Austenland (Austenland 1)

“Mr. Nobley,” Miss Heartwright intoned with the sweetest of smiles, “you at least I can entice for a short round of speculation.”

For her, Mr. Nobley put down his book and joined the card table. The sight of it made Jane declare she would retire early. This time she stopped in her chamber for her pelisse and bonnet.

It was a relief to be outdoors. In the chill and dark, the world seemed closer, intimate. She shivered and walked until her blood warmed and helped her fight the ache of vulnerability. She wished for Molly, a best friend who’d laugh with her over her Martin mistake and loyally find Jane faultless and everyone else in the wrong.

She’d meant to avoid the servants’ quarters, really she had, but she was lost in imaginings of some sort of violently gorgeous triumph—she’d be the prettiest one at the ball, all the actors would really fall in love with her, and she’d say no to them all and leave Pembrook Park a whole woman who buries all her teenage fantasies in one fell swoop . . . And she came upon Martin’s window, dark as the sky. No, there was a flicker, a gray haze of light. Did he have the bedspread up? Did he get a new television? Should she knock and apologize for being freak-out Jane and see if they could start over again or just skip to the making out part? In her current state—jilted in England and wearing Regency dress—Jane found she had a difficult time rating that proposal on her list of all-time bad ideas.

The quiet and cold washed over her, and she stood by his window, waiting for a decision to bite her. In some tree, a bird croaked a suggestion. Jane wished she spoke Bird.

“What are you doing?”

“Ya!” said Jane, whirling around, her hands held up menacingly.

It was Mr. Nobley with coat, hat, and cane, watching her with wide eyes. Jane took several quick (but oh so casual) steps away from Martin’s window.

“Um, did I just say, ‘Ya’?”

“You just said ‘Ya,’” he confirmed. “If I am not mistaken, it was a battle cry, warning that you were about to attack me.”

“I, uh . . .” She stopped to laugh. “I wasn’t aware until this precise and awkward moment that when startled in a strange place, my instincts would have me pretend to be a ninja.”

Mr. Nobley put the back of his hand to his mouth to cough. Or was it really a laugh? No, Mr. Nobley had no sense of humor.

“Excuse me, then, I probably have a secret mission somewhere.” She started to walk past him toward the house, but he grabbed her arm to stop her.

“Wait just a moment, please.” He looked around as if making sure they weren’t observed, then led her rather forcefully to the side of the house where the moon and lamplight did not touch them.

“Let go!”

He did. “Miss Erstwhile, I believe it is in your best interest to tell me what you are doing out here.”

“Walking.” She glared. She did not particularly enjoy being dragged by her arm.

His eyes darted to the servants’ quarters. To Martin’s exact window. It made her swallow.

“You are not doing something foolish, are you?”

In fact, she was, but that didn’t mean she had to stop glaring.

“I don’t know if you realize,” he said in his unbearably condescending tone, “but it is not proper for a lady to be out alone after dark and worse to cavort with servants . . .”

“Cavort?”

“When doing so might lead to trouble of the worst nature . . .”

“Cavort?”

“Look,” he said, slipping into slightly more colloquial tones, “just stay away from there.”

“Aren’t you all righteous concern, Mr. Nobley? Five minutes ago, I’d planned on changing careers and becoming a dairymaid, but you’ve saved me from that fate. I’ll kindly release you back to the night and return to my well-bred ways.”

“Don’t be a fool, Miss Erstwhile.” He returned the way he’d come, from the back of the house.

“Insufferable,” she said under her breath.

No, she wasn’t going to go to Martin’s, curse him, but she wasn’t going to run back to her room either, if just to spite Mr. Nobley. The man deserved to be spited. Or spitted. Or both. Though boring and cold and hateful, Mr. Nobley was the most Darcy-esque of them all, so she despised him with vigorous enthusiasm. Perhaps, she hoped, the exercise would count toward therapy and her ultimate Austenland recovery.

“Grab my arm, will he?” she said, getting a speck of satisfaction by muttering like an old crazy woman. “Call me a fool . . .”