfortable."

"I appreciate it."

"As I am also aware that you merely tolerate me because I am the sister of your friends," she deliberately added.

His face reddened. "That is not—"

"—a fact," she interjected with confidence, "I am inclined to change, of course. Now, what say you to a game of cards after breakfast?"

"I have missives to reply to," he said.

Ysabella shrugged. "Very well."

*****

Later that afternoon, Thomas invited her to see his collection of flowers in the garden, just off one of the fields. It was rare to see an actual garden full of actual flowers in the Town and Ysabella did not pass the chance to see one.

What was fascinating though was the fact that someone like Thomas would take a hobby cultivating flowers, which was a contrast to his character.

His collection of flowers would shame the ones in their little garden in Wickhurst.

"Do you know why Wakefield is afraid of blood?" Ysabella innocently asked.

Thomas tensed for a while before he shrugged and said, "He was bitten by a dog, I fear."

She frowned. "Then should he not be afraid of dogs instead?"

Thomas slowly shook his head. "Fear comes in many forms, I believe." He kept walking and she was surprised when he took her hand and guided her down the aisle of roses. "And the dog was a pet."

"Why did it bite him?"

He shrugged. "No one knows. The dog suddenly went frantic and started attacking him."

"How old was he?"

"He was nine. I was ten." He paused to frown down at a budding flower. "It started attacking William so I killed it."

Ysabella gasped. "You did what?"

Thomas' face was bare of any emotion as he straightened to full height and looked at her. Somehow she felt the hairs at the back of her nape stand up. How could he talk about killing an animal as though it was nothing? "He was attacking my brother. I had no other choice. The next thing I knew my brother was unconscious on the ground."

"But he says he cannot remember why he is afraid of blood."

"Well, he does not truly remember the event. He woke up and learned I killed the dog. He hated me since then."

"You never told him the truth?"

"Of course, but he refused to believe me then even when he had the scar on his palm to prove it. Our father had been hard on him and he had always thought everyone hated him. Telling him the truth did no good."

"Surely he would now understand. It is quite preposterous to think that the animosity between the two of you started merely because of a dog."

"That dog was his only companion," Thomas reasoned. "He had every right to be angry."

"But—"

"I refuse to talk more about my relationship with my brother, Ysabella," he said, voice serious. "Many other things had happened in the past to explain why we are what we are now and the dog was merely one of them." He turned to face her and peered down at her frowning face. "Now, do you know why I invited you here?"

Ysabella went still. She swallowed. "To see the flowers?"

Thomas chuckled, his expression turning bright. "No, dear one, it is not."

"To have a walk then?"

He shook his head, eyes turning darker.

He let go of her hand and reached inside his breast pocket.

Ysabella found her heart beating rather fast as she watched him take out a small velvet box.

"No need to look scared, Ysabella," he whispered as he opened it the box in front of her. "It is merely a bracelet." She let out a sigh of relief. Thomas took the bracelet ornamented with many stones of different colours. He replaced the box in his pocket and hooked the bracelet around her right wrist, saying, "I did not invite you with us this morning because of this. It is not an Everard, but the stones are of best quality."

She gulped, staring wide-eyed at the stones. No one had ever given her anything like this, she thought. "Thank you," she uttered and Thomas bent down to give her hand a kiss.

He did not fully straighten after that as proceeded to peer down at her, gauging her reaction. And then his face was descending down on her.

She froze, not knowing quite what to do. She must escape, her mind shouted, but another part was also adamant that she stay still.

She was curious.

Would he kiss her? Would it feel the same as Wakefield's?

Both sides of her brain were fighting. She was making a mistake. But she was going to experience something that might be good as well.

For God's sake she was one and twenty and she merely had one kiss! One! And the man kissing her then even thought she was someone else.

But this... Thomas knew who she was. And he wanted to kiss her.

He smiled when Ysabella remained unmoving. "I took you here for this as well," he whispered before his lips planted on hers very softly, like a brush of cotton.

And his lips started to move, urging her to participate.

Ysabella's eyes blinked rapidly before she forced them closed, ordering her mind that it was all right, that she had the freedom to do this—to find out if it was good.

And it was quite good. It was different. It was nice. His lips were soft and obviously skilled.

They patiently moved over hers and when she parted hers to answer his kiss, he pressed closer. His hand came at the back of her head, very lightly guiding her toward him.

She drew in a breath, concentrating on how she must answer the kiss, how it felt.

Before she knew it, Thomas had stepped back with a smile on his lips. She stared at him, wide-eyed.

Sweet Mr. Jones! She just kissed Thomas! Or he kissed her. But she answered his kiss!

And it was not that bad. No, not at all.

"I hope to get an answer from you before you leave next week," he said, stepping away from her. He offered his arm for her which she silently took.

They walked back to the manor as though nothing had happened.

