Aimé had tried to write a reply a thousand times but every time he'd started the words just hadn't come. Yes, I still love you, this is all a misunderstanding. He knew it wouldn't do any good. If he gave Mercedes an inch he'd take a mile. The wound inflicted on him at Lord Hurst's hunting party had been Aimé's fault for telling him his plans, and it had almost cost his family a very valuable friend.
Not replying would be the kindest thing for both of them. Mercedes needed to forget about him. He folded the letter, tucking it into the breast pocket of his jacket.
He should take some of his own advice, forget about Mercedes, but he couldn't stand to get rid of the letter, not just yet.