Read Online A Matter of Class by Mary Balogh - Free Book Online

turned her head too, and he was caught gazing at her.
    She smiled.
    â€œReggie,” she said, “tell me about school. Tell me about you . I have heaps of cousins and friends and acquaintances. But I have never forgotten you.”
    It amazed him that she would so easily open herself to rejection and scorn. He would never admit such a thing to her, even if it were true. Perhaps that was one fundamental difference between males and females.
    But . . . she had never forgotten him?

    â€œSchool is jolly good fun, actually,” he said.
    â€œIs it?”
    And he found himself telling her stories of school and the masters and his fellow pupils. He chose anecdotes that would make her laugh. He told her about his travels with his parents, about the Lake District and the Scottish Highlands and Mount Snowdon and Harlech Castle in North Wales. He told her about the relatives they visited in the north of England, more numerous, it seemed, than the stars in the sky, all loud and boisterous and affectionate.
    And she told him about her governess and her studies and her visits to relatives at their various country homes and to Bath and Bristol. She had him chuckling and even laughing aloud at some of the stories she told.
    â€œOh, Reggie,” she said at last, “it is lovely to see you again. I have had more fun this afternoon than I have had all summer.”
    He could hardly say the same. He had spent a few weeks with one particularly jolly school chum in Cornwall. He had sailed and swum in the sea and climbed cliffs— up , not down—and ridden across rugged country
and played cricket and done a dozen and one other exciting things.
    â€œWill you come again?” he asked.
    â€œWill you ?”
    â€œI asked first,” he said. And then, in a burst of nobility, “But I will answer first. Yes, I will come again.”
    â€œTomorrow?” she said.
    â€œPerhaps,” he said. “If nothing else is planned, or if it does not rain, or if I feel like it.”
    â€œWell, I won’t come here ever again,” she cried, and with a wicked laugh she swung her legs over the branch and began to descend.
    She went down as though she had not a nervous bone in her body. She laughed all the way down.
    Reggie, feeling foolish and not a little annoyed, went gingerly after her. He went far faster than he would have done if he had been alone. He expelled a long, silent breath when his feet were safely on the ground.
    â€œYou must help me mount Pegasus,” she said. “If there were a mounting block here I could do it myself, but there is not.”
    She was back to aristocratic presumption. She did not ask . She told .

    â€œYes, miss, whatever you say, miss,” he said, and he pulled humbly on his forelock.
    She turned her head to look at him.
    â€œ That is what is different,” she said. “It has been puzzling me all the time. You just spoke in your lovely accent again, as you used to do. All the rest of the time you have spoken like everyone else I know. Do help me up or I will be late.”
    His implied complaint and insult had completely escaped her. All she had noticed was that he had acquired an upper-class accent.
    He cupped his hands when she had hold of the horse, and she set one small boot in them so that he could hoist her upward. She was as light as a feather.
    She looked down at him when she was settled in her sidesaddle, the reins gathered in one hand.
    â€œReggie,” she said, “I will come again. Maybe not tomorrow, but I will come.”
    And she reached down with her free hand and cupped his cheek with it.
    He felt, foolishly, as if he had been scalded. He held his hand to his cheek as he watched her ride away—a stick of a girl with proud bearing and— no hat .

    â€œHey, Anna,” he called, and he swept it up and ran to take it to her—just like a lackey.
    â€œOh, thank you, Reggie,” she said as she took it and settled it