There’s something different about her voice and it takes me a moment or two to put my finger on it. It’s because she actually means it.
Progress.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The following morning, I wake up to my alarm after the best night’s sleep I can ever remember having. The mattress is so comfortable and I feel buried in the mountain of pillows, which are all so squishy. It takes a lot of willpower not to roll over and go back to sleep. But I force myself to sit up, stretching and yawning widely. I look around the room and scrunch up my face in excitement. I can’t believe I’m waking up at Dashwell Hall.
I swing my legs out of bed, skip across the room, and try to throw open the curtains elegantly, like a Regency heroine might have done when she woke up in a beautiful house after an eventful ball the night before.
But the curtains are actually quite heavy, so when I fling my arms outward, the rings at the top only nudge along a little and I sort of stumble off balance. OK, so not that elegant, but never mind. Pushing the curtains apart with a little more force, I let the sunlight pour into the room.
“Agh!” I yelp, shielding my eyes. Again, not so elegant.
I squint through the window, getting used to the brightness. It’s a remarkably sunny day, one of those crisp, cold mornings, blue skies stretching over the countryside. I smile, hugging myself as I enjoy the view. I spot some movement and see a figure jogging down the lawn, waving up at me. I press my forehead to the glass. It’s Tom getting back from an early-morning run.
Oh, God. I’ve just been staring at him, smiling to myself like a total CREEP! In my old McFly 2005 tour T-shirt!
“I wasn’t smiling at you!” I say, waving back at him and trying to explain myself even though the window is closed. “I was smiling at the view. Which you happened to be in.”
He looks puzzled, slowing down.
“I said, I wasn’t smiling at you,” I repeat, exaggerating my lip movements so he can see what I’m saying. “I was smiling at the view!”
“What?” he mouths, stopping now and putting his hands on his hips as he catches his breath.
Oh, no. What have I done?
“Never mind!”
He laughs, looking more confused than ever. Panicking, I duck under the windowsill, and hope he’ll be so tired from his run he’ll forget what just happened. I’m flooded with more embarrassment when I consider that ducking under the window is quite an odd thing to do, and it would have been better if I’d strolled away nonchalantly.
Worried he might still be outside looking up at the window, I crawl along the floor to the bathroom, closing the door and turning on the shower. What is it about this guy that turns me into such a clown? I’ve been around good-looking men I fancy before and I’ve been able to act like a socially capable person.
I’m relieved I didn’t sit next to him at dinner last night. As suspected, Georgia made sure she had that privilege.
Tom glanced at me, with “Help!” in his eyes, and I’d hidden my smile as she took her place beside him.
As much as I’d have liked to pay attention to Tom and his strangely attractive arms all evening, my main concern was Cordelia and how she would cope with Annabel. After our conversation outside, I felt instinctively protective of her. I couldn’texplain it. Cordelia had been horrible to me. She’d gone out of her way to make me quit my job and leave her alone. I should have been rejoicing that she was getting a taste of her own medicine. But something got to me about the Annabel situation. Maybe it was seeing Cordelia not in control of a situation for once, revealing her vulnerability as this former friend took constant shots at her. The odd thing is that Cordelia lets her do it. It’s as though Annabel has some strange power over her.
More than once I noticed Lady Meade watching her daughter with concern, distracted while the Earl of Derrington warbled on about his landscaper redoing the grounds for Annabel’s wedding. Cordelia barely spoke during dinner and Jonathan took the reins, asking Annabel questions and showing genuine interest, charming as ever. I managed to remain out of focus for most of the meal, and there was only one moment when Annabel showed interest in Cordelia’s and my friendship.
“It’s odd,” she said, picking at her dauphinoise potatoes. “I’ve never heard of you before now and here you are, a bridesmaid. How long have you and Cordelia been close?”
“A couple of years,” I replied vaguely.
“And this is your first visit to Dashwell?”
“Yes. Do your family spend a lot of time here?”
“We used to,” she replied, putting down her fork and swirling the red wine in her glass. “Our estate isn’t too far. But we’re in the country so rarely—our lives revolve around London.”
“Hmm,” I replied, sipping my wine.
“It’s fascinating that I haven’t heard of you,” she added, watching me curiously. “I had no idea you existed. You’re quite the mystery.”
“Not at all.” I shrugged. “I don’t go out much.”
“What do you do?”
