Sealed With a Kiss Event - Tessa Dare

Tessa Dare is the New York Times bestselling author of nine historical romance novels and three novellas. A librarian by training and book-lover at heart, she makes her home in Southern California, where she lives with her husband, their two children, and a big brown dog.

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Izzy and Ransom, the hero and heroine of Romancing the Duke can’t write each other traditional letters. That’s because Ransom is (mostly) blind following a dueling injury, and while the two of them are forced to cohabitate in a medieval castle, Izzy serves as his secretary, reading and writing his letters for him.

So rather than have the two of them write letters back and forth, I took the chance to write this as a sort of bonus scene.

***

“Take a letter, Goodnight.”

Take a letter?

Izzy looked up, surprised. For the past several days, she’d been serving as the duke’s secretary, reading through and sorting out the correspondence that had accumulated since his injury. She’d read aloud hundreds of letters, reports, and invitations, but she’d never once been asked to take dictation.

“Very well.” She found a fresh sheet of paper and dipped her quill. “How shall I begin?”

“Begin thusly.” He propped his hands behind his head. “Last night, I spent hours dreaming of your nakedness.”

Izzy blushed.

Of course. Of all the letters he’d received from his associates, social peers, and men of business, this would be the subject that moved him to respond. She’d had been forced to read aloud more than one shocking missive from a former lover complaining of the duke’s absence from her bedchamber. She wondered which of the ladies he had in mind. Perhaps he didn’t even care. He probably said such things to all the girls.

He said a lot of things. From the nakedness, he went on. And on. Forcing Izzy to transcribe a series of scandalizing descriptions, sensual promises, and bodily contortions.

When she tried to pen the word “nipples,” her quill rebelled in embarrassment. “That’s enough,” she said. “This isn’t a real letter. You’re only trying to humiliate me.”

“If I am, I think it’s working.” A smirk tipped his mouth. “I can feel your cheeks blazing from here.”

“You are terrible.”

“I’ve never claimed otherwise. And if this letter is teasing on my part, you may consider it repayment for that fiction of yours.”

She shook her head, confused. “What fiction of mine?”

“Yesterday. You read a letter inviting me to my club’s annual Bacchanalian. And you embellished it.”

“I’m certain I did no such thing.” But her reply was not as robust at it might have been, for she knew it was a lie.

“You did,” he insisted. “All that business at the end. ‘Our merriment has suffered without your companionship’; ‘We are eager to see you again.’ Most egregious of all, ‘You are missed.’ Fabrications, all of it. No one in London is suffering for my absence. No one is eager to see me back. No one is missing me. You made it up. I know you’re fond of stories, but I don’t need your pity, Goodnight.”

Izzy bit her lip. He was right. She’d made that part up. She couldn’t help it. In all these heaps of letters, there weren’t any that expressed any friendly concern or well wishes for the duke at all. The lack of sentiment didn’t seem to bother him, but it bothered Izzy.

Everyone should have someone who cared.

“Very well,” she said. “You caught me out. You made your point. Shall I throw this in the fire then?”

“No,” he said. “Don’t. That letter was dictated in earnest.”

“Oh, really?”

“Add this one last line. ‘The concern you have expressed is touching, but misplaced.’”

Izzy did as he asked. “And to whom shall I address it?”

“To Miss Isolde Goodnight, Gostley Castle near Woolington, Northumberland.”

“To… to me?”

Laughing, she skimmed over the absurdities of I dreamt of your nakedness, and all the crudeness that followed. Surely he didn’t mean any of that. Not with her.

But her eyes went straight to that last line.

The concern you have expressed is touching, but misplaced.

This was the message she was meant to absorb.

Izzy couldn’t agree. She didn’t think her concern was misplaced. Perhaps none of these other people writing the duke letters cared one whit whether he rejoined society or withered to dust.

But she did. She cared.

“So,” she said. “Do you despise the idea that someone would feel protective of your feelings? Or are you perturbed because the someone is me?”

“Both.”

“Well, then.” Izzy folded the letter and set it aside. “Since my concern vexes you, I shall be certain to continue with it. Vexing you is my primary means of amusement.”

“Did you say something?” he replied, sounding bored. “I couldn’t hear you above all the imaginary nakedness.”

Izzy only smiled to herself. He might be as gruff, crude, and surly as he wished. He couldn’t fool her, and he couldn’t stop her from caring.

She folded the scandalous letter now addressed to her and tucked it away. Not in her pocket.

In her bodice.

Teasing or not… it might be the closest thing to a love letter she’d ever receive.

As the daughter of a famed author, Isolde Ophelia Goodnight grew up on tales of brave knights and fair maidens. She never doubted romance would be in her future, too. The storybooks offered endless possibilities.

And as she grew older, Izzy crossed them off. One by one by one.

Ugly duckling turned swan?
Abducted by handsome highwayman?
Rescued from drudgery by charming prince?

No, no, and… Heh.

Now Izzy’s given up yearning for romance. She’ll settle for a roof over her head. What fairy tales are left over for an impoverished twenty-six year-old woman who’s never even been kissed?

This one.

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