Royally Matched
Page 69
But I don’t let it show. I cross my arms.
“The fat orange cat, you mean?”
The corner of his mouth kicks into a smirk. “No. From Wuthering Heights.”
“Ah, I see. Go on.”
“My question is, why didn’t someone shoot the bastard? Were guns not around in that time period?”
My head shakes on its own. What a ridiculous question! “No, firearms were used, but . . .”
“Then someone should have definitely shot Heathcliff in the arse. He was a thoughtless, abusive, mean son of a bitch.”
“Some feel his one good quality is his love for Catherine. That’s what redeems him.”
Henry shakes his head, his expression sober. “He didn’t deserve her.”
“Well,” I lift a shoulder, “Catherine wasn’t exactly a saint either. And I’m sure the debate over Heathcliff’s worthiness will continue for as long as people read the book. Thank you.”
I turn to the rest of the room. “Other questions?”
Aaaaand up goes his hand. Quick and strong and, again, the only one raised.
I don’t try fighting it this time, but sigh dramatically. “Yes?”
“It’s about Mr. Darcy. He’s kind of a snob—he’s got a stick up his arse. A big one.”
My own eyebrows rise above my glasses. “You’ve got a thing for arses today, don’t you?”
He chuckles, totally unashamed. ““Well . . . tight bottoms are a few of my favorite things.”
And he can still make me blush like no one else.
“But that’s a discussion for another time. My point is, Mr. Darcy is a prat—I don’t get it.”
“Well, if you had read the book—”
“I did read the book.” His green eyes watch me intensely. “I read all of them.”
And butterflies go berserk in my stomach.
“Oh.”
I shake out of my stupor, and refocus. “Well, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet are two sides of the same coin. He is painfully reserved and she is uninhibited but they both make their assumptions and end up getting it wrong. In the end, they must put aside their prejudices and their pride and be honest with themselves and each other to make it right.”
He gazes at me, soft and gentle, like he never wants to stop.
“Hence the title, I guess.”
“Yes.” I nod.
He rubs his knuckles against his jaw. “Now about Colonel Brandon from Sense and Sensibility.”
And I smack my hands down on the podium. “No. You can say what you want about Darcy or bloody Heathcliff and hell, you can tear into every Dickens hero written—I never liked any of them. But you will not besmirch Colonel Brandon! I won’t allow it.”
Henry finds my outburst amusing. “I’m not going to besmirch him. I like Colonel Brandon.”
“Then what is your question?”
Slowly, stealthily, he drifts forward up the aisle.
“The way I see it, Marianne messed up. Brandon was there all along, but she let herself be distracted by the wrong things. It wasn’t written on the page, but I’m guessing she had to apologize and he had to forgive her.”
My throat is dry and my voice is like sand. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
Closer and closer he comes.
“My question is, if their roles had been different—if Marianne had been the man and Brandon the woman—do you think she would have forgiven him? Taken another chance on him, trusted that this time, he wouldn’t mess it up?”
My head swims the nearer he gets.
“I . . . I’m not—”
“I mean, if he completely threw himself into the groveling. Pulled off a stupendous grand gesture, something really public and humiliating.”
He’s right in front of me now. Close enough for me to touch him.
“I don’t think she’d like that, the public part,” I say softly. “She’s still a bit . . . shy.”
Henry nods, and his voice is low and raw and desperate.
“Then what if he just stood in front of her and said, ‘I’m sorry. And I miss you. I want to be a better man for you and because I love you so much, I actually believe I can be.’ Do you think she’d give him a chance then?”
My eyes go blurry and I blink because I want to see him clearly. “I think . . . I think that could work.”
Henry smiles, and it feels like my heart is flying out of my chest.
“Good.”
I nod, crying and grinning at the same time.
Then I hear Willard on the sidelines: “Are we supposed to keep pretending they’re actually talking about the book?”
“Wait,” Annie responds, “they’re not talking about the book?”
Willard pats Annie’s head. “You’re so pretty.”
We’re stuck in the library for almost an hour after my presentation. As soon as one person recognizes Henry, the news spreads like wildfire and everyone wants to meet him. Most of the people here are visitors to Castlebrook; I don’t think the regulars would be so swept up in the celebrity of a visiting prince.
Security does their best to control the crowd and Henry is gracious, but I can tell he’s impatient. He keeps looking over at me, almost to assure himself I haven’t run off.
Though it’s only a short distance to my flat, James drives us there. When they first close the door behind us, and it’s just Henry and me in the backseat, he tells me fervently, “I’m so proud of you. You were absolutely brilliant up there.”
