Loving the Enemy

Prologue

14 June 1808

Dearest Beatrice,

I. Am. In. Love. Words cannot describe the rapture I'm feeling! The sun must have shone the brightest today, for I was blinded by the brilliant rays that reflected off the handsomest man I'd ever seen! He is a god amongst Man (though I haven't seen many young men) but I shan't ever be able to look at another without comparing the mortals to the god I saw today. Even Narcissus would shun his own reflection to gaze upon this perfect specimen.

You must be bursting with curiosity about this creature that I have declared myself in love with! A part of me is loathe to share with you who he is for I am sure you would be my rival, but I cannot keep him a secret. He is Garrett's friend from Eton! His name is Philip Wyndham and the second son of the Earl of Dover.

Philip Wyndham. Such a wondrous name. Do you not think so too, my dearest friend? It rolls off the tongue so smoothly, like a drop of morning dew tumbling off a leaf.

I have imagined to myself a thousand times how I would be introduced next time. The Right Honourable Mrs Wyndham. Mrs Philip Wyndham. Does it not sound divine? I can hardly breathe whenever I think about it. I am well aware that I am but eleven and he sixteen, and there will be many years before we can marry (although I would have reached the age of consent for marriage come February next year, but I doubt Papa would consent though I can be very persuasive...) but I know I will marry him and he will not disagree.

He is to stay with us for the week. Such a short time but I shan't dwell on the shortness of it. I will remind myself that I have seven days upon which I can gaze his masculine countenance. I know not if I would have the courage to converse with him without being reduced to a stuttering mess. But I shall endeavour to say a few words to him for his voice is as divine as his face. The low timbre sends shivers through my body, as if his words have touched every part of me. I cannot miss this chance.

As my dearest friend, I have to give you fair warning, for you will be inundated with my letters about him in the coming weeks and months and years until I'm married to him. I think even after I'm married, I will never tire of him and you will be bored to tears by my endless effusive praise of him.

Your friend in love,

Adelaide

*

20 June 1808

Dearest Beatrice,

I hate him! He is the most odious boy I have ever met and I am so ashamed that I fancied myself in love with that horrid person. If you still have that letter from me that I wrote to you the other day, please burn it at once! I cannot have such embarrassing correspondence lying around. Even as I write to you, I can feel my cheeks burning up. In mortification or anger I know not. Maybe both. For he is surely the world's most odious toad! (I have repeated myself but it bears repeating!)

Wipe all thoughts of Mrs Wyndham from your mind! I have scrubbed him from my memory. Who he is to me is a nobody and he will remain that way for as long as I breathe.

You cannot convince me otherwise, Beatrice. My tender heart no longer cares a whit for that rude person. And to think I thought him a kind, intelligent soul! It is humiliating to even think I carried a tendresse for him.

I loathe the fact that tears are gathering in my eyes as I'm writing this to you. I'm thoroughly vexed by my broken heart and lingering feelings.

You must be confused dear friend. I apologise. I shall now summarise the events of yesterday after I sent off that (now too impulsively written) letter to you.