“Those aren’t the lines,” he said through his teeth, as though an actual audience might overhear their practice.
“They’re better than. It’s hardly Shakespeare.”
“Right. So, I am mortally wounded and lie dying in your arms . . . et cetera, et cetera, and I use this moment to exclaim my sudden, dramatic love—I cherish you more than farms love rain, than night loves the moon, and so on, I am magically revived, and then . . .”
He pulled her upright and they stood facing each other, her hands in his. Again with the held breaths, the locked gazes, first horizontal, now vertical. It was almost too much to bear. Jane wanted to stay in that moment with him so much, her belly ached with the desire. All the air was gone around her exceptthe atmosphere trembling between their bodies. She leaned into it, into him. She didn’t look away. It was easier not to feel embarrassment, because it wasn’t real. Their characters were having a romantic moment. Mr. Nobley didn’t need to know that very real Jane was experiencing an intense and very real yearning.
Mr. Nobley’s gaze shifted from her eyes to her lips. Would he kiss her now? She would frankly love to add that stage direction to the play. But then, as if reluctantly, he looked down to her fingers held in his own.
“Your hands are cold,” he said.
She waited. They had never practiced this end part, and the flimsy script gave no guidance, such as,Please just kiss the girl already!She leaned in a tiny bit. He warmed her hands.
“So . . .” she said.
“I suppose we know our scene, more or less,” he said.
Wasn’t he going to kiss her? No, it seemed nobody ever kissed in Regency England. So what was happening? And what did it mean to fall in love in Austenland anyway? Jane stepped back, the weird anxiety of his nearness making her heart beat so hard it hurt.
“Should we return? Maybe the others are already back in the drawing room.”
“Right. Of course,” he said, though he seemed a little sorry.
The evening had pulled down over them, laying chill like morning dew on her arms, right through her clothes and into her center. Though she was wearing her wool pelisse, she shivered as they walked back to the house. He gave her his coat, so long it brushed the ground around her feet.
“This theatrical hasn’t been as bad as you expected,” Jane said.
“Not so bad. In fact, I have found it preferable to other so-called amusements, such as charades or croquet.”
“You make any entertainment sound like taking cod liver oil.”
“Maybe I am growing weary of this place.” He hesitated, as though he’d said too much, which made Jane wonder if the real man had spoken. He cleared his throat. “Weary of being away from home, I mean. As soon as the renovations allow, I will return to my estate. It will be good to be home, to feel something permanent. I tire of the guests who come and go in the country, their only goal to engage with shallow diversions rather than plant their feet and build something. The impermanence, the vagaries, they wear on a person.” He met her eyes. “I may not return to Pembrook Park. Will you?”
“No, I’m pretty sure I won’t.”
“You are not easy in a house party? You prefer something quieter perhaps?”
“That’s true. I mean, I do love it here. This has been an absolute dream, but . . .” Jane hesitated but couldn’t find a reason not to speak the truth, disguising Jane Hayes’s vulnerability as merely Miss Erstwhile’s backstory. “A dream in the short term. It’s not sustainable. The real dream would be my own little house with someone to adore, who knows me best in the world, who wants a family with me and to sit together reading after the kids have gone to bed.”
Aunt Carolyn had been right about her. But Jane felt confused all over again. Just how was the short-term dream of Austenland supposed to help her achieve her lifelong dream family? Jane’s chest tightened, and she surprised herself to identify the feeling as panic. The ball was three days away. Her departure came in four. Not so soon! Clearly she wasswimming in much deeper waters than she’d anticipated. And loving it. Already she’d grown used to slippers and empire waists, and felt naked outside without a bonnet. In a drawing-room evening her mouth felt natural exploring the kinds of words that Austen might’ve written. And at the center of her experience was this man, who she felt herself turn toward whenever he entered a room, as if he . . . No, don’t think it, it’s not real, you’ll only damage your heart . . . as if he was becoming her home.
“This is ridiculous,” she said, and then changed her mind. The last time she had confessed her real feelings to Mr. Nobley, it hadn’t gone well. “Our lines, I mean, in this play. But I hope you will choose to enjoy it a little.”
“Of course. In fact, I look forward to making love to you.”
Jane’s mouth was dry. “Wh-what?”
“Tomorrow night as we perform the play,” he said, completely composed. “My character professes love to your character, and to say that such a task is odious would be an insult to you.”
“Ah,” she said with a little laugh. “All right then.” She had forgotten for a moment thatmaking lovedid not mean to Austen what it meant today. Of course, Mr. Nobley the twenty-first-century actor knew that, and she squinted at him to see if he had been playing with her. He stopped walking, seeing something in the distance. She followed his gaze.
Captain East and Amelia were silhouetted by starlight. They stood in front of a bench, and he was holding both her hands.
“Are they acting?” asked Jane. “I mean, rehearsing for the theatrical?”
“They do not appear to be speaking at the moment.”
He was right. They were completely occupied with staring into each other’s eyes. Jane noted that Amelia seemed fluster-free for the first time since Captain East had arrived. If they were acting, they were doing a mighty fine job.
