“What if you were more specific? Maybe mention the color of his eyes.”
“Yes,” Frances agreed with an enthusiastic nod. “Something about the blue of his eyes matching the sky.”
Harriet frowned. “His eyes are hazel. But I believe Mr. Sinclair’s eyes are blue.” Did Frances admire him as well? For a moment during the game, Harriet thought she might.
“Oh. Yes, of course.” She tapped the pen with a finger. “To what can I compare hazel?”
His eyes weren’t exactly hazel. They were a mix of green and brown with gold flecks. They reminded Harriet of moss in the forest. Then there were his long lashes. Who knew that a man’s lashes would be something to admire?
“Tea, perhaps?” Frances asked as she turned to look at Harriet.
“I’d love some,” Harriet agreed, realizing she’d lost track of the conversation.
Frances frowned. “I meant the color of Viscount Garland’s eyes.”
“Oh. Of course.” She felt the heat in her cheeks and hoped Frances didn’t notice. “That might be too brown, don’t you think?”
“You’re right. Do you have a suggestion?”
It was selfish of her not to offer the moss idea, but she couldn’t. That was hers. “What about an autumn leaf just changing its color?”
“Brilliant.” Frances wrote that down. “What else?”
“Perhaps something about his personality as well? You mentioned his kindness.”
“And his humor,” Frances added as if determined to prove she truly did know him.
“Good idea.” Harriet waited, wanting her friend to think of at least a few of her own words.
Frances jotted more down then once again looked at Harriet. “I would like to mention his shoulders.”
“What about them?” How broad they were? How she longed to run her hands over them and touch them rather than only admire them from a distance?
“They’re very admirable.”
“Can you be more specific?” Frustration welled inside her once again, and it was all she could do to not march over to the desk and take the pen and paper to write a message herself.
Yet several minutes passed with Frances saying nothing. “Broad, perhaps?” Harriet suggested at last, wanting the task to be done.
“Yes. That’s it.”
Frances finished the message and handed it to Harriet to read. The words didn’t flow well together. Her hesitation must’ve shown on her face for Frances asked, “What is it?”
“Well, it’s fine, really. It just doesn’t read smoothly.”
Frances jerked to her feet to read over Harriet’s shoulder. “Oh, you’re right. It sounds terrible.”
“Not at all.” One look at Frances’ hopeful expression had Harriet reading it again. “Perhaps if we just changed a few words...”
“Any suggestions you have would be welcome.” Frances sat at the desk again and pulled out a fresh piece of paper. “How shall I say it?”
It took more time than Harriet would’ve liked, but at last, Frances had written a message that would hopefully touch Joseph’s emotions. How terrible that the idea put a lump in Harriet’s throat.
Frances folded the paper carefully only to pause. “I should scent it with some of my perfume.”
Harriet nodded, her stomach sinking. That would more than likely give Joseph a clue as to her identity. Frances always wore the same flowery scent. Harriet hadn’t brought any perfume with her.
What if he realized who it was? Then what? Given that he had an investment idea to propose to Mr. Melbourne, he might be very excited to learn that the man’s daughter was attracted to him.