“Mother is dead set on another three outings with Mr.Fortes before she’ll allow me to change my mind, but I’m not sure I’ll get through it,” Amalie says, nary an auburn hair or breath out of place as they tromp down the path through the budding woods.
Rosalie’s trying to listen, she is. Though this is the third such walk since the painting competition where Amalie has bemoaned her mother’s continuing interest in Mr.Fortes. Amalie decided at the tea that he wasn’t for her. But convincing her mother otherwise will take longer, and require more subterfuge and careful planning than Amalie generally likes to give any social function, let alone her own courting.
“We’ll distract you,” Rosalie promises.
Rosalie needs a real distraction herself.
Every time she tries to think about Mr.Dean, her mind fills instead with MissPine’s inquisitive gaze, her pretty blush, the way her willowy body looks in her beautiful dresses—how she might look beneath those dresses, in just her shift, or less...
Rosalie balls the handkerchief up in her fist. She can’t let herwhole life fall apart because a pretty girl came to town. Averypretty girl, who is smart, and disarming, and witty, and sly and quick and—
“Are you listening at all?”
Rosalie looks over at Amalie, startled.
“Of course,” she says immediately. “Mr.Fortes writes atrocious poetry, and you’d like me to provide cover for you to distance yourself from him on our walk with Aunt Genevieve.”
Amalie stops walking and stares at Rosalie. “I asked if you’d like me to order you a copy ofThe Shipwreck.”
“Oh,” Rosalie says, smiling guiltily at her friend. “Thank you. And I will also provide said cover on our walk.”
“All right,” Amalie says, eyeing Rosalie a bit too knowingly.
But she can’t possibly know anything about what Rosalie was thinking. Her stomach clenches guiltily as they hike back up to her house. She should be giving Amalie her full attention. She should be thinking longingly of alone time with Mr.Dean. She should be attracted to men is what she should be.
But ugh, men.
“Stay for tea?” she asks Amalie as they head for the solarium to shed their damp outer layers.
“Will there be cake?” Amalie asks seriously.
“There’s always cake when you come over,” Rosalie replies, equally serious.
Amalie cracks a smile and the two of them tromp inside.
When they come through the library doors, Rosalie longing to lie down, Amalie pulls her to a stop with a gasp. Rosalie looks up and Christopher turns from one of the shelves along the back wall.
“Surprise!” he says, his voice deeper than it was even three months ago when he left for the winter term.
“Oh, how lovely,” Amalie says happily.
But Rosalie just stares. What is her brother doing home?
“You couldn’t have written?” she asks, letting go of Amalie. Christopher rushes across the room to sweep her up in a spinning hug.
“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks as he puts her down.
“Mother’s going to kill you for arriving while she’s out,” Rosalie says, pushing him back to hold him by the shoulders. “You’ve grown again.”
While no great height, he’s gained another half inch since Yule, making him frustratingly a full head taller than Rosalie. Shehatesthat her baby brother got taller than she did by the time he was twelve.
He has a bit of stubble on his cheeks, his brown hair has gone a bit curly, and he’s lost more of his baby fat, his heart-shaped face narrower, features sharper. He looks a proper young man now. Almost dashing, just over nineteen—he’ll be the catch of the late season.
How did that happen?
“I do keep telling myself to stop, but it rarely works. MissLinet, you look lovely,” he adds.
Rosalie looks over her shoulder in time to catch Amalie’s bright blush.
