Dearest William,

I have been reading a book on philosophy. My past governesses would not believe I am, but it was only recently that I grew a fondness on the subject. I never liked any form of books until now, as a matter of fact. I owe it to the gracious women who tirelessly taught me the importance of reading.

I have read the book you recommended. I did not like it, but I do appreciate your great effort to make me learn more about crop plantations.

Would you be kind as to tell me what else you like to read about? Do you read geography? I hate to say that I do not like it. Mayhap if they talk more of the geography aboveground rather than what we already know, I might give more consideration.

Your friend,

Lady Weis

*****

She had expected the laughter that followed her statement, as well as the pang of pain. But as A Lady's Guide to Courtship had said, 'So long as there is pain, the battle is not won.'

"You do realize, little one, that you, amongst that other women, claims to be Lady Weis, do you not? You could have taken that passage from Samuel Theobald whom I know is acquainted with Lady Weis and a friend of yours. Bloody hell, you could have read every letter I wrote her. I might even believe should you say you know her through Samuel Theobald!"

She had expected this as well, of course.

"But I am she," she uttered through gritted teeth, surprised of the dash of anger inside her.

"I know Lady Weis, little one," he said, smiling kindly at her. "She is not you."

She hated that kind smile. It reminded her of her brothers when they thought their statements would hurt her so they tried to ease it by looking gentle.

But then he stopped smiling and the look he gave her nearly sent a tingle down to the tips of her toes. It was as if she was transported back in time to the night of the Cinderella ball when he had been blindly looking at her in the dark. His eyes seemed to be staring at her like he did that night. But it lasted for merely a few seconds because he blinked and it was gone, replaced by the patient stare he'd she was well-acquainted with.

Yet that very short glimpse gave her hope. He knew it was her who was before him and he gazed at her as though she was Lady Weis. He knew it was her, Ysabella Everard. Had he, for a few seconds, thought that she might be Lady Weis?

She wanted to tell him, to insist that she was. And she wanted to say that she was more than Lady Weis.

But she had done her part now. She had told him, boldly so, that she was Lady Weis and he did not believe her as she had expected.

No matter, Ysabella whispered in her mind, diffusing the anger. She had told him, he did not believe her.

He could no longer blame her for hiding the truth from him in the future now, could he? That was her goal tonight, really. She was here to confess, not to beg to be believed.

"Ah, such a pity that you refuse to believe me when I am being utterly honest," she said with a sigh. She peered out the window. "We are nearing my destination."

Wakefield was staring at her pensively. "You may think this matter with Lady Weis is a game, little one, but it is not. I hope you refrain from doing reckless things as this in the future."

Ysabella shrugged. "Very well, all right. I shall give you what you want, then."

He seemed not to believe her. "What I want?"

"Yes, of course. What you want. No more interruptions from me during the wee hours."

"Merely the wee hours?"

"Of course," she said. "Do you truly believe that I would simply give up? I could still haunt your dreams during the night up to the wee hours, you know," she further mused. She smiled when his eyes widened. "How do you suppose I shall be in your dreams?"

He sighed and she did not expect a reply to her provocative question.

"I hope you can see me in a much better light," she said. "I do have many sides, you know. If you could just forget for a moment that I am your friend's sister and a child—no, I refuse to hear anything about a decade of years between us," she hastily added when he opened his mouth to speak. "Once you do that, my lord, you might see the real Ysabella Everard. And once you do and you do not like me still, then I shall take my respite. I am a good sport, if you may not know."

He looked as if he was trying his best to come up with a reply but she knew he was quite foxed and his mind was probably muddled.

"Ah, we are here," she uttered when the carriage stopped. She reached for the handle of the door and swung it open. She turned to him expectantly. "Well? Are you not coming down to help me out?"

He scoffed in disbelief and stumbled out of the carriage with a grunt.

"Thank you. Such a tremendous gentleman, you are, after all!"

She thought she heard him growl. He is definitely quite foxed, she noted.

He stepped aside and offered his hand which she took.

"Careful—" he started to say but Ysabella pulled at his hand, drawing half of his body inside the carriage, surprising him. She leaned forward until their faces were merely inches apart from each other. Would he recognize her if she kissed him tonight? "What are you doing, little one?" he asked, voice deep and filled with warning.

