Yours Truly, Lord Silvershade

Dear Readers,

You may think me vain-or worse, hopelessly romantic--- but I fear I may have stumbled into that most inconvenient of narrative tropes: the one where a gentleman believes his lifelong friend has fallen hopelessly in love with him.

Yes, laugh if you must. I probably would, were I not the supposed object of affection.

Lady L.-who once declared all balls "an elaborate excuse for powdered men to trip over their own egos"-has recently developed an alarming enthusiasm for society. Everywhere I turn, she is there. Garden parties. Opera boxes. Even that dreadful card party hosted by Lady Mortimer and her seventeen cats. My friend, who used to dodge invitations like musket fire, now materializes with a fan in hand and a suspicious gleam in her eye.

Naturally, I have drawn the only logical conclusion: she must be in love with me.

I know. It sounds absurd. But what else could explain her sudden omnipresence? Her frequent smiles? The way she seems to find her way to my side in every room, every conversation, every- Wait. No, you're shaking your heads already, aren't you?

Blast it.

The problem, you see, is this: if she is in love with me, I haven't the faintest idea what to do. For though she is remarkable-intelligent, sharp, and more loyal than most-I have never considered her in that light. She's my best friend. That's all. Isn't it?

Ah, such are the troubles of a heart and mind at odds. I suppose there is only one way to know the truth. But as you turn these pages with knowing smiles and silent suspicions, I beg you-do not judge me too harshly. I am, after all, only a man.

Yours Truly,
Lord Silvershade

PS: 'Tis not my real name