First Impressions: A Novel of Old Books, Unexpected Love, and Jane Austen by Charlie Lovett Read Free Book Online Page B

Now—trifle?”
    He held a spoonful of trifle over Eric’s bowl and Sophie feared that if Eric said yes her father would hurl the pudding downward with such force that it would spatter everyone at that end of the table.
    “Actually,” said Sophie, “Eric has to be going. Remember, Eric? You said you needed to be back in Oxford by eleven.”
    “Why, look at the time,” said Eric, standing up. “I really am most grateful, Mrs. Collingwood. Mr. Collingwood, I hope we have a chance to continue our conversation sometime.”
    Sophie’s father did not seem to have any idea how to respond to this comment, and Sophie grabbed Eric by the wrist and led him gently toward the door.
    “Good night,” he said, waving to the table with his free hand.
    A moment later, standing in the garden, Eric tried to pull her toward him. “Thanks for getting me out of there,” he said.
    Sophie pushed him away and dropped his hand. “Why did you goad him on like that?” she said. “I told you what a sore subject the library is for my father.”
    “I just showed your father for the buffoon he is. I thought you’d like it.”
    “My father is not a buffoon.”
    “He is a little. You practically said so yourself.”
    “Right—
I
said so, not you. I’m allowed to call him that; you’re not.” Sophie was trying very hard to stay angry with Eric—it was unforgivable that he had made such a scene—but every time she pictured her father brandishing a spoon full of trifle like a weapon, she could feel laughter bubbling up inside.
    “I just wanted to make you laugh. I mean, if you read Jane Austen you have to think that was funny. Your father is Thomas Palmer, right out of
Sense and Sensibility
.”
    “My father is not Mr. Palmer,” insisted Sophie, but she giggled when she realized how apt the comparison was.
    “You know who I’d really like to meet is your Uncle Bertram. I’m a bit of a book collector myself.”
    “I suppose Uncle Bertram would know what to do with you,” said Sophie with a smile. She could just imagine her uncle’s laughter when she told him about Eric, her father, and the trifle.
    “But I don’t suppose I ever will meet him,” he said, suddenly serious.
    “I don’t suppose so,” she said with a sigh. “Listen, Eric, it was very nice of you to come out and pretend to like that awful sculpture and talk with me about books and everything, but it’s late and I’m exhausted, and now I have to go back inside and placate my father by telling him that Americans don’t understand manners or something like that. So maybe you’d better just go.”
    “Kiss me.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “We’re two lovers of old novels in a garden in the moonlight. Kiss me.”
    Sophie suddenly felt that she should like to do nothing more. So what if he was an ass now and then? He loved Jane Austen and he had driven all over Oxfordshire to find her and he made her laugh—and she had to admit he looked rather handsome with his hair cut.
    “I thought you weren’t interested in getting me into bed.”
    “I’m not. I’m interested in kissing you.”
    “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
    “Look, I’m leaving for France in the morning and then Italy and then back home to America. When I walk out of this garden we’ll never see each other again, but we’ll always remember that kiss on a warm summer night.”
    “You’re incorrigible,” said Sophie, weakening.
    “Kiss me.” He did not move toward her or try to take her hand. He just stood there in the moonlight that filtered through the leaves of the willow tree and said it one more time, so softly that the words themselves were like shadows. “Kiss me.” And Sophie raised herself up on her toes and gently pressed her lips to his. He did not embrace her or even touch her except with his lips. He only kissed her and she kissed him and her knees went weak and her heart raced and she thought for a moment that she saw fireworks. Then he pulled away and ran a hand