Dearest Reece,
I know you think it improper, or at the very least imprudent, for us to write to one another, but I don't care.There are too many rules as it is and they would choke me if I let them. Between corsets and lessons and curtsies and etiquette, I am hardly myself, and that is how they want it. They would prefer we all dress and talk and think (or not think) alike, like paper dolls.
I do not wish to be a paper doll.
Surely you can see that I am stronger than that.I don't give a fig for the scandalbroth or the gossipmongers. Let us remove to Paris, where no one knows us to care and where they dine on scandal with eclairs every morning.
You will say again that it is impossible but I refuse to believe it. I know with every touch of your hand on mine, with every stolen kiss, that nothing is impossible.
Perhaps love isn't meant to be simple. Perhaps this is merely a test, such as Psyche went through to prove herself to Cupid. Would you have me count lentils, beloved?
And as you claim I have the most to lose, I pray you will let me decide for myself what it is I want and need.
Which is you.
Not silks or lobster soup in crystal bowls or diamonds around my neck.
Just you.
You say again and again that you love me.
Prove it.

Auteur: Alyxandra Harvey