The Grumpy Count, page 6
The extra looks at Peter and then at me. Peter’s jaw begins to tremble. I desperately rack my brain for a polite way to put Jonas back on track.
He’s supposed to dance with Elizabeth now!
But before I can act, he bows to me. “You promised me this dance, Miss Bingley. May I have the honor?”
All I can do at this juncture is follow him to the dance floor. I take his offered hand, and we are off, my heart beating faster as we reach the center of the room. He looks so confident and determined even as he’s bungling the scene that I can’t help but wonder if something has come up. Are his actions warranted? Did Sandra convey to him to ask me instead of Elizabeth for this dance? Does he know something that the rest of us don’t?
The musicians play an upbeat melody, and within seconds, the entire hall is swept up in Julia’s modified country dance. We start out by circling each other slowly and gracefully. A few lively jumps follow, and then we turn and twirl, our footwork and arm movements matched to the beat. Jonas is svelte and nimble on his feet, his sense of rhythm pitch-perfect, and his guidance unobtrusively effective. Dancing with him is so utterly fulfilling that I forget to worry, and just indulge myself, luxuriating in the pure joy of this suspended moment.
Around us, pairs glide across the floor in sync. The extras who signed up to dance all seem to have followed Julia’s online tutorials. They still look to the professional actors for cues, but they aren’t completely lost. They practiced at home without a doubt.
Remembering myself, I scan the crowd for Elizabeth. She’s dancing with Larry. Ha-ha, Mr. Collins saves the day. Thank God!
“What are you doing?” I cover my mic and whisper to Jonas as we draw closer mid-figure. “Why are you dancing with me?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“I’ll count on it, Mr. Darcy.”
We perform the Regency high five, step away, spin, and continue the dance. I’m flying across the floor, light on my feet, almost levitating in a dreamlike sequence, when my peripheral sight registers something odd. I’m drawing a bit of attention.
Is it because Mr. Darcy picked me for this dance?
But then the looks I’m getting would be envious. As it happens, they are not. I’d describe them as ill at ease and… pitying? A nondancing audience member shifts her gaze away from me and says something in her friend’s ear. The friend shoots me a look of guilty amusement like when someone slips on a banana peel, and we feel sorry for them, but we also find it funny.
What the hell?
Through a canned smile plastered to my face, I whisper again, “Is something wrong with my hairdo? Is my makeup running?”
“No.”
Then why am I getting those looks?
One more sequence and the dancers will switch partners. That means I’ll have to wait, perhaps until the intermission, to find out what’s going on. Blimey!
Jonas takes my hand and twirls with me across the room and away from the dancing crowd. As we make our way off the dance floor and to the wall, I do my best to act like this is what we’re supposed to do. Moving together in harmony, Jonas and I reach the door. He pushes it open, and we sneak out.
As he pulls the door shut, I detach and turn off my mic.
“What just happened?”
“Something happened to your dress,” he says after muting his own mic.
I look down.
“Behind,” he clarifies.
I dart to the same mirror I’d used to check my appearance less than an hour ago, turn my back to it, and look over my shoulder.
Oh God.
A bright red stain is gracing my immaculate gown at the level of my bum like a botched flag of Japan! Clearly, my period came a full week early. Which never happens. Never! I’m timed like a Swiss cuckoo clock.
Why now?
Why, in the hundreds of months in which my period could’ve started early since I was thirteen, did it have to be now? Why did it have to pick this month and this day? This accident could’ve happened during one of the rehearsals, or during the test performance yesterday. But no, it does this on opening night when I’m wearing a cream muslin dress and performing in front of a real audience. In front of Jonas.
Oh, the shame!
“Do you have what you need?” he asks.
“Yes, in my room.”
“Go! I’ll find Tami in the meantime so she can prep another gown for you.”
A part of me marvels at his presence of mind in this situation. Another part remembers he’s supposed to be in the room flirting with Elizabeth right now.
Luckily, Sandra rushes toward us, eyes wide. I point at the stain. Comprehension slackens her face.
“Wasn’t due for another week,” I mumble so she wouldn’t think me a careless fool.
“Stress or stage fright can do that.” She turns to Jonas. “Off to the hall with you! I’ll get Tami.” She shifts her eyes to me, motioning to the staircase. “Run along! Meet me in the costume shop!”
I race upstairs to my room, where I rummage through my suitcase in search of the tampon box. There! Grabbing one, I dash to the bathroom down the hallway, and then to the costume shop.
