Falling in Love With English Boys by Melissa Jensen

Author:Melissa Jensen
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 014241851X
Publisher: Speak
Published: 2010-01-01T07:00:00+00:00

5 June

I do not understand gentlemen at all!

I confess, I was in a Mood after Nicholas left. I sat at my dressing table and glared into the mirror. What did I see?

A lot of dark brown hair that absolutely refuses to do what I wish it to do. I frequently think of cropping it all off.

A pretty face that I do not care to study too long or closely, as I inevitably find a spot in a place not immediately obvious to me, yet visible to everyone else.

Brown eyes. They are a good shape, thickly lashed, bright. I wish they were blue. I must remember to use Mama’s face cream. I am a bit dry around the eyes.

I was not in good cheer as I dressed for the evening. So, of course, I spilled tea on my yellow dress, shouted at Becky when she could not make the pins stay in my hair, and poked so at the spot in the corner of my nose that it grew and turned a brilliant red.

I did apologise to Becky and felt better for it.

It was merely a party. The person I cared most for would not be there to see me not looking my best. So off I went to the Spensers very late and cross in my white dress, with my disastrous hair and mountainous spot. What did I care?

Thomas Baker was standing by the fireplace.

His eyes met mine, he smiled, and I completely forgot the spot.

We reached each other in the centre of the room. “Cruel lady,” he scolded, hand over his heart. “I had all but lost hope that you would come.”

“As long as you do not lose all hope,” I countered, “I do not mind that you have suffered a little. I am not the one who flitted off to the country.”

“No, Miss Percival, you are most constant.”

We danced. “The weather was appalling,” he told me. “Mud everywhere. So I returned.”

He did not mention the entertainments or the company. I knew, from Henrietta Quinn, who had been invited but did not attend, that there had been seven ladies and four gentlemen. One of the ladies was Miss Northrop. I was dying of curiosity. Was everyone there very wealthy and fashionable and lively? Did Miss Northrop play nicely with the others? Did she wear ermine and diamonds to breakfast? Did she flirt with him?

I asked none of it, of course.

After our second dance, when there could be no other without people talking (and really, why should I mind if they linked my name closely with his?), I feared the evening would become dull. Then he asked, quietly. “Shall we stroll in the garden?”

Yes. Oh yes, please.

Being London, the gardens were no more than forty paces square. How I longed for Percy’s Vale, with its acres upon acres of Italian terraces and the yew maze and the pine groves. But Thomas tucked my arm in his, and we strolled.

“You promised when last we met to tell me what I missed in my absence.

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