Austen and I sat in the middle of it all, putting together the decorations—ribbons, candles, lamps, garnish, candies. We had five hours before the dinner tonight to arrange them artistically on the dozen round tables set up in the middle of the room.
I took up some ribbon. “We’re making bows first,” I told Austen.
“Me? Make a bow?”
“What? Are your hands too delicate?” I asked in a mock challenge.
His jaw tightened and he got busy, making a bow that was far better than mine. I tried not to be jealous. We had an unspoken agreement not to bring up Dancey or Taylor. It was the only way not to fight, but I knew something was on Austen’s mind by the way he kept frowning.
A slight wind ruffled his curly hair. The partitioned glass walls of Pemburkley Hall could be opened and closed to the outside world, and since Taylor had opted for the al fresco feel, the set-up crew had organized it so that, besides the roof, the rehearsal dinner would feel like it was all taking place outside.
Glancing over at Austen, I shifted uncomfortably. “And then we tie the flower to the decorative lamp,” I said while I demonstrated.
The caterers came through the hall, bringing pots and ingredients. Pemburkley Hall had its own kitchen, off in a building to the side, where they’d prepare the dinner for tonight. Austen turned to the servers with interest. “Where’s Junie Be Fair? She’s catering tonight, right?”
I jerked a ribbon tight. “Why do you always call her that?”
He smirked, and, too late, I realized I’d given him ammunition. “You don’t like me calling her ‘Fair?’ You jealous?”
“Yes, I’m the evil queen and no one else can be called fair.”
“You just want a nickname for yourself,” he said.
“Oh no.” I shook my head before he could try to come up with one. “I’m adding that to a list of things to not talk about. No nicknames.” I placed a candle inside the lamp I was working on.
“Wait, you have a list? You can’t have a list of things I can and can’t do,” he turned thoughtful, “… unless I can have one for you.”
He stole my decorative lamp and arranged some calla lilies and old fashioned roses around it. What else besides Dancey could he possibly not want me to bring up? My curiosity outweighed my natural reserve—like it usually did. “And what would you put on your list, Austen?”
He studied me, his hazel eyes clouded over with a look I couldn’t read, and he wrapped another ribbon around a flower. “I’ll come up with something. We’ll play it by ear.”
The musicians set up to the side of us. Working next to Austen, I let myself get lost in the peace of the afternoon. Before I knew it, we were both lying flat on our stomachs, twisting flowers into ribbons while listening to the musicians practice their music for tonight.
“Why can’t musicians play Led Zeppelin at these things?” Austen asked.
“Maybe,” I said sarcastically, “because that’s not music; it’s just noise.”
He twisted ribbon into two more calla lilies before tossing them aside. “I want to elope,” he said. I looked up quickly. “No offense to your career, but weddings are too stressful. I just want my friends and family to enjoy themselves. Maybe I’d throw a big cookout after I come back from my honeymoon.”
“Hmm.” I thought about the idea and imagined the most romantic elopement possible. First a proposal under a starlit sky, a hand taking mine, and then my beloved ushering me onto the nearest plane to a foreign country to seal the deal on a spur of the moment honeymoon. I smiled. “That does sound nice. Just get on a plane and go anywhere. Oh, I’d choose London! And then when I came back, I’d love to see everyone’s faces when I showed them my ring and said I was married.”
“London?” he asked.
“Nothing says romance more than London.” Or a guy from London.
He frowned. “Don’t even think about stealing my idea.”
I finished up the last of the calla lilies and gathered them around me. “You’re just mad because I made it better.”
He sat up when I did and slipped one of the old-fashioned roses off my leg. Austen studied it before sliding it into my hair. “Oh, my version’s definitely better.”
I felt his fingers leave my hair. Austen could’ve laid a kiss on me and I wouldn’t have been more astonished. I had told him that the flower-in-the-hair gesture was the most romantic thing I could think of. Why was he doing it now? To be nice—or was he using it against me?
