breath."
"Only because I hadn't really
looked
at Henry," replied Mary Ellen defensively.
"And six months before that, you thought Jack Sanders was the handsomest boy in the world and
he
took your breath away," Alexandra continued, her brows raised in amusement.
"But only because I hadn't really looked at George and Henry," replied Mary Ellen, genuinely bewildered by Alexandra's obvious amusement.
"I think," Alexandra teased, "your difficulty with breathing is the result of spending too much time sitting in one place, bent over romantic novels. I think they're ruining your eyesight and making every young man you see seem like a handsome, romantic hero."
Mary Ellen opened her mouth to vehemently protest this slur against her abiding love for dear Henry Beechley, then she changed her mind and smiled mischievously at Alexandra. "No doubt you are quite right," she said, sauntering over to the opposite side of the bed and sitting down. Sadly, she admitted, "Your duke is a man of barely passable looks."
"Barely passable!" Alexandra exclaimed defensively. "Why, his features are noble and manly and—and very nice!"
"Really?" Mary Ellen asked, hiding her laughter and pretending to study the tips of her short fingernails. "You don't find his hair too dark, or his face too tanned, or his eyes a very odd color?"
"They're grey! A beautiful, rare shade of grey!"
Looking directly into Alexandra's irate eyes, Mary Ellen said with sham innocence, "But surely, neither of us would go so far as to pretend he looks in any way like a Greek god?"
"Greek god, indeed," scoffed Alexandra. "I should say not."
"Then how
would
you describe him?" Mary Ellen said pointedly, unable to hide her amusement at her friend's obvious state of high infatuation any longer.
Alexandra's shoulders drooped as she admitted the truth: "Oh, Mary Ellen," she breathed in an awed, unhappy whisper, "he looks
exactly
like Michelangelo's David!"
Mary Ellen nodded sagely. "You're in love with him. Don't deny it. It's written all over your face when you speak of him. Now tell me," she said eagerly, scooting forward and peering at Alexandra closely, "what does it feel like to you—loving a man, I mean?"
"Well," Alexandra said, warming to her subject despite her strongest wish to be sensible, "it's the queerest sort of feeling, but exciting too. When I see him in the hall, I feel rather like I used to feel when I saw my papa's carriage draw up in the drive—you know, happy, but worried that I look a fright, and sad too, because I'm afraid he'll leave if I'm not amusing and just right, and then I'll lose him."
So eager was she to hear more about being in love that Mary Ellen spoke without thinking. "Don't be silly. How can he possible leave you if you are married to him?"
"Exactly like my papa left my mama."
Sympathy flickered in Mary Ellen's green eyes, but she brightened almost immediately. "Never mind about that. It is all in the past after all, and besides, in four more days you'll be eighteen and that definitely makes you a woman—"
"I don't feel like a woman!" Alexandra said miserably, finally putting into words all that had been worrying her since she first met the man who had stolen her heart within an hour after he first looked at her. "Mary Ellen, I don't know what to
say
to him. I was never the least bit interested in boys and now, when he's near, I haven't a clue what to say or do. Either I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind—and make a complete cake of myself—or else I lose my wits entirely and stand there like a piece of mutton. What should I do?" she implored.
Mary Ellen's eyes shone with pride. Alexandra was the acknowledged scholar of the village, but no one thought she was pretty. Mary Ellen, on the other hand, was the acknowledged village beauty, but no one thought she housed a brain between her ears. In fact, her own dear papa consistently called her his "lovely little corkbrain."
"What do you discuss with the boys who come
"Only because I hadn't really
looked
at Henry," replied Mary Ellen defensively.
"And six months before that, you thought Jack Sanders was the handsomest boy in the world and
he
took your breath away," Alexandra continued, her brows raised in amusement.
"But only because I hadn't really looked at George and Henry," replied Mary Ellen, genuinely bewildered by Alexandra's obvious amusement.
"I think," Alexandra teased, "your difficulty with breathing is the result of spending too much time sitting in one place, bent over romantic novels. I think they're ruining your eyesight and making every young man you see seem like a handsome, romantic hero."
Mary Ellen opened her mouth to vehemently protest this slur against her abiding love for dear Henry Beechley, then she changed her mind and smiled mischievously at Alexandra. "No doubt you are quite right," she said, sauntering over to the opposite side of the bed and sitting down. Sadly, she admitted, "Your duke is a man of barely passable looks."
"Barely passable!" Alexandra exclaimed defensively. "Why, his features are noble and manly and—and very nice!"
"Really?" Mary Ellen asked, hiding her laughter and pretending to study the tips of her short fingernails. "You don't find his hair too dark, or his face too tanned, or his eyes a very odd color?"
"They're grey! A beautiful, rare shade of grey!"
Looking directly into Alexandra's irate eyes, Mary Ellen said with sham innocence, "But surely, neither of us would go so far as to pretend he looks in any way like a Greek god?"
"Greek god, indeed," scoffed Alexandra. "I should say not."
"Then how
would
you describe him?" Mary Ellen said pointedly, unable to hide her amusement at her friend's obvious state of high infatuation any longer.
Alexandra's shoulders drooped as she admitted the truth: "Oh, Mary Ellen," she breathed in an awed, unhappy whisper, "he looks
exactly
like Michelangelo's David!"
Mary Ellen nodded sagely. "You're in love with him. Don't deny it. It's written all over your face when you speak of him. Now tell me," she said eagerly, scooting forward and peering at Alexandra closely, "what does it feel like to you—loving a man, I mean?"
"Well," Alexandra said, warming to her subject despite her strongest wish to be sensible, "it's the queerest sort of feeling, but exciting too. When I see him in the hall, I feel rather like I used to feel when I saw my papa's carriage draw up in the drive—you know, happy, but worried that I look a fright, and sad too, because I'm afraid he'll leave if I'm not amusing and just right, and then I'll lose him."
So eager was she to hear more about being in love that Mary Ellen spoke without thinking. "Don't be silly. How can he possible leave you if you are married to him?"
"Exactly like my papa left my mama."
Sympathy flickered in Mary Ellen's green eyes, but she brightened almost immediately. "Never mind about that. It is all in the past after all, and besides, in four more days you'll be eighteen and that definitely makes you a woman—"
"I don't feel like a woman!" Alexandra said miserably, finally putting into words all that had been worrying her since she first met the man who had stolen her heart within an hour after he first looked at her. "Mary Ellen, I don't know what to
say
to him. I was never the least bit interested in boys and now, when he's near, I haven't a clue what to say or do. Either I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind—and make a complete cake of myself—or else I lose my wits entirely and stand there like a piece of mutton. What should I do?" she implored.
Mary Ellen's eyes shone with pride. Alexandra was the acknowledged scholar of the village, but no one thought she was pretty. Mary Ellen, on the other hand, was the acknowledged village beauty, but no one thought she housed a brain between her ears. In fact, her own dear papa consistently called her his "lovely little corkbrain."
"What do you discuss with the boys who come
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