Page 17 of The Austen Affair
He pulls off his jacket, throwing it over his horse’s saddle, and begins rolling up the puffed sleeves of his shirt, baring his forearms. (They’re really good forearms, unfortunately.
And there’s something to be said about the fact that they’ve been covered up all this time, to add to their allure.
I can almost understand men’s interest in old-timey burlesque now.)
Readied for exertion, Hugh scales the tree. Soon, his shoulders are about level with my waist. I see now that the barber did an admirable job. I resist the urge to reach out with the back of my hand and touch the velvet-smooth skin of Hugh’s shaved cheek.
Because that would be absurd.
Hugh encourages me to lean forward as he investigates where I’m snagged. I blush, realizing the flaw in my plan. Hugh Balfour is now digging around in the pool of fabric that covers my ass. At one point, he accidentally brushes it with his palm. “Apologies,” he mumbles, not meeting my eyes.
My voice hitches up a half octave. “It’s nothing.” I don’t allow my internal monologue to focus on the awkwardness, nor on the vague feeling that I wouldn’t have minded had his hand lingered.
At last, he discovers the branch snagged on the outer layer of my muslin. He snaps the branch, freeing me, and grins. “Problem solved, I should think.”
He descends from the tree, but stays close, in case I were to wobble on my way down.
This makes my blushing return with full force.
I don’t want him to think I climbed up into this tree with no plan to climb down.
It’s perfectly within my capabilities. I redon my prissy little accent.
“You have quite provided all the help I require, thank you.”
Yet even though I’ve technically dismissed him, Hugh doesn’t move as I clamber out of the tree, his hand hovering near—but not quite touching—the small of my back, ready to catch me if needed.
It’s actually really nice of him. I incline my head to him, curtsying like it’s second nature—which, I suppose, by now, it is.
“Thank you,” I say, injecting as much warmth into the words as I can.
I don’t want to stay on bad terms with Hugh forever.
I’m not a grudge-holder, and besides, I like the idea of us being friends. I always did.
But it seems Hugh isn’t quite ready to let his walls come down.
He stretches his arm back behind his head, looking incredibly uncomfortable for all the world.
Instead of saying anything so civil as “You’re welcome” or “Happy to help” or even “No problem,” what he instead says to me is “You’ve gotten sap all over your dress. ”
There he is, calling me a mess again.
I close my eyes and exhale my irritation, both at him and myself. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”
As a twenty-first-century feminist, it’s almost embarrassing to me how deeply Hugh gets under my skin.
There we were, having a rare friendly moment, and then he just blows it all up by acting the way he acts!
I’m starting to realize he’s less like a robot than he is an alien.
The man acts like he’s reached the age of thirty without ever learning basic social cues.
Namely, that insulting people is usually not received very well!
As I prepare for our fancy little dinner party, I try to access the wisdom I’ve picked up from various meditation seminars and hot-yoga classes I’ve attended over the years—breathing out my irritation with Hugh and breathing in a sense of joy that I am about to experience a true Regency society affair.
Anna helps me set my hair in curls atop my head, as is the style, and I am able to put on one of the lovely gowns Aunt Fanny commissioned for me down in the village.
Being an actress of some commercial success, I’ll confess to the sin of vanity.
But there’s some undeniable truth to it: I wouldn’t have made it this far in the industry if I wasn’t gorgeous, and while I have a few minor insecurities about my appearance (as everyone does), I’m not one to play the false humility card.
So trust me when I say: attired in a satin gown of midnight blue, and long white silk gloves, I look absolutely fucking stunning.
We hadn’t shot any of the ball scenes for Northanger Abbey before we were zapped into the past, but I can only hope and pray that if we make it back to finish the shoot, my complexion will look as brilliant on camera as it does this evening.
After dressing, I descend the mahogany stairs with my head held high. Hugh can hardly accuse me of looking a bedraggled mess tonight! Spite can really motivate a woman to polish herself up nicely.
As I reach the ground floor, my attention is directed straight through the parlor doorway to Hugh, as if pulled by a magnetic force.
His eyes meet mine, too: and he wears an expression of dumbfounded shock.
I practically float into the parlor, completely unaware of anyone else in the immediate area.
I’m too busy keeping my eyes locked on his lower lip, which he is biting, ever so slightly.
I wish I could bite that lip.
Hugh strides forward to meet me in the doorway and, as if on instinct—which it very well may be after all his Henry Tilney research—he moves to kiss my hand.
I shiver as he raises his silk-covered fingertips to mine.
The smell of his modern cologne has faded, only to be replaced with the sharp citrus blend of a Regency equivalent.
I’m ashamed to say it, but it takes everything in me not to step closer to him, push my nose into the crook of his neck, and sniff.
Meanwhile, I can see a similar struggle demonstrated in the quirk of Hugh’s mouth as he drags his eyes up over the white expanse of my collarbone, past the dangerous region of my well-displayed chest, yet more distractingly displayed than ever—and meets my own gaze with a shocking intensity.
The clock in the hall stops ticking. Gravity turns off.
He lowers my hand from his mouth, and oxygen returns to the room.
His greeting is so low, it’s not even a whisper but an exhale of breath. “Hello, Miss Bright.”
“Hello, Mr. Balfour.”