Page 13 of The Austen Affair

My heart pounds in my chest so hard I worry that Hugh can hear it beating. Why on earth would I say anything that flirtatious to this wretched man?

Except, of course, I know the answer. Because suddenly he’s not anywhere near as wretched as I once thought. I am not the kind of person who has ever been interested in a hate fuck. But a blooming-friendship fuck? A you’re-not-so-bad-after-all fuck? Well, hello.

I suppose I’m the forgiving type. When you look at it one way, all it took was a single apology and an impromptu bridal carry to make me change my mind about him.

But then again, looking at it another way, I’m not so easily won.

After all, as Hugh put it, we’ve fallen into a rip between space and time.

If I didn’t start to forgive my only ally here, how unreasonable would that be?

I’m thinking so hard about all this, for so long, that Hugh snaps his fingers to bring me back to our positively unreal reality. “Are you still with me?”

I blink. “Of course. Just thinking.”

Hugh nods and crosses his leg in such a way that pulls at the fabric of his tight cotton trousers. I have a suspicion that despite his aversion to meat, Hugh is still a regular consumer of protein powder on his way to the gym, because his calves are magnificent.

“You should leave,” I tell him, point-blank.

Hugh looks startled. “Really?”

“Really,” I say, trying to look unconcerned. “They’ll be wondering whether I’m well again. You should tell them so. And we should both get some rest.”

Banished and looking like a chastened cat, Hugh slinks toward the exit.

“One thing, though,” I say.

He pauses in the doorway, looking back at me. “Yes?”

“Back when you thought I fainted, you knew what to do. Why?”

Something flickers across Hugh’s face before disappearing again into a purposefully blank expression—perhaps actorly pride being pushed down in favor of false humility.

His response is flat, not grandiose in the slightest. “I studied up on the proper response because dementia patients are a fall risk.”

This is exactly what I thought. That Hugh had gone Method-actor for a role that required this information, just as he’d done for our movie.

The one thing is, as many times as I’ve stalked Hugh’s IMDb page, seething with professional jealousy, I can’t remember what medical drama he’s been in.

The absence of this knowledge I should have easily accessible taunts me like a word on the tip of my tongue.

But it would be humiliating to ask. To admit that I know his filmography well enough to question a notable omission. So I just say, lightly, “Well, you obviously did your research very well. As usual.”

Hugh stares at me a half a beat longer than usual—which I attribute to surprise that I would compliment him—and then inclines his head to me before leaving. “Thank you.”

I watch him go, chewing my lower lip as he disappears from my private quarters.

I use the pitcher of water and the basin to scrub my face, hoping that the cool droplets will wash away any of these hot, sticky, inconvenient feelings I’m having for my costar.

I focus on other things. Like how lucky it is that I’m wearing only minimal makeup—Dominic had wanted a naturalistic look for Catherine in Northanger Abbey. Without baby wipes or micellar water, it might have been hard to scrub off my usual amount of mascara without looking like a drunk raccoon.

It all feels tremendously odd. Once I’ve diligently brushed each tooth, all that’s left to do is to don a nightgown—laid out for me by Mrs. Campbell’s maid, Anna—and crawl into my four-poster bed.

No seven-step skin-care regimen. No night guard to prevent unconscious stress grinding.

No mug of Sleepytime chamomile tea, heated up in the microwave because I’m too impatient for the kettle.

The light from the candle on the mantel is fading. I slip beneath the covers and watch it as it sinks low and gutters out, leaving the room in a deep, absolute darkness.

I wonder what Hugh did to prepare for bed. Jane Austen never really strayed into a man’s bedroom, so I can’t say for sure what he ought to be wearing. But I can’t exactly picture him in a big, Ebenezer Scrooge–y nightgown, so I elect to picture him in nothing at all.

The silver moonlight from the open window slanting across his back, like a stanza of erstwhile poetry. The long, sweeping line between his shoulder blades, culminating at his nice, pert—

With those pleasant thoughts in mind, sleep claims me like a warm hug.

The next morning, in the moment before opening my eyes, I can almost believe that everything that transpired last night was some kind of stress-fueled fever dream. And yet, even refusing to sit up and look around, my other senses scream that it’s all real.

