Page 22 of The Austen Affair

For a moment, Hugh does not respond—but then something in him gives way, like the walls of a mighty fortress crumbling—and then suddenly he is responding with enthusiasm.

He drops his other hand from my cheek and brings that one to my waist as well, both working to pull me closer to him.

We notch together like we were sculpted as a matching pair.

This close is the only way we should ever be.

My hand slides to the back of Hugh’s neck, and I can quite literally feel years of tension uncoil from his shoulder muscles.

I want to melt into him, and if the stiffness I can feel pressing against my upper thigh is any indication, he wants that, too.

The heady scent of his cologne clouds my senses, warm spice and fresh orange, wafting me up to the heavens.

He opens his mouth very slightly, testing the waters, and I respond in kind, silently urging him to dive deeper.

I’m so overwhelmed that I almost forgot people are watching.

“Mr. Balfour!” A screech of feminine indignation breaks the spell.

I draw back, and Hugh actually exhales in disappointment as my hand slips away from his neck.

He stares greedily at me for a few seconds more, and I’ve never felt more beautiful than I do in this exact moment, with Hugh breathing heavily, drinking in the sight of me in the pale moonlight like he cannot get enough.

But I know it’s time for me to do damage control, so I wrench my eyes away from him and execute a tiny, finger-twirling wave at the new arrivals.

Colonel Foster’s hand claps Hugh on the shoulder and spins him around. The colonel fails to restrain his wide smile as he chastises, “A secret assignation, is it? Save some of those energies for after the wedding, would you, boy?”

The small crowd of people who have come to check on us contains Mrs. Foster as well, in addition to Charles Dereham, the Goddards—Mrs. Goddard is fanning herself in agitation—and Richard Armstrong, whose dark eyes are raking me up and down with an obvious lecherous pleasure that I find immediately rankles me, despite having thoroughly enjoyed Hugh’s similar admiration moments before.

The divide between the reactions of the military affiliates and the Goddards couldn’t be more distinct.

Charles Dereham’s eyes are dancing. Youthful Mrs. Foster shoots me some significant eye contact that, if exchanged between two women in the modern age, would have been followed up by a request to accompany each other to the ladies’ room for a bit of gossip.

But we certainly don’t get off scot-free.

Dr. Goddard is scowling furiously. Mrs. Goddard comes forward to grab me, pinching my upper arm like I’m a naughty child who must be led to the nursery.

“Even if you are engaged, you must take care to guard your reputation,” she lectures.

I wriggle my arm free of her hand with an extremely plastic smile.

“I am a widow, and engaged for a second time,” I gently remind the woman, taking care not to let my voice become as sharp as I’d like. “I am not a maiden in first blush.”

That loosens Mrs. Goddard up very slightly, but she still looks troubled. She wouldn’t have been appeased at all, though, I’m sure, if she knew the true details of my sexual history: extensive. And private.

Colonel Foster lets out a loose chuckle and waves for Hugh to move back into the house ahead of him. “I am not of the belief that we must completely deprive soldiers from all pleasures. But perhaps we shall return to more innocent diversions for the remainder of the evening.”

Charles Dereham laughs freely. “Hear, hear!”

Unable to resist, I reach out to Hugh from behind, my fingers tap-dancing on his shoulder blades. When Hugh looks at me, eyes shining, I jerk my head at Charles Dereham, mouthing, “Go talk to him.”

Hugh looks rather confused, like a dog that needs to shake water out of his ears. He nods to me, silently acknowledging the necessity to talk to Dereham, but he takes his sweet time following after him.

And his head makes a momentary half rotation, like he considered turning around to take one more look at me.

Hugh looks particularly good while walking away.

Mrs. Foster tiptoes up to me, slipping her arm into mine, and from the wistful sigh she gives, I think we are both admiring the way the muscles of his thighs move in those tight little pants.

She tightens her grip on my arm and pulls me even closer to whisper in my ear, “I do not blame you in the slightest, when faced with such temptation.…”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. I pat Mrs. Foster’s hand and give her a secretive smile. I suppose if I must have a young gal pal in the past, she’s not the worst option. But I hope she doesn’t press me for details of that kiss with Hugh, because I am not sure I want to give them.

Yes, I had initiated the kiss, figuring that an engaged couple slipping out the back to make out had to be more normal than the discussion we were actually having.

But I’d expected Hugh to stay stiff against my lips, unmoving and shocked by my gambit.

I had not anticipated that he would reciprocate so readily.

That his mouth would melt against mine, urgent and hot.

That he’d press his strong hand demandingly against the small of my back, drawing me close.

I hadn’t expected my knees to grow weak at the stimulation, for the world to sway around me.

I had thought that this kiss would be no more intimate than the hundreds of staged make-out sessions I’ve done for other roles. A pair of actors, executing a ruse. What could be more simple or transactional?