My face was red—I felt it. Junie brought in cakes with the help of her fellow caterers. She had marbled the cakes with ribbons of frosting, and decorated the outside with a riot of real flowers and jeweled frosting. They were works of art.
Austen’s lips went up when she passed him. “Hello Junie.”
“Not Junie Be Fair?” she asked with a smile.
He shrugged. “Junie fits you better right now.” He pointed at the flowers in one of the cakes she held. “The flowers bloom when you’re near.”
She giggled.
I groaned. Once she was out of earshot, I turned to him. “I think I preferred Junie Be Fair.”
“No, nicknames are out. It’s on your list.” He picked up one of the lamps and put it on the table. He gave me a serious look. “I’ve figured out the first thing on my list. You can’t wear red.”
I glanced down at my red shirt. “Why?”
He leaned forward and whispered, “It looks too good on you. It’s not fair to the bride.” His eyes crinkled up to show me he was joking. He was such a flirt. He always was, but it didn’t amount to anything if there was nothing behind it. “You can’t wear it for another week,” he said.
I stared at him, trying to put it together. The wedding party would break up at the end of the week. That meant no more Dancey. Was Austen that concerned about me going out with the rock star that he had to tell me how to dress with him? I would’ve taken the flower out of my hair and thrown it at Austen, but knew I could never perform such sacrilege. I cleared my throat instead. “I changed my mind, Austen; you can use nicknames.” I stood up and shook out the candies in the bag onto the first table to show him how it was done. “And voila, we have our centerpiece.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Austen.”
I frowned at the nickname. “Does that mean I’m taking on your first name or are you calling me a romantic like Jane Austen?”
He treated me to a bland smile. “You decide.”
My shoulders tightened. I had to either let him torment me with a new nickname or not wear red for a week. “Fine,” I said. “I won’t wear red.”
I went to work on the next table, and he helped me, placing a hand on my back whenever he had to get past me to get more flowers. I tried not to react. If a touch meant nothing to him, it meant nothing to me. The next time he did it, he didn’t move away, as though he kept his hand resting on my back for the sake of convenience. Our movements quickly fell into sync after that, and the closeness between us felt so natural that it made me nervous. I didn’t want to fall for him again, and I rushed off to get more lamps, keeping out of Austen’s way so he wouldn’t add further upheaval to my world.
That didn’t stop him from making eyes at me from across the table. “Second thing on my list,” he said. His lips turned up with humor, and I got ready for something outrageous. “No wearing your hair down this week. Put it in a tight ponytail.”
“Back off!” Then I laughed. “What’s your problem? If you’re doing this because you’re worried about me attracting the wrong attention, then I’m not doing it.”
“It isn’t,” he said after a moment.
“Then why?”
“Your hair looks good up. You don’t do it enough.”
Now I knew he was lying. “Don’t wear red because it looks good? Wear my hair up because it does—all so I can keep you from calling me Mrs. Austen? I’m calling your bluff—you’d never call me that in public. It’s too much of a commitment for you. It’s like you’re claiming me.”
> “Hey, if the nickname doesn’t work, I’ll wear you down somehow. Don’t forget, we’ll be spending a lot of time together this week. I’m your slave after all.”
I liked that idea too much, and now it was time to get my revenge. Leaning closer to him and standing on tiptoes so that our eyes were almost level, I smiled, feeling the breath of his lips against mine. “Try to wear me down and I promise it will backfire on you.”
“I think I might enjoy that.” His eyes were on my lips, and I was just as shameless, my eyes drifting to his mouth, then back to the unspoken promise that I read in his expression. I remembered what he’d said about being able to feel a girl’s emotion behind her kiss. Would he know what I felt for him if I let this moment play through naturally?
My thoughts got caught in what he had said a few days earlier about how a kiss was meant to bring two people closer. There was no other meaning to it—no commitment, no promise of more.
