Bespelling Jane Austen

by Mary Balogh

  “Sex on a stick,” she said as the door closed.

  “I dated him in college.”

  She raised her eyebrows and eyed my neck. “Lucky you.”

  Not really. Not really lucky at all.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE PROBLEM WITH ME AND KNIGHTLEY WAS, IN a word, me.

  If I’d met him later, say, now, for the first time, I could have handled him, after working with, and particularly teaching, other insecure snotty Ivy League brats from rich, influential families. That’s what he was then, only I couldn’t see it. I was intimidated by his good looks—lanky, slightly scruffy, with the occasional spot, but still breathtaking—his scarily sophisticated family, his horrible frat house, the casual magic tricks. Never pass someone the box of pizza if you could make it float around the room, loop the loop, release the pepperoni to form their own cute little constellations before burrowing back into the cheese—you get the idea. Our relationship didn’t have a chance. I bailed out at the first opportunity and felt elated and slightly shocked at the expression on his face when I told him we were over. I don’t think Knightley had ever been dumped before.

  But after that he was always around. I’d gone to Europe and bumped into him in Rome. And Paris. London, too. I’d run into him on the campuses where I had my cauldron-washing jobs—just visiting friends, of course. Was it coincidence, as he claimed, or something else?

  “Guess who owns our apartment!” my sister had cried in absolute joy. She liked Knightley. Everyone did. (And what was all that about Missy Bates getting a ride home with him from the Kennedy Center? Surely he wasn’t dating her. His ear would have fallen off.) Scowling, I tossed my purse onto a chair as I entered the apartment.

  “Bite me,” I said to a gargoyle waggling its tongue at me outside the window and snapped the blind down.

  I flopped onto the sofa and stared at the photo of me and Isabella shortly before she’d gone abroad, when we’d visited the Washington Monument. She’d insisted that her last weekend in town consist of touristy activities, because when you live in Washington you never go to any of the spots the tourists visit. It’s as unhip as standing on the wrong side of the escalator on the Metro. It was her way of saying goodbye to the city. So there we were, squinting into the sun and wind, big smiles and wavy chestnut hair and blue eyes, two pretty witches on a girls’ day out. (And that was another thing that screwed up things with me and Knightley. Because I was young and dumb, two years behind Isabella and playing ugly duckling to the princess, to mix my fairy-tale metaphors, I didn’t think much of my looks then. At the back of my mind hovered the unworthy thought, What does he see in me?)

  The phone rang.

  “Emma? Isabella and Jim said I should give you a call when I get into town. This is Frank. Frank Churchill.”

  I assessed the voice. Rich, deep, seductive—almost definitely a vamp, something Isabella hadn’t mentioned.

  “Oh, yeah. Hi. Isabella said you’d probably call. How are you?”

  “Good.” There was a moment’s hesitation. A shy vampire! How cute. “I don’t want to be forward, but I was wondering if you and I could get together for a drink.”

  “Sure.” Already I was scrabbling at my daytimer. Now! Tonight! I’ll wear a thong! I took a deep breath and calmed myself. He was a vampire, I reminded myself. Even on a phone call he could assess my pulse and send me into a stupor of lust. “I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon that should end about six, so why don’t you meet me after?” I gave him the name of the bar and he assured me he could find it.

  I was being kind to Isabella’s husband’s friend, nothing more. He might even become a client—in which case my interest in him should cease immediately. So he might not become a client after all.

  JANE FAIRFAX STIRRED HER GINGER ALE. We sat at a table in a courtyard that was part of a restaurant converted from a Foggy Bottom carriage house. Above us a vine curled new tendrils on a trellis and geraniums and ivy tumbled from a hanging basket.

  Jane was gorgeous, as unlike plain, dumpy Missy as I could imagine, tall and slender with a yard of long, dark, rippling hair and huge violet eyes. Her ice cubes gave off small sparks and she blushed.

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.” Interesting. Only a witch who was upset about something would spontaneously leak magic.

