Page 18 of The Austen Affair

I reclaim my hand from Hugh’s touch very slowly.

Almost suspiciously. To me, this whole intoxicating interaction holds the same foreboding energy as being back in high school, having your cell phone handed to you by your most prank-inclined friend, and just knowing that they’ve texted something embarrassing to your crush du jour.

Well, it appears that what Hugh Balfour’s done with my hand is that he’s made it tingle. The worst prank imaginable, I think.

I flex my fingers, trying to urge this sensation away, as I study him. The clothes for Regency men are so boring. They hardly change from event to event. Knee-length trousers, polished boots, high collar. But I do praise them for ensuring that everything is so… formfitting.

“You’re staring at me again,” Hugh tells me, hypocritically.

“You’re quite mistaken,” I lie, sticking out the tip of my tongue.

He shakes his head at me, and that disapproving scowl makes the tinglies disappear. “Don’t do that in front of the guests.”

“Surely not,” I fake-gasp, “or they will sentence me to Bedlam!”

“Bedlam’s nothing to joke about. You want to be chained naked to a wall?”

A delicious, wicked grin crawls across my mouth. I stand on my tiptoes to draw nearer to his totally unfair height. His eyes widen, desperate. He knows what I’m about to say before I say it.

“You wish. ”

Hugh’s response is so full of spluttering I’m not even sure he’s speaking in English. I raise my gloved hand to his open jaw and pop it closed.

It’s entirely possible that Hugh is trying to come up with a decent response, but the world will never know it, because that’s when the rattling sound of the first coach pulling up outside alerts us to the arrival of the earliest guests.

To no one’s surprise, it’s the overeager Goddards who come bounding in the door, and I am forced to endure Dr. Goddard’s questions about my health after my fainting spell and Mrs. Goddard pressing me with questions about the upcoming wedding.

Not that such a wedding will ever come to pass—as long as Hugh and I manage to make it out of this century.

We had decided to use the dinner party to canvass for intelligence about how to find an electrical machine.

Our fact-finding mission tonight could not be of more importance.

If such a machine is our only, desperate shot in the dark…

we’d better pray someone here knows how to get our hands on one.

The next people through the door are the unpleasant Dixons—Phoebe, the mother, a ruddy-faced father who already smells of brandy this early in the evening, one son, and another daughter named Isabella, who seems both a bit older and more beaten down than Phoebe—who all immediately swarm Hugh, exclaiming about his miraculous return.

All brightly attired—Phoebe in a stunning gown of absinthe green, her sister wearing that same sickly yellow that Phoebe attempted to trick me into purchasing—they look and sound like nothing quite so much as a flock of colorful parrots.

Then the next guests arrive, leaving our foyer awash with the color red as five militia men stroll through the front door.

The first is a very large and portly colonel equipped with an eye patch and—I note with suspicion—a much younger wife.

The other four are clearly the younger officers that Aunt Fanny mentioned.

Hugh’s face goes through a true emotional journey as the officers enter.

I shoot him a questioning look that silently demands he spill the tea.

He leans in to whisper in my ear (an action that raises the baby hairs of my neck on end), “I met one of those officers in town when I visited the barber. Mr. Armstrong.”

I raise an eyebrow.

He is concise in his description. “Absolute fucking arsehole.”

I can’t help grinning. What would any Austen novel be without a truly detestable villain? The universe continues to provide.

Regardless of Hugh’s first impression, Aunt Fanny greets the officers enthusiastically and drags me forward to meet them as well—leaving Hugh behind to be devoured alive by the Dixon daughters.

“Colonel Foster! Always a pleasure.” She summons me to her side with an animated wave and makes our introductions.

“May I present my nephew’s future wife, Mrs. Tess Bright? ”

Mrs. Foster wrinkles her button nose. She speaks to me in a carrying whisper, as if she is afraid that the topic is scandalous. “Yes, I heard you were a… widow. Our sincerest condolences.”

I suppose that it’s natural human instinct to feel awkward bringing up things that are potentially painful, but I’ve always been darkly amused by the way that people seem to think lowering the volume will soften the blow.

“I do so appreciate that,” I tell her. “But it has been some time since Henry’s passing. I am beyond the worst of my grief.”

“If you ever need anyone to condole with,” Mrs. Foster says, fluttering her fan, “we are always here for a neighbor. To lose the partner of one’s life! I cannot imagine anything more dreadful!”

