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“OK, print that one, great job!” Reeve calls, after Lizzy and Jane climb into a carriage for the fifteenth time—as the Bingley sisters watch, smirking from the doorway. “Let’s take twenty and reset for the carriage exit.”
There’s a hum of voices and activity as the actresses carefully disembark in their full skirts, and the animal handlers jump in to tend to the horses, which are polished and braided and gleaming in new livery that, I’m pleased to note, is perfectly accurate. Which reminds me…
“Hazel!” I call, spotting her over by the doorway. “Where can I find—OOF.”
I walk straight into a brick wall and stumble hard.
“Easy there,” a Scottish voice sounds, and then a pair of large, strong hands are holding me firmly by the shoulders, keeping me from falling flat on my ass.
Correction: Not a brick wall.Just six-foot-two of tall, brawny muscle, hidden behind another crisp designer suit.
Fraser.
Shit. I look up into his eyes at about the same time they flash with surprise and recognition.
“Sorry!” I blurt, overwhelmed by the sudden feel of him, achingly familiar. I’m cradled in his arms for a moment, so close I can feel the heat of him, the solid power—
Fraser releases me, snatching away as if he’s been burned. “Watch where you’re going,” he says curtly, a tense look on his handsome face. “There’s expensive equipment here.”
“You’re the one who got inmyway.” I glare, and he gives me a look.
“It’s not a contest, Jolene.”
There it is again, the sound of my name rolling off his tongue, the way only he could say it. My skin prickles hotly. Dammit.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say primly. “I have to go. I’m needed. Urgently. Over there.” With a vague gesture, I barrel past him, across the lawn, and up the stairs to the nearest trailer. I fling open the door and hurtle inside the dim space as I slam it shut behind me and try to catch my breath.
“Real professional, JJ,” I mutter to myself, closing my eyes. “Running away. That’ll show him.”
“Show who?”
My eyes fly open. Our Mr. Darcy, aka Hugo Chambers, is sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat in the middle of the floor, dressed in a lurid neon sweatsuit with gold gel patches under his eyes.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I thought this was hair and makeup, or storage, or someplace I could hide.”
Looking around now, it’s clear that this is star territory: A plush couch occupies one wall, there’s a lavish minibar situation with fruit baskets aplenty, and all kinds of swag bags and samples.
“Help yourself,” Hugo says cheerfully, clocking me checking out the spread. “My assistant brings new packages every day, and there’s a limit to how much moisturizer a man can use without breaking out.”
“Umm, thanks.” I blink. “But I’ll get out of your hair. I don’t want to interrupt… Whatever it is you’re doing.”
“It’s like a meditation-slash-pump-up session.” Hugo untwists himself from the pretzel and gets up, stretching. “I like to take a moment to get into character before my scenes. Think brooding, emotionally constipated thoughts, and all that.”
I laugh, relaxing. I’ve been a little starstruck by Hugo’s aristocratic good looks and poise on set, but it’s hard to be intimidated by a man with Korean skincare products plastered to his face. “You were brooding great in rehearsals,” I offer. “And you managed to convey a really fun playfulness in Darcy’s tone. So many actors play him all straitlaced, but it’s fun to see the glimpse of him more at ease, and how Lizzy brings it out of him.”
“Yes, exactly!” Hugo’s face lights up with a smile. “That’s what I thought when I read the script. It’s not all stiff and stoic. He has a fun side, too.” He opens one of the fruit baskets, and offers me some designer strawberries. “So, who were you escaping from just now?”
“Oh, nobody. Just movie stuff,” I say quickly. I know I should probably leave him to his A-list splendor, but Fraser might still be lurking out there, so I take Hugo up on his invitation, and join him on the couch for a snack. “I loved you inBrothers of Mercy, by the way,” I tell him, naming the prestigious WWII miniseries that catapulted him to fame.
“Thank you,” Hugo smiles. “Although, to be honest, spending three months crawling through the mud for that show was far less intimidating than trying to step into Darcy’s breeches.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because he’s an icon,” Hugo explains. “And Austen fans have some very particular ideas about how he should be portrayed.”
I shake my head. “You can’t think about that. I mean, yes, there are some very opinionated people in certain corners of the internet, but Darcy is more of a vibe than a person.”
“A vibe?” Hugo repeats, looking amused.