And all the while, I keep thinking, That’s why he was staring at me. He was trying to communicate, to warn me. But I was too dense. Seeing my inability to catch his drift, he took drastic action to spare me further embarrassment.
I don’t think I’ve felt more foolish in my entire life than I do now.
CHAPTER 11
MARGOT
We finished the talkback with the audience, held our own postshow debrief over dinner in the kitchen, and then everyone in the cast and crew headed upstairs to the bar to unwind.
I said I’d join them later. But I won’t—tummy ache. Not that menstrual cramps have never kept me from doing what I burn to do, but the truth is, I don’t burn to be around people tonight.
Objectively, the performance went well. My setback kept me away from the field for a total of fifteen minutes, not more. When I burst into the costume shop, Tami and Sandra had readied a new attire for me. Less chic than the one I’d ruined, it was still fine enough for Caroline.
They helped me into it, taking care to preserve my updo, and sent me to the frontline. Back in the Sky Hall, I rallied miraculously and delivered the best act I could. Jonas lost interest in me and lavished Elizabeth with his attention. No other accidents arose until the final round of applause died down three hours later and the audience vacated the premises.
So yes, objectively, we have cause for celebration. But I’m too exhausted both mentally and physically to partake in it. Instead, I lie down for a bit, sit around for another bit, and then pace my room, which tonight seems more confined than before.
It doesn’t help that I’ve now realized who occupies the bedroom next to my walk-in closet. It’s the master bedroom, by the way. And the person sleeping in there is the master of the house, Count Jonas d’Alenq. The insufferable macho man who’s been playing a nerve-racking game of hot looks and cold quips with me for a week now. The overbearing toff who saw a blot on me—quite literally—and exfiltrated me before it got worse.
I lie down on the bed and stretch out again.
Does he know it’s me sleeping in his dressing room?
Oh well, it doesn’t matter. In the morning, he appears later than the rest of us, goes in earlier in the evening, and makes little noise. Even when he calls his son, he keeps his voice down. I can’t make out what they talk about except when Matteo’s boyish voice rings in the room just before Jonas switches to the headphones.
Once again, it doesn’t matter. Jonas isn’t even in his room right now. He’s in the bar, celebrating with the others and being the object of incessant seduction attempts by Melody, Tami and Hyacinth… Oh, and there’s also that pretty blonde that came by a few days ago.
You know what? They can have him! Together, separately, at once, or in turn—I don’t care. I’m done obsessing about that man.
I jump to my feet to resume my pacing when an image of a space that’s bigger, cozier, and a lot lovelier than this closet takes shape in my mind.
The library on the second floor. Woohoo!
Jonas said we could go there to relax or meditate as long as we didn’t smoke or touch his fragile antique books. That’s where I need to be tonight, in that library among leather-bound volumes and colorful rugs, meditating.
I stick my phone in the pocket of my jeans and head downstairs, praying that no one had the same idea and got there first.
Luckily, the library is empty. I turn on the lamp on the mahogany table, pull the door shut, and take a slow, meditative walk around the room.
On my second round, I trail the tips of my fingers along the wall-to-wall shelves, feeling the wood. It’s polished to a shine and smooth to the touch. A little cold though. This room would be perfect if a fire were in that gorgeous hearth, no doubt as old as the house. I squat in front of the cast-iron grate and imagine flames behind it, crackling and spitting. On the other hand, it’s probably safer this way. Would be a shame if the precious volumes in this room went up in flames.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were here,” someone says behind me.
Jonas! It’s his voice.
I rise to my feet. “I thought you were partying with everyone else…”
“You stay,” we say in chorus, moving to the door and bumping into each other. “I’ll leave!”
Awkward smiles and apologies ensue. I finally take a proper look at him. Gone are Mr. Darcy’s linen shirt, silk vest, and breeches. Jonas is now wearing a crisp white cotton shirt tucked into a pair of dark blue jeans. I can’t help but soak in the delicious sight of him as he stands there against the backdrop of rows of books. His shirt gives off a subtle sheen in the light of the table lamp, drawing attention to his V-shaped torso that tapers to narrow hips and long, strong legs.
Sharply, I look up at his face.
His dark hair is still artfully curled from the show, adding an air of romantic, Byronesque sophistication to his already tantalizing look.
The fake sideburns are no more.
Hi there, evening stubble! How remarkably you accentuate the jawline which I declare chiseled uncommonly well!
Oh, great. Now I’m drooling over his jawline and expressing myself like Caroline.