She scrunched her nose, enjoying the alarm in his face, but more so the look of stunned desire that crossed his eyes for a brief moment before he narrowed them.

He might recognize her kiss, but it would not be tonight. She'd feed that little desire and turn it into something he could never extinguish. Soon, she hoped.

"I was planning to give you a good night's kiss, my lord," she whispered, her lips nearly touching his, "but your breath smells foul." She leaned away and jumped out of the carriage without his help. Well, how could he when he was standing there, stupefied?

*****

Wakefield's mind was far from foxed. In fact, it was as though he had not had any drink at all, considering how his brain was working in such frantic a manner.

She had never made such aggressive physical advances before, never resorted to this sort of teasing. But then, she never had that chance what with the fact that she merely had ballrooms and social events as her playground.

He whirled around to stare at Ysabella Everard in disbelief. She was standing there, looking as if she had not caused his heart to trip or halt when she teased him with a kiss.

One that did not happen, but one he had, for a brief moment, anticipated.

Bloody hell! No, he was merely intoxicated. Ah, bloody hell, but he knew he no longer was.

"If we ever marry, my lord, I do not wish that you drink at all on our wedding day. I'd have to kiss you and I would hate to disappoint the guests if I opt not to because of your breath," she uttered with a teasing glint in her eyes. Had they always danced like that under the light?

For a moment a picture of Ysabella wearing a wedding gown flashed before his eyes. He shook his head. No, it couldn't be. She was Ysabella Everard. No one else. He ought not to let her put such foolish pictures in his mind. Her green eyes glimmered with the familiar wickedness he was accustomed to, but tonight the effects were quite different. He did not like this at all. Not when he had more important things to deal with.

"Go inside, little one," he bit out the last two words rather too loud than necessary, reminding himself who he was facing. This was the woman who went to such extent to claim she was the woman he fell in love in letters. She couldn't be Lady Weis. Lady Weis was a woman—Ysabella Everard was a childish chit.

A provocative, childish chit, the tiniest voice in his mind said.

Mentally shaking his head from the thought, he watched when she gave him a short curtsy, wearing naught but a coat over her night dress. He frowned when she turned and started walking to the side of the estate and not the front doors.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Back to my chambers, of course," she said over her shoulder.

"And where do you suppose the door is?" he asked, following her, his steps hesitant.

"The window," she replied.

"The what?"

"I do not intend to use the door, my lord," she said, turning around to face him, walking backward. Her black hair was in disarray, escaped strays swinging beside her face, the light from the lamps above her giving her a soft glow. At that moment she was a picture of someone he'd... he did not continue the thought as she added, "I'll use the window." She turned on her heels and continued walking.

He followed her to the back of the house and into the garden.

"You do not have to come, you know," she said, tone amused.

"Yes," was his murmured reply, but he found himself following her still until they reached a wall with a rope hanging from one of the windows on the second landing. The ropes had knots along its length to assist a climb, but how in the bloody hell could she climb up there alone? "How do you intend to do it?" he asked, unsure of her ability.

"I am used to climbing on things, if you must know. I have quite the experience," she said with confidence, reaching for the rope, pulling at it to test its strength. "The first time we tried to climb on something, it was a tree in the woods. We were with Ben and Agatha who was our governess then."

"As I have been told, that event did not end very well for you and your sister," he pointed out.

"Benedict," she corrected. "It did not end well with Benedict. He did acquire an injury in his attempt to save us."

Wakefield scoffed in disbelief when she chuckled in mirth at the memory.

"Well," she said, her voice now a loud whisper in an attempt to be quiet, "there was also the time when Emma and I helped Tori climb down from her own window using one of her father's giant stone statues. That was before she married Levi."

"I do not recall you and your sister climbing up to her bedroom window. Levi told me you waited on the ground."

"Well, we would have climbed if we needed to," she reasoned, tugging at the rope once more.

"By the look of the rope, I have to believe that you have used this before tonight."

"Of course!" she hissed with a laugh, her emerald green eyes filled with wickedness and mirth altogether. "Do you truly think yourself too great for me to prepare this rope to escape my chamber and see you? Of course not, my lord." Her silent chuckle made his lips twitch. It was quite contagious that he momentarily forgot the craziness of this night. "Emma and I used to go out and go to the woods in a night like this one. We would spend many hours there talking and gazing up at the sky through the holes. The sky is quite spectacular at night, do you know?"

