I unpinned my hat and put it to the side because I was so happy to hear that he thought my hair beautiful, and also because this conversation might lead to kissing.
I do like kissing, and I’ve done enough to know that hats get in the way. When Hugh tossed his hat down on the wall, I had to work hard to suppress my lips from shaping into a wholly improper smile.
I know I had already turned down his marriage proposal, but at that moment there was nothing in the world I wanted more than to kiss him.
“I only studied French because I thought we’d travel together,” Hugh said. “Squibby and Snaps in Paris.”
“You said—”
I stopped. He waited until I was forced to keep talking. “You said no more Squibby and Snaps,” I said, my voice huskier than I would have liked. I was aiming for an airy tone, but I didn’t get there.
He looked astonished. “What are you talking about?” he repeated.
“You don’t want me to call you Squibby,” I pointed out. If I had to describe it, I’d say that I swallowed “painfully,” because I did feel sick.
“Snaps.”
He reached out and tugged at a lock of hair that had fallen down onto my shoulder. Sally had wound it all up rather than shaping ringlets, so it had a disorderly curl that is particularly my own.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“You requested that I address you as Hugh,” I reminded him. “I understand, and I’m not complaining. I do know that it is improper for me to address you so informally. Especially once you marry someone else,” I added.
He moved a little closer, and that smile was lurking in the corners of his lips again.
“But what if I don’t marry anyone else?”
My mind was boggling, to be frank. I could hear my heart beating in my ears, and my entire body was tingling. I couldfeelhis gaze in my fingers. In my toes.
“Feodora is quite certain that the two of you are virtually betrothed,” I blurted out.
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you referring to the girl with sandy-colored hair?”
I didn’t believe for a moment that he wasn’t sure who Feodora was.
“I only like hair the color of a sunset,” Hugh said, wrapping the curl round his finger. “I have hardly paid attention to Feodora.”
“You danced with her numerous times. You smiled at her.” I couldn’t stop myself from brushing a shock of hair off his brow. “She didn’t have a chance.”
“Actually, she hadnochance. You see, a young woman named Snaps came along and caught my heart years ago. It is my dearest wish that Squibby and Snaps will be inscribed on my tombstone. Oursharedtombstone.”
“Is that a proposal?” I demanded. “Because it isnot romanticto talk about tombstones, Hugh.”
His leg was pressed against mine by now. To be precise, as anovelist must, I had both my hands braced on the stone wall. He still had one hip leaning on the wall, but he was as close to me as possible, and somehow when he swung round and put a hand on both sides of my hips, it felt utterly natural.
I took in a quick breath and hoped that my peppermint tooth powder was still effective. Sally has assured me that Pearl Dentifrice is de rigueur for a lady hoping for kisses.
“I’ve always loved your hair,” Hugh said, more romantically. “It isn’t the color of a tomato. It gleams like marmalade in the sunshine, with darker bits and lighter streaks.”
I wasn’t marrying a poet, which is my way of saying that I knew exactly what was happening here. I felt a wave of that crashing joy that one feels when a long orchestral piece is coming to an end.
It was the most delightful compliment that had ever been given to me. When I looked up to examine his hair more closely, planning to be equally admiring, my eyes were caught by his (as they say).
I drew in a breath and found myself without words. Which isnot normalfor me.
“If my hair was the color of butter, we would be perfect together,” Hugh said thoughtfully.
I almost—almost—blurted out that we were already perfect together, but luckily I caught back the words.