A chill prickles me. I’m just playing the part of a widow, but Mom was the true partner of my life. And no. There wasn’t anything that could have been worse.

Mrs. Campbell seems to see the shadow cross my face, because she calls forward two of the officers. “Mrs. Bright, meet Captain Richard Armstrong and Lieutenant Charles Dereham.”

At first glance, I think these men are very attractive.

But then I look past the brightly colored jackets and focus on their features.

Mr. Armstrong certainly is handsome, in a slick, pretty-boy kind of way.

Charles Dereham, on the other hand, is mostly benefiting from the glow of the uniform and the off-splash of Mr. Armstrong’s desirability.

He’s a friendly, open-looking fellow, but there’s nothing particularly notable about his features.

Mr. Armstrong seizes my hand and bestows a courtly kiss.

I cannot help but notice that the brush of his lips against my glove does not set my skin afire as Hugh’s did.

“Mrs. Bright,” Armstrong says. “Forgive me, you are familiar to my eyes. Did my friend Mr. Dereham and I not witness your happy arrival into this town? I believe we saw you luxuriating in the view from the Goddards’ curricle. ”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. Of course, I recall, these are the redcoats we passed in the village on that very first day.

Now, I see Mr. Armstrong standing before me, a flesh-and-blood man and not merely part of the set dressing.

He’s perhaps five foot ten, nicely built, with broad shoulders and a trim waist. There’s also a…

quality about his caramel-colored eyes. They glint conspiratorially, making you feel as though you two alone are in on some private joke.

I can instantly tell that Hugh’s assessment of this man was not off base.

Mr. Armstrong radiates fuckboy vibes, but unfortunately for me, fuckboys have historically been my type.

I can’t deny Mr. Armstrong’s overall package is appealing—but sometimes so is airport sushi. It will still make you sick afterward.

I curtsy to Mr. Armstrong, and his grin becomes more pronounced. “I’m afraid that was me, standing in the curricle with little regard for safety or propriety,” I tell him. “I hope I did not scandalize you. A pleasure to officially meet you, sir.”

“No”—Mr. Armstrong twinkles—“the pleasure is entirely my own.”

It’s a cliché, but the delivery is what sells it.

Smooth as Nutella—so tempting that in a past life, I’d have liked to lick him off my finger.

And yet, my eyes search for Hugh across the crowded foyer.

For one more glance of the moss-green jacket that looks particularly good on him, softening him in a wholly unexpected way.

“And for what it’s worth,” Dereham adds, jovially inserting himself into the conversation, “there is very little that can scandalize a militiaman.”

I nod encouragingly at Mr. Dereham. I suspect that it’s rather hard for him to get a word in edgewise with Mr. Armstrong around most days. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve seen it all.”

At that moment, Hugh seems to materialize out of nowhere, as if granting my private wish for his return, shoving his way between me and Mr. Armstrong.

I don’t know what tremendous lengths he must have gone to in order to shake off the Dixons, but they were obviously successful.

I would be happy enough just to be able to drink in this man’s good looks—but there is a cherry on top of my delight: the chance at petty revenge.

A little payback for his skirt comment earlier today.

If Hugh wants to join the conversational pool, I’ll throw him in the deep end.

“Mr. Balfour,” I say, smirking at Hugh, “might I introduce Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Dereham?”

“We’ve met,” Hugh responds, devastatingly curt.

While Armstrong and Dereham’s eyes are on him, I waggle my eyebrows tauntingly at Hugh.

This tone he’s using is just how he spoke to me in the early days of Northanger Abbey.

Like I was an annoyance, not worth his time.

It’s fun bringing back this all-too-familiar tone with Armstrong as the target.

“Come now,” I say, tugging on his sleeve, “just because you have not the talent of easily conversing with new acquaintances does not mean that you will not benefit from the practice.” I incline my head respectfully toward the officers.

“Chiefly because through that practice you will acquire a great many friends of value to lift your spirit and enrich your days.”

Hugh’s eyes narrow at me, crackling with irritation. I can practically hear him thinking, Don’t misquote Fitzwilliam Darcy to me.

At some point in this exchange, the local reverend arrives, accompanied by one sister and making timid excuses for the lateness of the other. Upon their entrance, Aunt Fanny excitedly declares that we should all adjourn to the dining room.