“Oh, I know,” said Jane. “But it is when I imagine you speaking these lines.”
“Ah, there you are,” said Colonel Andrews, poking his head around the doorjamb. “Thespians, assemble! We are holding a script reading in the Ancient Druid Greenwood.”
“He means the conservatory,” said Mr. Nobley.
They rehearsed for hours in the sunny, many-paned room, the squat potted plants standing in for a tree-filled wilderness, before taking a break for a lavish tea service. Colonel Andrews stepped forward as their director, arranging the blocking and making encouraging remarks, such as “Miss Charming, that line delivery was exquisite! A royal performance!”
“I happened to notice that Miss Charming has the most lines in the script,” Miss Heartwright said amiably. “How fortunate for her! And what a blessing for us all.”
And Mr. Nobley watched Jane. He had always seemed aware of her, of course. That was part of hischaracter. But did she fancy that he was even more so now? And that in his side glances and half smiles gleamed a touch of slipped character, a break, a sliver of the man himself?
Oh, stop it, Jane told herself.
But then again, movie actors fall in love with each other on set all the time. Was it so outlandish to suppose it might happen to her?
Yes, it is, she answered herself. Stay focused. Have fun.
And, miraculously, she did. She bantered and laughed and smiled coyly over one shoulder. Perhaps her morning painting had imbued her with a fresh energy and confidence, and there with Mr. Nobley, she felt relaxed. In the past, Jane would’ve been so beset by stumbling doubts she’d have lost the capacity to enjoy his eyes on her. But now, she looked right back at him. Here there was no anxiety, no what-ifs. Just good clean nineteenth century flirtation.
After dinner, instead of meeting in the drawing room for cards and charades, the pairs put on coats and wandered into the pink-glowy evening to rehearse their individual scenes.
Jane and Mr. Nobley broke away from the others first, secreting themselves behind the house. The theatrical efforts of the day had let a bit of Bohemia into Regency England, the usual strict social observances bending, the rehearsals allowing the couples an excuse to be alone and enjoy the exhilarating intimacy of the unobserved.
Mr. Nobley tested the grass for dampness before sitting and leaning back on his elbow in a reluctant recline. “ ‘Oh, to die here, alone and unloved . . . ’ ”
“That was pretty good,” said Jane. “You genuinely soundedin pain, but I think you could add a groan or two.”
Mr. Nobley groaned, though perhaps not as part of the theatrical.
“Perfect!” said Jane.
Mr. Nobley sat up and rested his head on his knee, laughing. “I cannot believe I let you coerce me into this. I had thus far managed to avoid doing a theatrical.”
“Oh, you don’t seem that sorry. I mean, you certainly aresorry, just notregretful. . .”
“Just do your part, please, Miss Erstwhile.”
“Oh, yes, of course, forgive me. I can’t imagine why I’m taking so long, it’s just that there’s something so appealing about you there on the ground, at my feet—”
He tackled her. He actually leaped up, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her to the ground. She screeched as she thudded down on top of him.
His hands stiffened. “Whoops,” he said.
“You did not just do that.” She barely moved as she spoke. She barely breathed. She was so aware of the sturdy expanse of him beneath her, their bodies touching at a hundred different points.
He looked around for witnesses. “You are right, I did not just do that. But if I had, I was driven to it; no court in the world would convict me. We had better keep rehearsing, someone might come by.”
“I would, but you’re still holding me.” His hands were on her waist. They were gorgeous, thick-fingered, large. She liked them there.
“So they are.” He looked at her. He breathed in. His forehead tensed as if he was trying to think of words for his thoughts, as if he was engaged in some sublime inner battle that was provoked by how perfectly beautiful she was. Even if that was entirely Jane’s romantic speculation, theywereon the ground, touching, frozen, staring at each other. Even the trees were holding their breath.
“I—” Jane started to say without knowing what words would come next. Her entire body was warm and starting to throb with the effort of holding still, and yet some part of her shouted a warning that she must act nonchalant, that it would be catastrophe if she let on how much he affected her. “I, um—”
Mr. Nobley shook his head, as if to save her from that. He apologized and helped her to her feet, and then plopped back onto the ground, as his character was still in the throes of death.
“Shall we resume?”
“Right, okay,” she said, suppressing the shiver rising up from the base of her spine. “We were near the end . . . ‘Oh, Antonio!’ ” She knelt beside him, carefully pulling the hem of her skirt above her knee to keep from pressing it against the grass. She patted his chest. “You are gravely wounded. And groaning so impressively! Let me hold you and you can die in my arms, because traditionally, death and unrequited love are a romantic pairing.”
