Olivia was looking at her in shock. “What in the world did that young man do to make you dislike him so much?”
“Let’s see. Where do I begin? Bawled me out for sitting in my own house. Told Jack he thought I wasn’t pretty enough for him. Broke into my house and ate one of the pies I made for my friends. And if all that weren’t enough, I think he did something in my bedroom that made him take his shirt off and throw it onto my roof. Is that enough reason to dislike him?”
“I should say so!” Olivia said. “Come on, let’s go and watch, and if he does a bad job we’ll throw popcorn at him.”
“Just so it isn’t a pie. He’d like that too much.”
Laughing, they went down the aisle to take seats by Kit at his desk.
The walls were lined with women who wanted to try out for Elizabeth, each one wearing varying degrees of fear and hope on her face. There was a two-page printout of the scene they were to use for the auditions, where Darcy says he wants to marry Elizabeth in spite of the fact that she is totally unsuitable to be his wife.
“None of them looks like she’d say no to him,” Casey said. “From the way they keep glancing at the curtain, I think they’re all hoping he asks them for real.”
“I have to say that, even at my age, I was ready to run away with Mr. Landers when he played Heathcliff.”
“You’ve seen his movies?” Casey asked.
“Of course. You haven’t?”
“No,” Casey said. “I’ve only seen him, and that was more than enough.”
“But shirtless, he is—”
Casey snorted. “I’ve seen him with clothes and without them, and it’s still no.”
“How in the world—?”
“Quiet on the set,” the stage manager shouted, and the curtain went up.
A young woman Casey had seen around town but didn’t know was sitting at a desk and writing with a quill pen. She had on one of the prop dresses that had been used for the Lydia auditions, and she looked good.
From the right, Tate walked onto the set—and a collective sigh went through the auditorium. He wore a Regency suit, and from the way it fit it seemed to have been custom made for him. His tight trousers smoothed down over his heavy thighs and into tall boots. A vest clung to his flat stomach, and a black j
acket showed off his broad shoulders.
Every eye was on the two people onstage.
When Tate spoke, his voice halted all motion. “?‘In vain I have struggled, but my feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’?”
Everyone stared at him, mouths agape. He sounded like a man who was truly in love and torn apart by it. The angst, the misery, and the love were all there.
The young woman playing Elizabeth looked at him in openmouthed astonishment—and said nothing.
Seconds clicked by and all she did was stare at Tate.
“?‘Sir, I thank you,’?” Kit prompted. She remained silent. “?‘I believe I should express my gratitude for your sentiments,’?” Kit said louder, “?‘even though I do not return them.’?”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered. “?‘I believe…’?” she began. “I mean, ‘I thank you.’?” She straightened her shoulders. “?‘I’m sorry I caused you pain, but I hope it doesn’t last long.’?”
She had skipped lines and misquoted, but worse, as she spoke she stepped toward Tate until she was almost touching him.
Through all of it, Tate never lost his look of anguish and love. Even when she touched his chest with her index finger, he didn’t break character.
“Cut!” Kit yelled.
Instantly, Tate stepped back from the woman, turned, and left the stage.
The young woman looked at Kit. “I’m sorry. I can do better. It was just such a shock that it really is him.”