  “You see, Emma…” she fiddled with her straw some more. “I’m not into dating at the moment. It was Missy’s idea.”

  Most people who are given a free trial membership said that, so I nodded encouragingly. Who wants to admit that they’re hard up for company of the opposite sex?

  “I’m here to explore some job possibilities and I have to find an apartment, and…well, I’m busy.”

  “Of course.” I went into my standard spiel. Since everybody here claimed to be busy, or too important, to think of dating, that really didn’t mean anything, either. “But because you’re new in town this is such a great opportunity for you in terms of networking and establishing a social circle. You can make some valuable friendships and professional connections with Hartfield Dating Agency. And for a busy professional like yourself it can be very hard to find the time or resources to do that on your own.”

  “I guess so.” She sighed. “I’ve just ended a fairly serious relationship. I’m not sure I’m ready….”

  “Oh, absolutely. I understand.” I beckoned to a waiter who was standing nearby staring at Jane to bring us fresh drinks. “This might be a good time to have some fun, Jane. Find some people to hang out with. We’re not in the business of pairing people up who don’t want to be paired up—we’d lose all our clients that way!”

  She smiled for the first time at my pathetic joke.

  “So,” I continued, flipping through my daytimer, “let’s see what we can do for you. The first thing I’d suggest is that you and Missy come to our next mixer. It’s very low key and you’ll have a fabulous time even if you don’t meet any males you’re interested in. We hold our mixers in the private room here; it has a great atmosphere and our clients always enjoy themselves. Strictly between the two of us, Jane, is there any being you wouldn’t consider dating, or hanging out with?”

  She pushed her glass away, the ice cubes giving a pale green flash. “No vampires.”

  “Okay. I’ll keep that in mind. They’re not everyone’s cup of tea, I know.” I felt a mild fizzing excitement at the thought of my six o’clock cup of tea. “And you’re welcome to attend as an observer and not participate in the timed meetings; in fact, I’d recommend it for the first time. You can see how things work. Some clients like to go straight to a lunch date and skip the mixer, but usually they’re people who have a very clear idea of their ideal mate.”

  We talked a little more business—she agreed to fill out our online survey in the next few days, where she’d give the agency more information on her interests and background, but since she had been referred by an existing client, that was more of a formality than anything else.

  Generally at this point clients, particularly female ones, would open up, feeling more relaxed with the process. I asked about her work as an economist, and received a mind-bogglingly complicated answer at which I nodded thoughtfully and assumed an intelligent expression. I tried not to look at the display on my cell to see what time it was, while wondering if Jane’s lack of personality had anything to do with her failed relationship. Finally, after she’d prodded her ice cubes with her straw a little more, she murmured that she had another appointment, we shook hands and I saw her leave with a sigh of relief.

  As she headed for the exit into the main part of the restaurant, a man stepped through the doorway and held the door open for her.

  He watched her leave.

  “What are you doing here, Knightley?” I asked.

  “Looking for my date. Wow. Who was that? One of your clients?”

  “Possibly. I don’t think your date is here. Try the main part of the restaurant.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He looked around the
courtyard as though finally realizing that a couple in a corner, oblivious of everything but each other, and I were the only occupants. For a financial wizard he seemed to have trouble counting. “She was really hot. Maybe I should get you to fix me up.”

  “The application’s online, Knightley.” I ostentatiously looked at my cell. “I’d love to chat, but I have another appointment in a few minutes.”

  “Sure.”

  He held the door open for me as I made my way into the restaurant and retired to the restroom to replenish my lip gloss and fluff out my hair. For a brief moment I considered fixing Jane and Knightley up together. She was really hot. They’d deserve each other. She could talk economics while he described his toilet-plunging technique.

  Armed with a minor spell to prevent me presenting my jugular in the first five minutes, I sauntered back out into the courtyard. To my annoyance, Knightley was still there, in conversation with someone who could only be Frank Churchill.

  They both turned as I approached. “Good seeing you again, Frank,” Knightley said. He looked at me and smirked. “Have a good time, sugar.”

