By Mary Balogh
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Extra info for A Matter of Class
She asked. "I will if you wish. " He turned his head to look at her. She really was a pretty little thing. At this moment she was all large, wistful blue eyes. "Anna," he said, and then felt very* foolish because he had nothing else to say. He had forgotten that he used to call her that because Annabelle seemed altogether too girly. She smiled. "You are the only person who has ever called me that,'' she said. "Do you remember the day I climbed up the tree and must have taken an hour or more to climb down again?
I already do," he said. " They were back at the oak tree. She stopped walking and leaned back against it. " "And you," he said. " He stood a couple of feet from her and did just that, letting his eyes roam over her from head to toe. "You grew after all,” he said, and he smiled his slightly lopsided smile—it was gorgeously attractive—and she knew he did not just mean that she had grown upward. She had been a late developer. Even at fourteen she had still looked like a beanpole. " "I certainly have been kissed," she said, bristling.
For the merest moment she had sucked on his tongue. She was staring at him, with parted lips and hands balled into fists at her sides. She would be fortunate if her fan did not snap in two. "You had better run along," he said, "looking like a brave, smiling martyr. On second thought you had better not run. A lady never runs, does she? " She turned without a word and walked back into the ballroom, her steps unhurried, her posture perfect. He would wager half a fortune she was smiling and looking coolly about her, avoiding eye contact with no one.
A Matter of Class by Mary Balogh