And I was a romantic. Flowers in my hair meant something. Stolen glances. Long hugs. Holding hands—I was all about signs of affection. A kiss meant I gave someone my heart. Maybe that made me superstitious. Sure, it wasn’t as bad as thinking a photograph could steal my soul; but I sure thought a kiss could.
And he didn’t see it that way.
I lowered my lashes, feeling a deep disappointment pool at the pit of my stomach as I pulled away. His eyes mirrored that same disappointment, but he took on a casual look. “Does that mean we have a deal?”
It took me a second to realize that he was talking about the list; but it was uneven. I had only made one rule for him, and he had two for me. “I’ll only do it,” I said, “if you act the part of my perfect little wedding assistant for the whole week. No complaints or the deal is off.”
“You got it.” He sat back on the floor with the rest of the ribbon. “At least now I’m getting something out of it.”
Before I could ask him what he meant, a little girl wandered into Pemburkley Hall. It was one of Taylor’s flower girls. She sucked on the upper half of her hand, watching us with sober eyes.
Austen broke into an easy smile. “Looks like we’ve got a straggler. Text Taylor that we have one of her flower girls; tell her to bring us money in small, unmarked bills and we’ll return the girl in time for her wedding.”
I ignored him. “Hey,” I asked the little girl. “You lost?”
She didn’t answer and wandered over to us to point at the rose in my hair. “Pretty.”
I had almost forgotten it was there. I plucked up one of the calla lilies on the table and slid it into her baby-soft hair. “Now you’re pretty, too,” I said.
She stood a little straighter, her lips puckering out, looking very self-important. Austen leaned back on his elbows. “And another romantic is born,” he said.
“Don’t blame me for that. She’s a girl. It comes naturally.”
“I can fix that. Here comes a spider.” Austen’s hand crawled toward the little girl, making it look like a big, fat spider. “He likes flowers,” he said in a grumbly voice. He tried to steal the flower from her hair, and the little girl shrieked and smashed his hand flat. “That’s what I’m talking about.” Austen laughed. “I’ll make an Amazon woman out of her yet.”
She crushed his hand spider a few more times until I had to land on my knees and interfere with my own hand spider. It was a friendlier one and would dance in the ribbons and flowers to the beat of the wedding music until Austen’s hand spider went to attack it. The little girl shrieked out a warning, but I made sure that my hand spider was fast and would dance away in the nick of time.
Austen couldn’t take it. He wrapped his arms around my waist and slid me across the polished wooden floor, tucking me close to his side so that his hand spider could capture mine. With a start, I realized we weren’t dealing with spiders anymore—Austen and I were holding hands.
“Austen!” I said.
“Don’t worry,” he told the little girl. “That spider won’t get to your flowers!”
The little girl danced around us. “Thanksh!”
Austen looked sternly at my hand. “Be nice.” And then he lifted up my fisted fingers and kissed the knuckles. My whole body went weak. His fingers loosed from mine, and he winked at me as if he hadn’t just kissed my hand like a … like a man from my dreams.
The little girl sighed and brought her hands up in the air and twirled. “Now dance with her!” she commanded.
Austen watched me, the way Bigley looked at Taylor, the way my grandparents looked at each other, the way Darcy from Pride and Prejudice looked at Elizabeth. Before this moment, I’d never imagined that Austen would ever look at me this way. “There will be dancing tonight,” he reminded me.
“Who wants to wait for that?” I asked.
“You’re right; dancing is so dumb.”
That wasn’t what I meant, and he knew it. Still, the caterers were back with more food, and the last thing I wanted was to share this moment with any of them. I didn’t have to worry. Austen freed my hand. Footsteps traveled behind us and I turned, seeing Junie carry in another platter of food.
Austen turned professional. “Can we help you bring those in?” he asked her.
She gave me a knowing look, and I tried to appear more closed off because I was confused again. Jane. Junie. Jane. Junie. No wonder Austen had to give her a nickname to tell us apart. Was she the reason that Austen had let go of my hand?
“Austen, I would love your help,” Junie said.