He shook his head. He had never really thought of looking at the sky at night.

She made a short jump and Wakefield found his own arms outstretched, at the ready should she fall. Her feet were clinging against the wall which he now discovered she'd use to walk her way up to the window. He caught a glimpse of her drawers but before he could scold her, he chose to ignore it, knowing she'd only make an issue out of it.

"You see, if the clouds are not about, the stars look amazing," she said as she began to climb higher.

"And it would also be amazing if you stop talking and focus on climbing," he said, walking closer as she ascended up the wall.

She smiled down at him as she clung to the rope. "Good night, my lord."

He did not reply, merely watched as she succeeded in reaching the window which was already open. He did not realize he had been holding his breath until she managed to climb into her bedchamber and poked half of her body out to wave him good night.

He shook his head and turned to walk back to his carriage.

Ysabella Everard was not Lady Weis. Yet she was not merely a child, she was also insane!

*****

The very next day, Ysabella told Emma that she had told Wakefield the truth.

"But he does not believe me, of course," she said over breakfast. Their mother had just exited the room, leaving the two of them alone.

Her sister shook her head. "It is what I have been trying to tell you, Ysa. It is either he will be furious or not believe you. It seems it is the latter."

"Well, no matter," she said with a shrug. "He can no longer blame me for fooling him further. I did try to tell him."

"Did you insist?"

"Quite."

"You ought to have insisted, offered proof."

"He chose not to believe me the very moment I confessed. Why would I offer proof?"

"Because you would want him to believe you," Emma uttered wryly, "unless you do not truly and fully want him to."

"Well, I was angry. He could not see me as Lady Weis! I want him to believe me because I said so. I do not wish to grovel and present proof. I was not in court to do so, you know."

Her sister gave her an assessing look. "You were also angry because of something else."

"Well, yes. He treated my escapade last night with patience. He thought it was merely a part of my game. He did not even take me seriously."

"You could not blame the man, Ysabella. He sees you as a sister and his reaction would have been the same as our brothers." Emma shook her head once again. "Well, at the very least you told him. I merely wish you would provide him with proof should he seriously reconsider your claim and ask for it."

"If he would come around, that is," Ysabella said, "which I am not willing to wait for. I'd rather he notice me as Ysabella Everard, not as Lady Weis. Now that I have made my confession, I could put the matter of Lady Weis aside. It is his fault he did not believe me."

"You and Lady Weis are one and the same," Emma pointedly retorted.

"Not entirely. She is but a parcel of my entirety."

"I no longer wish to have this conversation. It makes my head ache more than it already does."

Moments later, as they were both finishing their food, a large presence stormed inside the room. Ysabella and Emma snapped their heads to find Maxwell, his face looking tired and quite still foxed. His hair was a mess and his chin showed fresh stubbles. It seemed as though he woke up after a night at Grey's and remembered something important and now he was here. Mrs. Beagle was standing beside his foot, looking up at him. The picture of him and the feline looked both menacing and funny at the same time.

Maxwell looked at the two of them and said to Ysabella, "You. To the library. Now."

Ysabella stared at Emma when Maxwell left the room without further word, Mrs. Beagle following behind him like a small, black shadow. "What is it about?"

"How would I know?" Emma asked. "Are you certain no one else saw you when you saw Wakefield?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, go and see what he wants."

Ysabella knew something big was about to happen when she left Emma in the dining room to find Maxwell standing still in the middle of the library. Beside him was Mrs. Beagle, licking on her paw.

"Sit," he ordered, pointing at the chaise near the window.

Ysabella did as he asked. Mrs. Beagle bounded on her lap and she absently caressed the cat as she stared up at her brother expectantly. His hair was down and he raked his fingers through it before he asked, "Why have you not presented yourself to Wakefield yet?"

"Presented myself?" she asked, mastering an innocent tone, but deep inside her heart was already leaping to her throat.

Maxwell tilted his head to the side, an indication that he knew she knew what he was trying to say. Apart from Benedict, Maxwell was the only brother who could scare her this way.

"That you are Lady Weis, Ysabella," he said in a voice so certain.

Ysabella gulped.

"Why? Why did you do it?" Maxwell demanded.

Sweet Mr. Jones! How did he know?