  Sugar? “I think your date’s in the bar, Knightley. Big chest, blonde?”

  “That’s her. See you.”

  “Bye,” I said, and the word turned into a sigh as Frank Churchill bared his teeth in a smile.

  My first thought was that I should have used a stronger spell, my second was that I didn’t care. My third, as common sense took over, was that I’d better be careful.

  He was gorgeous. More gorgeous than vamps have a right to be, with dark blue eyes and dirty blond hair, tall and lithe. He made Knightley look ordinary. He had charisma up the wazoo and he hadn’t even said anything to me yet.

  He pulled out a chair at a nearby table. What he did say was quite ordinary, except for his voice, which was even better than on the phone, rich and molten like a great dessert. “You look so like your sister. How’s she doing?”

  “Oh, good, good,” I babbled, fortunately landing on the chair as my knees gave way. “I didn’t know you knew Knightley.”

  “I met him at Iz and Jim’s place. That’s the funny thing about D.C. We all know each other. It’s like a collection of villages.” He snapped his fingers and the waiter, who’d previously ogled Jane, now seemed to have made a radical change in sexual preference. Frank murmured an order and the waiter left.

  “You’re ordering for me?”

  “You’ll like it.” He leaned one arm on the table. I stared, awestruck, at the golden hairs on his forearm. Would he notice if I bent forward and licked them? “Talking of mutual acquaintances, wasn’t that Jane Fairfax who was just here?”

  “Yes, you know her?” White-hot jealousy shot through me. How dare he notice another woman when I was here!

  “Sure. She was here visiting Missy one time. Iz and Jim had us all over to dinner.”

  I couldn’t imagine Missy babbling away to this beautiful man; I suppose she used some sort of protection, because even the most amateur of witches knew how to do that.

  “Isabella said you were her legal advisor for Hartfield,” I said, attempting normal conversation, “but she didn’t tell me much else about you. Where are you working now?”

  He mentioned a major law firm in town and I nodded. Vamps do well as lawyers, having a natural rapaciousness and a penchant for long, billable hours, well into the dark.

  “Better than driving a cab,” he added, with a grin and flash of white canines, mentioning the other favored occupation of vamps.

  At that point, the waiter and a colleague returned, bearing an ice bucket and a tray of food, and spent much time fussing around, staring at Frank, and making sure we had everything we needed (or everything Frank needed). Finally, having run out of napkins and cutlery to press unnecessarily upon us, they left.

  “Champagne?” I squeaked.

  “I thought you’d like it.” He eased the cork off with barely a suggestive froth, and poured. He raised his glass to mine. “To success.”

  “To success,” I echoed.

  I stared at the plates of hors d’oeuvres. “Who do you know in the kitchen? They never cook stuff like this for the agency.”

  “Vamp by the name of Angelo, sous-chef,” Frank said. He picked out a delectable little pastry item. “Mention my name. Open up.”

  Somehow I managed not to lick his fingers as they brushed against my lips.

  Heaven, I thought. I’m in heaven. A vampire was gazing into my eyes, plying me with delicious food and drink, and I had enough enchantment to keep me safe (probably) while I could enjoy the nuance of danger that came with the moment.

  “I’ve wanted to meet you for years,” Frank said.

  “Why?” I sprayed phyllo crumbs lightly over the table.

  “Iz talked about you. Your family’s so proud of you.”

  “They are?” I was dumbfounded. Iz was the one with the successful business, the handsome husband and the great apartment.

  “Oh, yeah. And, well, I had a bit of a crush on Iz, and…”

  “I seemed like the next best thing?”

  There’s nothing quite as comic as an embarrassed vamp. He blushed and flapped his hands in an ungraceful sort of way. “Oh, God, no. I’m sorry. No, no. I mean, that if someone like Iz said her sister was so terrific, then you had to be really something.”

  “I hope I live up to your expectations.”

  He refilled my glass and stared into my eyes. “You will.”