I gathered the flowers so I could finish off the room. “Why don’t you help her, Austen?” I asked. I broke off in a light laugh. “And while you’re at it, make a list of demands she has to follow before you do it.”
Junie made a sound of disgust behind me and came up to Austen, a seductive swing to her hips. “I did promise that you could take me out to lunch today, Austen. We could head out to the beach after you help me take in the last of the food.”
Austen smiled up at her as though it was completely normal to end a flirt session with me to go on a lunch date with another woman. Junie watched him possessively, and I finally knew why she hated me: Austen. Was he playing us both?
I dropped the rest of my flowers on the refreshment table and took up the little flower girl’s hand. “I’d better return this little runaway before Taylor releases the search hounds. Have fun on your date with Junie, Austen.”
My disappointment leaked through the memory of our earlier laughter together. It was so easy to get caught up in the magic of Austen. He made it so that I couldn’t think about anyone else. I could feel Austen’s eyes on my back as I walked away, and I knew I had to find a way to forget about him. So far the only person to help me do that was Dancey, and if Austen could go after someone else, then so could I.
Chapter 12
“Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of.”
—Jane Austen, Emma
The glasses clinked together. Voices murmured. Soft music provided the perfect background for it all. Pemburkley Hall was completely transformed under the soft glow of the night. The little candles Austen had helped me stuff into the decorative lamps revealed faces that I was just beginning to recognize from the wedding party.
Since red was denied me, I wore a white dress with a flirty skirt. I had piled my auburn hair high on the top of my head and allowed the curls to escape down the side of my face. Taylor sat at the long table with Bigley at the front of the room. Her face was awash with a soft glow that I only noticed in women in love. Take that, Austen. Taylor was happy.
My heels clicked against the wooden floor on my way to the microphones. I tapped the mics to make sure that they were working. Everyone looked up at the noise, and I felt a flush of embarrassment creep up my neck. The tension from the guests was thick in this room, and I blamed it on the latest arrivals.
The Bigleys had come to town only hours earlier. Ann-Mari
e had breathlessly confided all the gory details to me. Bigley’s mother had checked in only moments after his father had stepped in with wife number two. The first Mrs. Bigley had taken one look at the second Mrs. Bigley and, without saying a word to her former husband, left for the beach, leaving instructions for Freddy to bring her luggage to her room without her. She hadn’t returned to the main house.
Judging by appearances alone, Bigley’s dad must like the blondes, since he’d married another one so soon after he divorced the first—though the second Mrs. Bigley looked to be a blonde in bottle only. The two women were near enough alike that they could be sisters, though years apart in age. Now all the Bigley women made a row of blondes to the left of their son. I wasn’t sure how they’d managed the seating arrangement, since we had tried to keep the bickering group apart.
Mrs. Bigley the First had claimed her son’s side. Bigley’s father sat next to her, nestled tightly between wife number one and number two. Either Bigley senior had no idea that his former and present wives were at war with each other or he thought that he could keep the peace by pretending that they weren’t. He smiled at the glowering women.
Mrs. Bigley the Second was tall and lanky; possibly a former model. She draped over Bigley senior’s arm like a second skin. Though she had a smile that seemed pleasant, her narrowed eyes told a different story. Wife number one was shorter and stouter, with more wrinkles. She groomed her son with tight, rough movements, undoing his tie and redoing it. The poor guy looked stressed.
I left the mic and went to their table to lean over Taylor. My long necklace brushed her shoulder. “Everyone here?”
“Where’s Dancey?” Bigley looked strangled by his mother’s hands. “If we’re doing speeches, I want him to say something.”
“Chuck, dear.” His mother smoothed down the invisible wrinkles on his jacket. “I don’t want a repeat of your sister’s wedding. Tell your father that he cannot have more than two glasses of Tequila sunrise if he’s going to speak.”
Bigley glanced over at his father, hesitated, and with his mother’s unrelenting eyes on him said, “Dad, what’s that you’re drinking?”
Jane and Austen Page 14