Except… it hadn’t felt that way. It felt messy and magnetic and inevitable.

And I think if I shared any details with Mrs. Foster, that would cheapen it. Right now, it’s a fragile little bubble of a moment. I want it to crystallize, not pop.

Back inside the house, the men file off to a separate room for brandy and (I suspect) cigars.

I can’t be sure about the latter because—fun fact!

—Jane Austen never wrote a scene in any of her books where a woman is not present.

So I don’t exactly know what goes on behind closed doors for Regency boys’ night.

The ladies go to the drawing room and start pulling out cards for whist. I don’t know how to play whist, so I sneak out, thinking I might head upstairs to my bedroom and splash some cool water on my face to calm down after that sizzling makeout.

But when I reach the foot of the stairs, I am greeted by the sight of Mr. Armstrong pacing the foyer. He looks up at me with pleasant surprise etched on his face.

I greet him airily. “Why do you smile, Mr. Armstrong?”

“I smile because you smile, Mrs. Bright,” he says, the aforementioned knowing smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“And because I have the unexpected pleasure of your company. Now, allow me the gross familiarity of asking why you escaped the other ladies. Did you find it necessary to give yourself a moment’s respite, away from the puritanical chastisements of Mrs. Goddard? ”

“She means well,” I tell him.

Mr. Armstrong claps his hands to his chest, affecting a mock-wounded look. “And don’t I know well the extent of Mrs. Goddard’s good intentions. My dear Mrs. Bright, you cannot think I was having the slightest bit of fun at her expense!”

I wish I had a fan in my possession, behind which I could hide my growing smirk. Mr. Armstrong is such a familiar type to me. Though he wears the uniform of a soldier, he’s an actor at heart, always looking for applause or a laugh. And he finds his refuge in audacity.

Being from Hollywood, most of my ex-boyfriends ran along the lines of Mr. Armstrong.

Attention-seeking, playful, and well aware that they were as frustratingly hot as a malfunctioning iPhone in August. But attractiveness aside, the appeal of this kind of guy is their talent for making you feel like you’re at the very center of their attention while in their presence.

Unfortunately, I’d learned the hard way that this attention rarely lasts once they spot the next shiny new thing.

I adopt a faux-somber tone to match Mr. Armstrong’s. “Of course you were not. I would never dream of calling you the type to make light of a woman of good reputation.”

Mr. Armstrong grins, turning the palms of his gloved hands outward. “Even if a good reputation is all Mrs. Goddard has.”

He sidles a few steps closer to me, his amber-colored eyes searching my face hungrily. “I cannot think of a more joyless position to be in, so Mrs. Goddard must be pitied. A woman of any value must have more to recommend her than a good reputation.”

It is just then that I think I hear the ominous creak of a door at the other end of the foyer, the one that leads into the back hall. I spin around to look for an eavesdropper or a witness emerging but see no one. Even so, I quickly take two steps back from Mr. Armstrong.

Heedless of obvious social cues, Mr. Armstrong takes another long, sliding step forward, a mischievous grin creeping up his cheek. Does he think that just because I made out with Hugh I’m the kind of woman who gets up to all kinds of naughtiness with any man I meet?

I immediately start clocking the exits. This is an all-too-familiar feeling from dating in the modern era.

Men like this always make things feel like a private joke.

But there comes a point where the jokes go too far or, worse, fall away entirely and leave a disconcerting void behind.

With a nasty jolt, I suddenly become aware that I am alone with this man, and, unlike Hugh, Mr. Armstrong is not only not my fiancé, he is a total stranger.

This isn’t 2025. This is 1815, and I need to get out of here.

“Certainly,” I say smoothly, taking a few more quick steps away from Mr. Armstrong, eyeing the stairs and wondering how fast I can ascend them.

But I don’t want to panic or cause a scene unnecessarily, so I try to steer our conversation into less flirtatious waters.

My brain goes on autopilot as I strategize, and I hear Caroline Bingley’s words pour out of my mouth while my own are unavailable.

“To be truly accomplished, a woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, all the modern languages, to deserve this word. And besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking.”

Mr. Armstrong’s gaze sparks with approval. “You certainly have something in your manner of walking. A coquettish, appealing quality.”

Ugh! How forward! This is the Regency equivalent of sending an unsolicited dick pic. Any favorable opinion I ever held of Mr. Armstrong’s looks have vanished. He just seems like a slimy weasel to me now.

I decide that going upstairs is not enough. What would happen if he pursued me? I would have to retreat back into the sitting room with the other ladies. There, I would be safe from Mr. Armstrong’s continued attentions.

I narrow my eyes at him, filling my next words with every ounce of disdain I can muster. “Oh, you like how I walk, sir? Then watch me walk away from you.”

And I turn on my heel and sweep gloriously away.