PS I’m not a virgin.
Goodness.
A full glass of red wine was shoved into Tamsyn’s hand.
“We are nitterwits,” bemoaned Lowdy.
“I’m not sure that’s a word, but I wouldn’t disagree. How much wine have you had?”
Fingers dangled, flapping. Six of them.
“Four.” Lowdy hiccupped.
Bottles or glasses? Tamsyn mused. “What are we to do, Lowdy? I love the marquess but he only ever said he cared for me.”
“What a coincidence!” Her companion collapsed back on the bed, arms and legs spread like a flailing mermaid. “Oli told me he loved me, but I said I only cared for him, which was a bundle of walloping fibble-fable, so therefore we must all love each other hugely.”
There was sense in there somewhere.
“So what are we to do?”
Joining Lowdy in sprawling over the bed and sheets of paper, her mind churned but only one answer came forth.
“London,” they answered simultaneously. “We’ll go to London.”
They turned to each other, eyes wide. “Those flashy London types won’t know what’s struck them,” puffed Lowdy, mouth agape.
Nothing but pungent wine fumes struck Tamsyn but hopefully they would dissipate by London.
Tamsyn’s heart quaked. What if he didn’t wish to see her? What if he laughed? What if he had another lady on his arm?
Yet she vowed not to be weak because maybe Jack needed for her to be strong, needed someone to say the words first, to show him love.
Father had been right: she’d let him go with nary a whimper, acted nonchalant as though she’d felt nothing. Hiding once more.
Nitterwit.
“You must wear lemon, Lowdy.”
Frantic nodding. “And you must wear blue?”
“In that case, we should go shopping.”
“Can we go tomorrow. I’m feeling ever so slightly wimbly-wambly.” And a groan emerged.
But plans and ideas formulated in Tamsyn’s mind, causing her head to spin, pulse to pound.
Could she be so bold? Could she bare her heart?
Yes, of course, she could.
She knew exactly what she was going to do about the Marquess of Winterbourne.
Chapter Thirty-one
You can lead a Cornishman but he wa’ent be drove.
The sky that peeked between London clouds matched Tamsyn’s eyes as she’d shuddered in his arms. Coaches trundled by, rich shiny walnuts that resembled her tumbling locks, and a hawker sold red apples, the colour of her freshly kissed lips.
