Austenland (Austenland 1)

They stripped his bed and hung the sheets and bedspread on the curtain rod for “extra blue-light protection,” then turned the volume down so low they had to whisper not to drown out the announcer. She felt cozy and mischievous, watching the game in the dark apartment, hidden from that Mrs. Hannigan-of-a-proprietress, sipping a can of root beer from Martin’s minifridge.

“You drink root beer while you watch an NBA game? You are an American wannabe, aren’t you?”

“That is perhaps the most horrid thing you could say to an Englishman.”

“Worse than French wannabe?”

“Well, there is that.” He sipped his soda. “I spent a summer in America and one night drank two six-packs of root beer on a dare. After that, the formerly vile-cough-syrupy taste suddenly became appealing. But wait just a moment, Miss I’ve-Just-Come-From-A-Rather-Dull-Game-Of-Whist, who’s pointing fingers and calling me a wannabe of anything?”

“Yeah . . .” She smoothed the front of her empire waist and laughed at herself as best she could. “It’s, um, a Halloween costume. You know, trick or treat.”

“Ah,” he said. “And my interest in basketball is just, you know, research into a curious cultural phenomenon.”

“Pure research.”

“Absolutely.”

“But of course. Besides, you ruined me, you know. No wonder Wattlesbrook forbids anything modern to clash with the nineteenth century. Five minutes of conversation with you in the garden and I went cross-eyed trying to take myself seriously again in this getup.?

??

“I have that effect on a lot of women. All it takes is five minutes with me and—er . . . that didn’t sound right.”

“You’d better stop while you’re behind, there, sport.”

The television seemed to grow quieter, and they moved closer to it, from the couch to the carpet, and sitting on the floor with her corset still stiffening her back, she had to lean against him to be comfortable. And then his arm was around her shoulder, and his smell was delicious. She felt drunk on root beer, and soothed by the twitching of the tiny television. He started to play with her fingers, and she turned her head. Their breaths touched. Then their lips.

And then, they really made out.

It was fun, kissing a guy she barely knew. She’d never done this before, and it made her feel rowdy and pretty and miles removed from her issues. She didn’t think or fret. She just played.

“Good shot,” she said, her eyes closed, pretending to watch the game.

“Watch that defense,” he whispered, kissing her neck. An evening dress allowed for a lot of neck, and somehow he got it all. “Get the rebound, you clumsy oaf.”

And it was fun to stop kissing and look at each other, breathless, feeling the thrill and anticipation of the undone.

“Good game,” she said.

The television buzzed with static. She didn’t know how long the game had been over, but her heavy eyes and limbs told her that it was very late. She thought if she stayed longer, she would fall asleep on his chest, and because that idea pleased her, she left immediately. Her torso stiff inside her corset exoskeleton, he had to help her to her feet. With one hand, he pulled her onto her toes as though she were the weight of a pillow.

He walked her to the door and swatted her on the butt. “Good game, coach. See you tomorrow.”

“Um, who won?” she asked, indicating the television still droning angrily at having no picture to show.

“We did.”

Jane didn’t know what hour it was, since a timepiece wasn’t part of her wardrobe allotment, but the moon had moved considerably across the sky. Her arms bare below her thin sleeves, she shivered and crept across the courtyard, the whisper of the gravel path announcing her presence to any lurkers. She entered through the grand front door, clicking it closed behind her, and eased her slippers over the creaking boards.

It was strange creeping through that big house at night, and she had the itchy sensation of being watched or followed.

“Who’s there?” she asked once, feeling very “Turn of the Screw.” Did someone see her coming from Martin’s? Would she be sent home? Would he be fired?

No one answered.

She locked her chamber door behind her and didn’t bother to ring for Matilda as it was so late. It was impossible to do up her corset without help, but she had undressed alone, though somewhat awkwardly, on other occasions. Stripped to her chemise, she melted into the cool sheets. She could smell Martin on her hands, and she gleefully cozied into her pillows, enjoying the sensation of having recently been kissed.

Of course it meant nothing beyond the fun of it, because she’d given up on men and love, after all, and was quite firm with herself about hoping too much. But it had been nice. And a first for Jane—a harmless fling!