I found one last thing gathering dust, so I thought I'd post it. Reviews are loved, and enjoy! :)

My darling Eliza,

I'm sitting here in the silence of our room, the expanse of it dark, except for my desk in the far corner. I've been staring at you, watching you sleep for the past hour, trying to come up with words that would suffice in expressing my love for you. The agate marble you gave me to commemorate our speech lessons together is resting just above my bottle of ink that I have open so I can write with my best fountain pen; gazing at it makes me smile, for it reminds me of how you complain that I am a man of nothing but words.

In spite of that, I sit here without a single word to string onto a thread of comprehension, and to make up for that, I can only write how beautiful you are, your pallid skin the perfect contrast to my own. You would say my use of that word is a negative connotation, but I could mean nothing but praise by it. You are the most perfect English rose if I ever saw one. Extraordinary, that you should go from a filthy guttersnipe on the streets, to a fine lady in a fine apartment, married to me, and the very epitome of the decorum which I tried to instill in you as best I knew how.

I'll never forget how there was absolutely no respite for me—or Pickering, for that matter—from the moment I found out you'd left me until the moment you returned. The silence in the house, save my obnoxious shouting at Mrs. Pearce, was ominous. I fully admit now that I beguiled myself so many times in hopes that it really was your voice I was hearing drifting from somewhere above or below me, depending on where in the house I was situated, only to find that it was the wind or a creaking pipe or one of the maids.

I surmise that I would have gone insane without you; where you said you could do without me, I knew I couldn't, my ego being the one thing that kept me from saying so. After all, I am a respectable man. Shouldn't you be able to read me like an open book? In all honesty, Eliza, I think that's exactly what you were doing, and you only gave me a hard time in order to give yourself the benefit of having aroused my temper just one more time.

I'm staring at the cornice bordering around the walls, and it is intricate, unique, and delicately designed by only the best of craftsmen. I can liken that to you, my love. I only find it amusing that you would only let me do what you consented, such as help you become a lady, and not whatever I demanded of you—take for instance, jumping off a cliff. I have told Mother that women would do that should I tell them to—on second thought, I could employ Zaltan Karpathy into this equation—but she just tells me that I am far too insulting and it's because of this that I remained a confirmed old bachelor for so long.

Mother insists that I can be quite rude, and you admonish me at regular intervals throughout the day for my behaviour. I suppose this would be the logical explanation for why I let the life of a married man pass me by, but in all honesty, coming from me myself, I'm sure I'm just a craven old mule whom no one knows exactly what to do with.

And concluding from that, Eliza, I can only thank you again and again for lighting up my life. Images of our life together flash before my eyes: dancing on that night you finally spoke correctly, the excursion to Brighton, dancing at the Embassy Ball, your return to 27A Wimpole Street, our marriage, our honeymoon in the south of Wales. Me playing with your long tresses and your eyes closed in pleasure while I watch your contentment in the mirror that you sit before. You rushing into my arms tonight when you returned from your outing, whispering that the Higgins twosome would become a threesome. And now, I picture myself sitting down on the edge of our bed to stroke your soft, sleeping face, and lean down to lightly brush your lips with my own.

You're always my fair guttersnipe.
Henry

Sighing tiredly, Henry Higgins fought a yawn as he closed his diary and extinguished the lamp's dim light next to him, shuffling over to their bed to do exactly as he imagined. He sat down and stared into Eliza's elegant face; swollen with sleep, it was cherubic. He took her hand in his and rubbed it with his own, and then leaned down to kiss her forehead softly, whispering, "I love you," and let his lips trail softly down to her lips.

He remained undeterred when her tired eyes fluttered open and stared up at him, small smile on her lips as his hands brushed her forehead and ran through her thick, dark hair. She reached up and stroked his face, encouraging him gently to kiss her softly again. "I love you too, Henry."

God, had he been thinking aloud? She'd heard it all.

Ende