  With a great effort I stopped myself sliding under the table in a boneless heap of desire. It was only standard vamp stuff, I reminded myself, his biological destiny. In a way he couldn’t help himself. He’d be coming on to the geraniums in the hanging basket if I wasn’t here—and even as I thought that, petals showered onto the table like drops of blood.

  “You’re good,” I said, “but please don’t read my mind.”

  “Okay. Sorry.” He picked out another delectable edible for me.

  I knew I shouldn’t. This time I let my tongue touch his fingers.

  “Bad girl,” he said softly, and I saw his canines touch his lips. “Bad, hungry girl.”

  “Can I get you anything else, sir?” Our waiter insinuated himself into our private circle of lust, effectively breaking the moment.

  “No, we’re fine,” Frank said. “So tell me how the agency is doing, Emma. Any new clients?”

  I didn’t tell him about Elton, but I gave him a rosy picture of my successes, or, to be honest, near successes, hoping he was being a gentleman and not probing my mind. He nodded approvingly at my referral promotion, and laughed when I told him that so far my only success was Missy Bates.

  Dusk was falling and so was I, or at least thinking about falling down with Frank on top of me. I rose, attempting a bright professionalism. I intended to walk home to clear my head before diving into a cold shower. “This has been great, Frank. I’ve really enjoyed meeting you, but I’d better get going.”

  He tossed a couple of bills onto the table. “I’ll put you in a cab.”

  We made our way through the restaurant and onto the street, where Frank raised a finger and a cab drew up—vamp-to-vamp efficiency. I would have had to jump up and down waving both arms in the air for a good ten minutes.

  His knee brushed against mine as we settled in the backseat and I feared my protective spell was wearing a little thin. He took a strand of my hair and tucked it behind my ear. “So, if I became a client, do you think Jane Fairfax and I would suit each other?”

  “Oh, please, Frank, I’m not the madam of a bordello. Besides, she doesn’t seem like your type.”

  “Ah. And what do you think my type is?”

  “Once you’ve filled out the agency survey I could give you a better answer. For instance, I’d need to know if you wanted to date outside your subgroup.”

  He moved closer to me. “Definitely, and I think you know my type. Blue-eyed witches with curly hair.”

  “I don’t date clients, Frank.”


  He nodded. “Then I think I’ll postpone becoming a client. Sorry.”

  The cab drew up at my apartment building.

  “I’ll see you to the door,” he said.

  “Oh, you don’t have to—” I wondered if I should invite him up for a drink, but supplies were low in the apartment. I didn’t have anything nearly as good as that champagne; in fact, it was more likely that I had a half-full bottle of diet soda and some stale wine I was saving for cooking. I might as well be offering him a drink of me, which I probably was, and which might not be that good an idea.

  He took my hand as we walked up the mosaic steps to the entrance. “I’ll call you. Let’s have dinner soon.”

  “Great. Yeah. I’d like that. I—”

  His kiss was soft and sweet with enough of a touch of elongated canine to graze my lip and hint at danger and wildness. It stopped my babbling immediately.

  “Good night.” He stepped into the shadows and disappeared.

  “Show-off,” I muttered as I pushed open the door into the lobby.

  To my surprise, Knightley emerged from the elevator, his face full of disapproval. There, I thought, was someone who didn’t score tonight.

  “Hi, Dad, sorry I’m late,” I chirped.

  “Very funny, Emma. Do you really think it’s smart to mess with vampires?”

  “About as smart as messing with pneumatic blondes, Knightley.”

  “It’s hardly the same,” he said with the arrogant tilt of the head I disliked so much. “You don’t even know Churchill. What’s that on your front?”

  “You used to have a better grasp of anatomy— Oh, shit.” I dabbed at the unpleasant-looking blob on my white shirt and wondering, horror-struck, how long it had been there. “Eggplant, I think.”

  “Hope you didn’t get any on your friend the vamp,” he drawled. “Good night.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “AND THEN WHAT HAPPENED?” HARRIET ASKED as we set up for the mixer, the first I’d hosted. I was nervous about it, even though I was following Isabella’s instructions to the letter.