My room is very quiet. Much too quiet. Nowhere in the modern world is there a quiet this sincere. There is always a distant honk. The hum of a refrigerator. Sprinklers clicking on in your neighbor’s yard. (Probably that asshole Karl, who never follows the Los Angeles water restrictions.)

I press my face deeper into the pillow, refusing to accept reality.

I make a wish. A wish that when I open my eyes, I won’t be staring up at a blue canopy in a room so neat it’s almost sterile.

I wish to find myself splayed out on a couch in my trailer, surrounded by the comforting clutter of my poorly planned existence.

It would be heavenly to wake up surrounded by yesterday’s coffee mug, last week’s balled-up makeup wipes, stray hair ties, unwashed bras, a toothpaste tube that’s 90 percent kicked.

I’d be equally pleased to find myself reclining on the California king of my bedroom in Thousand Oaks, to the low rumble of some neighbor (asshole Karl again, probably) mowing his lawn.

Hell, I’d even take being shocked awake in my hotel room by a PA rapping on the door, telling me we have to get our asses to set pronto before I’m late for my call time.

But I don’t get my wish. Instead, the door swings open and Anna arrives, bringing me a silver breakfast tray containing two bread rolls with a pat of butter, as well as a hot cup of tea. My hands tremble as I try to raise the teacup to my lips and take a bracing sip.

There won’t be a magical answer to my problems. I can’t make a wish or click my heels together. I’m really stuck in the past with Hugh Balfour, of all people, as my only ally. My cheeks flush as I remember him carrying me in his arms last night, like I was light as a paper doll.

The teacup rattles as I place it back on the tray, and a warm, all-too-familiar voice in the back of my mind whispers, Be honest with me now, sweetheart. Are you shaking because you’re scared… or because you’re a little excited?

That’s what Mom would ask me. I’m sure of it. She always knew when to call me on my bullshit.

After I devour my bread, Anna offers to help me into my loaned muslin gown.

I feel a surge of persistent discomfort.

I don’t like being waited on, but at the same time, I know damn well that this is probably a pretty sweet gig Anna’s got (relative to the time period), and I can only imagine that bringing my modern sensibilities into this will only complicate things for her.

As much as it sits weirdly in my chest, I elect to be polite and grateful, and not make things uncomfortable.

Besides, I’ve never seen a Jane Austen heroine make extended conversation with a servant, so I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea how to begin doing it without coming off incredibly weird and anachronistic.

I do vow to myself one thing, though: as apt as I am to throw clothes willy-nilly on the ground, to leave a mess in my wake, I will not do that here.

I will not make Anna’s job harder. It won’t be easy (I’ll be fighting twenty-six years of total-slob reflex), but I’ll do it.

After all, we aren’t all Balfours. I don’t know much about my extended family tree, but I’m willing to bet that whatever my ancestors did to survive was a lot closer to what Anna’s doing than the way Hugh’s relatives live.

Anna does say something to me, however, which is that Mrs. Campbell is hoping that I will join her downstairs in the parlor.

Great. This will be great.

Anxious jitters twist at my stomach again. Mrs. Campbell seems to be an extremely smart lady. She seems well-meaning enough, but I also suspect she doesn’t tolerate any crap, based on how fast she was willing to shut down the perceived impropriety between me and Hugh.

I find her in the sun-soaked parlor, resting in an armchair under the looming portrait of Hugh’s uncle. She looks positively genteel as she sips her morning tea. A grandfather clock in the corner is chiming out that it’s 7 A.M .

I curtsy to her upon entry.

“Good,” Mrs. Campbell says, glancing up at me. “It seems that you have made a full recovery.” She rests her teacup on its delicate saucer and rises from her chair to inspect me. “You seem a healthy enough girl. Were you merely distressed yesterday evening?”

I had really hoped that openly addressing a woman’s swoon in the Regency period was like openly addressing a woman’s nose job in mine: just not done.

But I say what I should have said last night, upon further reflection, and blame my fake dead husband.

“I was distressed, ma’am. While my mourning period is technically over, I did not think I would be remarrying so soon.

I felt—” I place a hand above my breastbone, calming an anxious flutter.

Even before the words come out of my mouth, I know they’ll be true.

“—guilty to be moving on with my life without the one I lost.”