‘I love it,’ I repeat. ‘You’re a man ofmanytalents.’
I don’t mean it to sound sexual, but Dain blushes anyway and pulls at his collar. He’s wearing a white shirt buttoned up to the neck along with his black waistcoat and looks like a hot vicar.
‘Can I keep it?’
‘Of course, I drew it for you. It’s Miss Lizzy,’ he says. He’s gazing at me with a fond look in his eye, and nowI’mblushing, also feeling a little like I might swoon onto the red velvet couch in front of the fireplace and require smelling salts (knowing Dain, he probably has some on standby). So much for me not being a virginal young lady.
I float off to bed that night with the envelope pressed to my chest and put it under my pillow, along with the first note he wrote me, so I can look at it again tomorrow morning.
I’m starting to think Dain has been readingThe Victorian Man’s Guide to Wooing a Womanand is faithfully following it to the letter. There’s definitely something to be said for the old-fashioned approach to winning a girl’s heart.
But it’s not only the thoughtful gifts and the drawing. It’s him—I’ve been falling, in increments, ever since we met. His kindness, his intelligence, all his funny ideas and little ways. But I always knew this was going to happen. I knew it standing there on the landing in the parsonage when he was earnestly telling me about Emily Brontë’s poetry. His aura is a powerful spell, dark as night and full of stars, and I’m powerless to resist.
Chapter 21
Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you?
Do you think I am an automaton?—a machine without feelings?
(Charlotte Brontë,Jane Eyre)
The smash on the flagstone startles me out of my reverie. I swivel at the noise and look down. My elbow has knocked a glass off the draining board. It’s now in shards all over the floor.
Shit.
I’ve been fantasising about Dain, as per usual, and it’s making me clumsy.
The object of my desire comes running in. ‘What was that? Oh! Don’t move, Lizzy. You might cut yourself.’
He crouches at my feet and starts sweeping up the fragments around my ankles with a dustpan and brush.
‘Sorry, I’ll buy you another one,’ I say guiltily. I need to focus. I’ve been in a dreamworld the last couple of days, ever since he gave me that drawing.
Dain stands and puts the dustpan on the table.
‘No bother,’ he says softly. ‘Are you hurt?’
He grabs my wet hand and inspects my pruney fingers closely, and I pull it away, laughing. ‘It was my elbow, not my hand!’
‘Do I need to put a plaster on that?’
‘No, silly.’
I take a step sideways, but he’s standing so close to me that I accidentally tread on his foot.
‘Ow!’
‘Sorry.’ I pull an apologetic face.
‘No, you’re not.’
‘I am.’ Lazily, I flick watery suds at him; and they wet his round-collared shirt, which makes me want to giggle. He’s always so formally dressed lately it’s driving me to distraction. I want to ruffle his feathers, see him looking at me dazed with lust like he was in the alcove. Dain doesn’t move, and I flick more water on his shirt around the nipple area, turning it a nice shade of see-through. Mmmm.
His eyes narrow, seeing me perv at his chest. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all, Mr Vicar,’ I say flirtatiously.
He snorts. ‘Vicar!’
