Lusty Letters: A Fun and Steamy Historical Regency (Mistress in the Making Book 2), стр. 26

Once again, after sending Swift John off with his response, Daniel returned his attention to the areas Wylde wanted him to cover at the committee meeting. He’d put this off for days and could no longer justify avoiding it.

Trying to keep an open mind, because if his throat tensed along with his thoughts, he’d never get the words out, he applied himself to succinctly rewriting each salient point and then practicing the words ad nauseam—both in his head and out loud—until he deemed himself ready to move on to the next one.

With every phrase he committed to memory—phrases absent of pesky letters and sounds—he tried not to think of the other meeting he’d miss, the one he’d longingly thought to arrive right as it began and remain near the door, if only to catch a smattering of the brilliance that was Mr. Taft.

Mr. H. B. Taft, a gentleman Daniel had yearned to hear speak for years who was making a single London appearance. ’Twas no hope for it now; both events were scheduled for the same afternoon.

Disappointed anew, a heartfelt sigh shuddered from his lungs. He reminded himself of the good he was doing for his friend, if not for London.

Hell, poor Wylde had to have been desperate to ask Daniel to help him out; any words out of his mouth were bound to be a cheap bargain. But by God, he’d give the man his pennyworth.

For upon taking the time to really study what all Wylde had prepared, Daniel had experienced a major change of heart. Once he realized the earnest passion in the arguments presented, and recalled the primary reason why his friend cared so much, Daniel was determined to do his best.

After all, if any man had cause to see an organized police roaming the London metropolis, it was surely Wylde.

My dear Lord Tremayne, you may not be so quick to condemn your own literary attempts once you read more of mine.

Mr. Freshley, pussy so fine

Why on my arm must you dine?

With teeth marks and hisses and scratches galore

I must stop trying to befriend you. No, no, nevermore!

Before you ask, I regret to admit we never made nice. He was a rotten mouser; I think I became better at it than he. I always suspected the (is it too indelicate of me to say “snot”? I fear it might be; please forgive me for asking) phlegm drip-drip-dripping from his nose might be the culprit. How can any feline be expected to sniff out prey if they’re always sniffing snot? (Well, knock me over with a black cauldron, this pen does have its own way at times.)

I’ve only just recently forgiven Mr. Freshley for snacking on me when I was delivering fish heads. The skin he took from my arm was not given willingly, I assure you.

After extending the latest message from his master, Buttons blotted the sweat from his temple with a weary-looking handkerchief. He didn’t fare much better.

“You’re flushed.” Guilt crawled up Thea’s throat. “We’ve been selfish, sending you hither and yon with scarce a moment to rest. Forgive—”

“Ma’am, if I may?” Buttons interrupted, stuffing the handkerchief deep in a pocket.

“Certainly.”

“’Tis no hardship, I promise you. Me an’ John—the other servants too—why, we haven’t seen his lordship this animated in years. Even ate luncheon at his desk and I know he’s beyond eager for your next one.” Buttons pointed to the note she held. “I’ll go down an’ see what Mrs. S has cooked up this afternoon and grab me a quencher while you pen him back, eh? Be ready to run back to his lordship’s in a trice.”

The enthusiastic, sweating footman was off, racing down the stairs, leaving Thea to marvel at the fortune Fate had dropped in her lap and excited to read the latest missive Buttons had dropped in her hand.

Trust me, something as simple as a four-letter word, be it snot or any number of others, will not offend. In fact, I count myself honored that you feel at sufficient ease to talk thus with me. May it always be so.

Although once the question was posed, my mind would not rest until I’d applied it sufficiently, ascertaining what other possibilities you might have considered: snuffles, sniffles, sniveling…hmm, are you familiar with Captain Grose’s Dictionary of The Vulgar Tongue? I proudly own a useless copy and took the time to peruse its pages. Tell me what you make of this:

TO SNIVEL. To cry, to throw the snot or snivel about. Sniveling; crying. A sniveling fellow; one that whines or complains.

TO SNOACH. To speak through the nose, to snuffle.

I trust you could come up with a rhyme or two that would work companionably with snoach. (Does anyone ever—in actuality—use that word?) Although since first reading about your dear Mr. Freshley, I do have it in my head that he’s a snivler (aye, I just coined that one myself). Do you not agree? “To throw the snot or snivel about”—does that not describe your fiendish feline foe?

Now tell me more about your mousing talents. On that, I am aghast with curiosity.

Early that afternoon, her written reply arrived. Only instead of regaling him with the most welcome and anticipated jovial rehash of her mouse-catching escapades, it contained one simple paragraph.

A simple paragraph with a relatively simple suggestion.

One that struck the fear of God into his heart.

Snoach! How could I have gotten on so admirably with such a lack in my vocabulary? You are quite right. Mr. Freshley was definitely a snoaching snivler! How could I not have seen that on my own? Perhaps, when next we meet, we should apply ourselves to joint compositionary efforts?

Pen some lyrical odes together?

What the devil?

Together?

His eyeballs burned as the syllables threatened to detonate in his brain, explode in his misbegotten mouth.

Oh Gad.

What was he doing? Thinking? Saying?

Idling his day away—flirting? And with words?

Now his new mistress wanted to write poetry—together? In person?

As though a serpent had just sunk fangs