The Promise of Change - By Rebecca Heflin Page 0,31
she sighed, what to do with myself now? Although she’d planned from the very beginning to vacation alone, after making plans to spend the day with Alex, she found herself at loose ends with the loss of his company. And since she recklessly tossed out her itinerary, she’d have to make it up as she went along.
She went to the desk and, opening her journal, concluded her musings on her Oxford experience. So far, she’d managed to keep her promise to herself to write every day.
Task completed and promise kept, the sunny day called her outdoors. A walk along Oxford’s busy streets would provide an excellent afternoon diversion.
She dressed carefully that evening, choosing a pair of black slacks and a silk blouse in rich emerald green. Pulling the front of her hair back, she let the rest fall loose. Even with all the care she took with her appearance, she didn’t want to look as if she’d tried too hard.
After anxiously checking her appearance in a hall mirror, she descended the stairs into the lobby, thinking she was a bit early, but Alex stood by the desk chatting amiably with the clerk. He certainly defied all previous notions on the behavior of British aristocracy.
Alex saw her out of the corner of his eye, and turned in her direction.
She blushed under his appreciative gaze. His smile broadened as he walked over to greet her.
“Hello, Sarah. You look lovely.”
Hearing her name in that charming British lilt made her melt inside. What is it about that accent? His hair was tousled the way she remembered it from their first encounter, with a dark brown lock falling across his forehead. He wore charcoal gray slacks, a white shirt open at the neck, and a blue blazer, looking like he’d just stepped out of an ad for Ralph Lauren.
“Hi, Alex,” She breathed, sounding like a lovesick schoolgirl. Get a grip, she admonished herself.
“Shall we?” He took her elbow and escorted her toward the inn’s walled garden. The scent of her perfume rivaled that of the flowers growing there.
The hostess greeted them enthusiastically, although Sarah thought the enthusiasm was directed more at Alex than at her. Adrian used to get the same adoration from women, but his response to it was quite different. Where Alex was humble and a bit bemused by it, Adrian almost expected it.
Giving herself a mental shake, she wondered why she’d compared him to Adrian. Comparisons were always unfair to all parties involved.
The hostess was clearly a little star struck. With just the briefest glance in Sarah’s direction, she said, “Lord Rutherford, I just loved you in Mansfield Park.” She hesitated and then asked, “Could I have your autograph?”
He willingly obliged her. After she left with her prize, he turned back to Sarah. “Sorry about that.”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” she said, opening her menu. “Does that happen often?” She lifted a brow in question.
“A little more often with the release of each film. I am surprised, and pleased that young women are watching and enjoying film adaptations of great works of literature. It’s an encouraging sign.”
She smiled. He apparently had no idea that they were watching and enjoying him, not necessarily the great works of literature. How many young women, her nieces included, never gave a second thought to Jane Austen until seeing Colin Firth as Darcy?
The waiter came over and took their drink orders, and their conversation stopped while they perused the menu.
“What did you do today?” he asked after making his choice and setting aside his menu.
“I wandered the streets of Oxford like the tourist I am. First, I visited the Ashmolean Museum then, Carfax Tower. After that, I walked up High Street to Queen’s Lane and took photographs of the gardens and the New College gargoyles, and of course, the Bridge of Sighs, and from there I walked to the Bodleian Library, finally stopping for tea at the Randolph before returning to the hotel.”
“Hmm, you’ve had a very busy day, and it sounds like you made the most of it.”
“I try to get my money’s worth from my vacations,” she said with a self-conscious shrug.
The waiter brought a basket of bread to the table. Suddenly, she was famished. She’d skipped lunch, and although she did stop for tea, the teacakes hadn’t lasted long. Trying not to pounce on the bread basket like a fox on a hare, she delicately selected a soft roll.
Remembering part of Alex’s conversation with Mick, she asked, “Did I understand correctly that you were undertaking