*****

Later that evening, or mayhap in the wee hours, Ysabella exited the kitchen with a piece of pie on a plate.

She padded barefooted through the corridor, out into the silent dining room. It had been a week since she had arrived here and for three nights she had been roaming around the estate alone, making no sound.

But tonight, she was quite bothered. The kiss she shared with Thomas was supposed to make her feel a tad more sure about her feelings for Wakefield, but it did not.

She did not dislike it. It was different from Wakefield's kiss, yes, but she was expecting she would find it distasteful.

Not quite ready to go back to her room, Ysabella entered the parlour and went straight to the chaise. She lay down, resting her head on the arm rest, taking a bite from her pie. While doing so, she stared out the window and at the distant moonlight coming from the nearest hole.

Her thoughts drifted away from the kiss and focused solely on Wakefield. For merely seven days she found out that there were still more things about him she did not know, things that made her feel as though she was learning who he was all over again for the first time.

Was that a good sign?

Was it truly possible to love someone and yet feel quite uncertain about things that surrounded them? Could it be that like him, she was also merely in love with the man in his letters? Perhaps she was merely learning the real Wakefield now?

The feelings he invoked whenever they were alone was different as well. Without the usual balls and the familiar atmosphere of Wickhurst, being alone with Wakefield felt exciting, scary and...inscrutable.

And there was Thomas. He was the epitome of certainty. He was sure of himself and he knew what he wanted. And he wanted her.

With Wakefield, things were complicated. He could not see her as Lady Weis, yet she did not wish him to do so. Yet she hurt when he refused to. She wanted him to know her as Ysabella Everard, yet she was silently praying he'd see Lady Weis in her. She thought she was confident in his presence, yet she was full of nerves whenever they were alone.

"I hope you have not mistaken the parlour as your bedchamber, little one," the voice sent Ysabella off the chaise. "Bloody hell, do calm down before you wake the entire household," Wakefield said, suddenly beside her to help her up. He picked up the plate and the last piece of her pie off the floor and set them on the table. "Are you all right?" There was only one lamp lit in one corner and his face was shadowed as he frowned down at her. "Why are you barefooted?"

"What are you doing here!" she demanded, brushing his hands off. Her heart was still racing against her chest.

"Thinking," he said, "with brandy." His head went back to the plate. "I see you've been stealing food again."

She glared at him. "I always do. Oh, Sweet Mr. Jones, you scared me, my lord. You truly did." She clutched her chest and tried to even her breathing.

"I've never seen that before," he noted, his voice dangerously serious.

"What?" she absently asked.

"That," he said, tilting his head toward the bracelet around her right wrist.

She looked down and uttered, "Oh. Your brother gave it to me just this afternoon."

His face darkened.

"Were you trying to come up with a decision? Is that why you are here?" he asked, startling her with an untoward question.

"Whatever do you mean?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps you were thinking about my brother's offer?"

I was thinking about his kiss, actually, she wanted to say but said, "Well, mayhap," instead.

He scoffed and walked away to return to his seat which was merely paces away from the chaise. How could she have missed him upon her entry?

"Would it not do you good if you'd consider your other suitors in Wickhurst instead?"

"What? Suitors like Adam Nimrod?" she asked with a laugh.

"Well, given he did not do what he did in the opera, would you consider him now?"

"Are you bloody serious?" she could not help but ask, astounded. "And if I could ever imagine that he did not do what he did, I would not consider that brute. I do not love him."

"It does not have to happen before marriage."

"You talk like your brother," she snapped, dropping back down on the chaise.

"No one ever said we are entirely opposite."

"Aurora is in love with Adam," she said, ignoring his remark.

Wakefield's brows rose, surprised.

Her gaze wavered. "She does not know I know."

"But he prefers you."

"The reason why I do not want him for Aurora," she nearly exclaimed.

"I do not understand."

"Apart from the fact that he does have a heavy hand, Adam's family is currently suffering a financial crisis. He merely wants me because I am an Everard. Should he choose Aurora, she will suffer. If not through him, then his family." She turned to look Wakefield in the eyes. "Aurora is dear to me and it is important that she gets what she deserves. It is most definitely not Adam Nimrod. That brute does not deserve anyone."

"I am quite amazed that you can talk about your friend with such loyalty. Mayhap you must be more careful where you put them, little one, for there are those who would take your kindness to their advantage." His tone was filled with concern and warning.

Ysabella sighed. "Emma says so as well. She does not trust Aurora as much as I."

"Mayhap you should listen to Emma, then."

Her eyes watered at the thought of her sister. "Mayhap I should."

She watched him finish his drink and to take her mind off the things that were bothering and confusing her at the moment, Ysabella cleared her throat and said, "By the by, I visited Maxine again after you left the Theobald party."

Now she got his attention. He leaned forward. "And?"

