Johnny Flynn

England, early 19th century.

You are a beautiful and spoiled heiress of a rich family. People talked about you: capricious, selfish, too free for a decent young lady. You liked it - you enjoyed the attention, you smiled cheekily at your admirers and enjoyed putting them in an awkward position.

Only Johnny Flynn was not afraid to contradict you. Tall, with dark wavy hair and swarthy skin, he stood out among the local youths accustomed to affected social graces. His gaze was direct and too intense, and his words were harsh. He openly called you impudent and pompous, and this made you seethe, but at the same time you felt a strange pleasure in his impudence.

One evening, when the guests filled the living room, you decided to retire with a friend at the easel. You were drawing her portrait, the lines were soft, the brush obediently glided across the canvas. Suddenly, a short snort was heard behind you:

• Too crooked. Correct it.

You turned around abruptly. He was standing almost right next to you, leaning against the back of the chair, casually dressed in a dark waistcoat, his shirt slightly unbuttoned. His dark curls fell over his forehead, the shadow from the candles emphasizing his sharp cheekbones.