“The fat orange cat, you mean?”
The corner of his mouth kicks into a smirk. “No. From Wuthering Heights.”
“Ah, I see. Go on.”
“My question is, why didn’t someone shoot the bastard? Were guns not around in that time period?”
My head shakes on its own. What a ridiculous question! “No, firearms were used, but . . .”
“Then someone should have definitely shot Heathcliff in the arse. He was a thoughtless, abusive, mean son of a bitch.”
“Some feel his one good quality is his love for Catherine. That’s what redeems him.”
Henry shakes his head, his expression sober. “He didn’t deserve her.”
“Well,” I lift a shoulder, “Catherine wasn’t exactly a saint either. And I’m sure the debate over Heathcliff’s worthiness will continue for as long as people read the book. Thank you.”
I turn to the rest of the room. “Other questions?”
Aaaaand up goes his hand. Quick and strong and, again, the only one raised.
I don’t try fighting it this time, but sigh dramatically. “Yes?”
“It’s about Mr. Darcy. He’s kind of a snob—he’s got a stick up his arse. A big one.”
My own eyebrows rise above my glasses. “You’ve got a thing for arses today, don’t you?”
He chuckles, totally unashamed. ““Well . . . tight bottoms are a few of my favorite things.”
And he can still make me blush like no one else.
“But that’s a discussion for another time. My point is, Mr. Darcy is a prat—I don’t get it.”
“Well, if you had read the book—”
“I did read the book.” His green eyes watch me intensely. “I read all of them.”
And butterflies go berserk in my stomach.
“Oh.”
I shake out of my stupor, and refocus. “Well, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet are two sides of the same coin. He is painfully reserved and she is uninhibited but they both make their assumptions and end up getting it wrong. In the end, they must put aside their prejudices and their pride and be honest with themselves and each other to make it right.”
He gazes at me, soft and gentle, like he never wants to stop.
“Hence the title, I guess.”
“Yes.” I nod.
He rubs his knuckles against his jaw. “Now about Colonel Brandon from Sense and Sensibility.”
And I smack my hands down on the podium. “No. You can say what you want about Darcy or bloody Heathcliff and hell, you can tear into every Dickens hero written—I never liked any of them. But you will not besmirch Colonel Brandon! I won’t allow it.”
Henry finds my outburst amusing. “I’m not going to besmirch him. I like Colonel Brandon.”
“Then what is your question?”
Slowly, stealthily, he drifts forward up the aisle.
“The way I see it, Marianne messed up. Brandon was there all along, but she let herself be distracted by the wrong things. It wasn’t written on the page, but I’m guessing she had to apologize and he had to forgive her.”
My throat is dry and my voice is like sand. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
Closer and closer he comes.
“My question is, if their roles had been different—if Marianne had been the man and Brandon the woman—do you think she would have forgiven him? Taken another chance on him, trusted that this time, he wouldn’t mess it up?”
My head swims the nearer he gets.
“I . . . I’m not—”
“I mean, if he completely threw himself into the groveling. Pulled off a stupendous grand gesture, something really public and humiliating.”
He’s right in front of me now. Close enough for me to touch him.
“I don’t think she’d like that, the public part,” I say softly. “She’s still a bit . . . shy.”
Henry nods, and his voice is low and raw and desperate.
“Then what if he just stood in front of her and said, ‘I’m sorry. And I miss you. I want to be a better man for you and because I love you so much, I actually believe I can be.’ Do you think she’d give him a chance then?”
My eyes go blurry and I blink because I want to see him clearly. “I think . . . I think that could work.”
Henry smiles, and it feels like my heart is flying out of my chest.
“Good.”
I nod, crying and grinning at the same time.
Then I hear Willard on the sidelines: “Are we supposed to keep pretending they’re actually talking about the book?”
“Wait,” Annie responds, “they’re not talking about the book?”
Willard pats Annie’s head. “You’re so pretty.”
We’re stuck in the library for almost an hour after my presentation. As soon as one person recognizes Henry, the news spreads like wildfire and everyone wants to meet him. Most of the people here are visitors to Castlebrook; I don’t think the regulars would be so swept up in the celebrity of a visiting prince.
Security does their best to control the crowd and Henry is gracious, but I can tell he’s impatient. He keeps looking over at me, almost to assure himself I haven’t run off.
Though it’s only a short distance to my flat, James drives us there. When they first close the door behind us, and it’s just Henry and me in the backseat, he tells me fervently, “I’m so proud of you. You were absolutely brilliant up there.”