She shrugged, hiding a grin. "Well, I just told you. I visited her."

He scowled at her. "You are deliberately making me suffer the curiosity."

"I know quite a few more details about her. Are you curious?"

He did not nod, but she saw the answer in his eyes as he narrowed them at her with frustration. She laughed. "Very well," she said, standing up. "I shall tell you in exchange of something."

He looked up at her.

"Promise me one dance at the Seymour ball."

To her surprise, he jumped to his feet and offered his hand. "I'd dance with you now."

She let out a mocking smile. "Truly amazing! You are now willing to dance with me because no one is about to witness it. You hurt my feelings, my lord." She stepped closer to him and placed her hand over his. "But I shall accept it before you change your mind."

*****

Wakefield saw the hurt in her eyes before she covered it with her bright smile. And for a second he thought the hurt radiated toward him as well.

Closing his hand over hers, he gently pulled her closer to him. Her free hand went to rest over his shoulder and his he carefully placed behind her back. And then he started to lead her to a dance.

This was their first dance, he thought. He then wondered why he had never allowed himself to do this before.

The guilt followed suit. She deserved a dance better than this, one lavish to match her. Wakefield had the sudden urge to have her dress in her best gown and drag her to the nearest ball they could find where there would be music and lights and laughter.

She snorted below his chin, obviously amused that they are both foolishly dancing without music. "Are we dancing the waltz?"

"I am afraid so, yes," he said, lips twitching into a smile.

"I am afraid I am bad at it," she said, hastily adding, "as many ladies, of course."

"Of course," he said, now grinning from ear to ear as he gently pushed her away and twirled her over his arm and pulled her right back.

She laughed, surprised at the sudden step.

"Now, tell me about your secret visit to your secret friend," he urged, his lips brushing against the top of her head.

She did not reply, merely settled her head against his chest.

His muscles bunched and his heart started racing.

"Your heart is racing," she dared point out, her lips brushing against his chest over his shirt, eliciting shots of currents to his toes and fingertips. Only Ysabella Everard would dare say his heart was racing.

This was why he never danced with her before. He was afraid of this.

He diverted the topic back on Maxine Theobald. "Tell me, little one, or I shall—"

Her head fell back so she was now looking up at him with a playful look on her face. "Or what?"

Wakefield caught his breath.

Bloody hell, this was why he never danced with her. The deepest, darkest corners of his mind had always known it and they had warned him numerous times. Only tonight he did not heed their advice and he finally felt for himself why he never wanted to dance with her.

He forgot her question. Bloody hell, he did not even care about Theobald's bastard. All he saw now—all his mind and body was reacting to—were the playful green eyes looking at him.

His head had bent down until their noses touched. And he saw how the playful glint in her eyes turned into something that mirrored his—want, curiosity, desire.

Wakefield froze, having finally found the word he was seeking for. He desired her.

Snapping to his senses, he gently stopped the dance but found that he could not let go of her at the moment. His mind was utterly blank, refusing to think.

He took a deep breath, breathing the scent of her. She smelled of fresh flowers and sunlight here in Bertram.

She let out a shaky breath and his eyes slanted down at her full lips as her tongue moistened them. Leaning his forehead against her, Wakefield closed his eyes and dared brush his lips very lightly against hers.

Sensations—thousands of them—shot through him.

And it was scary.

This is why you never danced with her, his mind whispered. It was nearly too late when he realized what he wanted to do—what he needed to do.

Opening his eyes, Wakefield gently let go of her and with the last vestige of strength, stepped back.

A bloody difficult feat.

She blinked and she saw the confusion in her eyes and he hated himself for it.

"Go to bed, little one," he whispered achingly. "Go," he nearly snapped and she flinched.

She stormed out of the parlour without another word.

Wakefield roughly brushed his hands over his face and run them through his hair in frustration.

He was furious. Not at her, but himself.

He was angry because he did not want to end that dance. He was in rage because he wanted to kiss her. Not merely kiss her, but consume her. And he never felt the same intensity of wanting someone since the Cinderella ball.

This was not supposed to happen.

He thought he had always been certain about his love for one woman, even went to such lengths to find her. Merely hours ago, he was reading reports from Morris about the recent calls from women who claimed to be her.

He ought to be at Wickhurst looking for Lady Weis, not here lusting over his friend's sister!

His thoughts went back to Ysabella, a common occurrence nowadays.

Was his brother correct? Did he want her? But how did it come about?

Perhaps he merely wanted her because Thomas wanted her, a part of him thought.

Or worse, did he want her now because he was finally seeing Ysabella Everard?

NOTE: I don't usually do A/N's after a chapter, but I allow me this once. Attached here is a video of a song made by a reader (if you're reading this, I'm sorry that I posted the song without your confirmation) and I totally LOVE IT!