Embarrassed, I break the silence. “Jonas, this is your home, and there is no way I’m chasing you from your own library. You’ve been gracious enough.”
I take a step toward the door, but he grabs my wrist and pulls me back. “Stay.”
CHAPTER 12
MARGOT
My mind flounders. The skin of my wrist, where Jonas is holding me, feels like it’s on fire. His throaty command—or was it a plea—rings in my ears.
What should I do? How should I react to Jonas’s unexpected move? Should I yank my hand away? Should I leave it in his firm grip?
What should I say? It’s equally daunting to find words as it is to decide on a gesture.
While I dither, he releases my wrist. “I just wanted to say that I was impressed by how neatly you inserted your lines and caught up after your accident.”
“Thank you.” I draw in a breath. “And, since we’re talking about it, thank you for what you did there, saving me from further humiliation.”
“Very few people had noticed anything by the time we waltzed out.”
I give him a lopsided smile. “More than a few! I caught their looks. It just didn’t occur to me why they were looking at me like that.”
“It’s probably going to ruin whatever little reputation I have with you, but I’ve got to say…” Pausing, he scrunches up his face in a sexy way that triggers all sorts of unwanted reactions in me.
“Go on, say it.”
“I’m so glad I’m not a woman,” he blurts. “Bleeding every month? For days on end? Sometimes ahead of schedule, sometimes late?” He winces. “My sister Celeste abhors her periods.”
“As do I.”
“Really?”
The surprise in his eyes makes me laugh. “Just because I’m a feminist doesn’t mean I love every aspect of womanhood.”
He heads to the plush settee in the nook and settles at one end. “Is there an aspect besides menstruation that you don’t love?”
“Are we talking only morphology or also psychology? Like how female rivalry always trumps female solidarity?” I sit down at the other end.
“Only morphology for now.”
“When puberty hit me at twelve, I was nowhere near ready,” I say. “In my head, I was still a child, but my body was becoming that of a woman, and I resented it so much! I resisted it, too.”
“Resisted? How?”
“Where do I begin? I spent hours in the bathroom, wallowing in self-pity. I bound my breasts, so they’d be less visible. I even considered suicide.”
He cocks his head. “Was it that bad?”
“Worse.”
I go on detailing all the big and small things I hated about my excruciating metamorphosis from girl to woman. Jonas listens intently without interrupting. His dark gaze grows so unexpectedly and uncharacteristically warm that I don’t know what to do with it or with myself.
It also occurs to me that after talking for twenty minutes with this macho, I’ve shared more with him than with Peter over the hours and hours of conversations we’ve had every evening at the bar.
How can that be?
Peter is such an open-minded, sensitive man! We have so much in common! And I trust him. I have strictly nothing in common with Jonas. Nor do I trust him. Nor am I in an exceptionally chatty mood tonight. I came here instead of going to the bar precisely because I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
Then why am I opening up like this? What’s going on here?
Well… Jonas is asking questions. And I’m answering them. And he isn’t interrupting me with his own stories. He’s just sitting here listening to me. It’s really that dumb.
“You were fortunate in your misfortunes,” he says when I’m done with my inventory of woes.
“How so?”
“Your parents didn’t overreact.”
“My dad traveled a lot for work at the time and knew nothing of my tribulations. As for my mom…” Realizing something, I narrow my eyes at him. “Wait, what did you mean by overreacting?”
“They could’ve told you that you might be a man trapped in a woman’s body, and that there was a way to permanently fix that.”
I picture my mom saying such things, and it makes me smile.
“What?” He surveys my face. “Is your mom a bigoted male chauvinist like me?”
The idea wins him an amused snort. “My mom is a meek, self-effacing pushover, too accommodating and eager to please my dad, too financially dependent on him to express strong opinions.”
“Terrible!”
“Worse than terrible. She won’t even dare to form one. Her comfort zone is a place with the least amount of risk and responsibility as she can possibly have.”
“That was harsh. And”—he squints looking for the right word—“needlessly condescending.”
“Was it? I don’t think so.”
“Do your parents get along?” he asks. “Do they love each other? Does your dad treat your mom with respect?”
“Yes,” I reply honestly.
“Has your dad ever done anything to hurt or humiliate your mom, be it privately or publicly, on purpose or simply because the entitled scumbag never stopped to consider the devastation his lack of self-restraint would cause his family?”
It’s my turn to survey his face. “Are we still talking about my dad?”
He looks away.
OK, I won’t insist.
“My dad is nothing like the man you described,” I say. “However, some women don’t need to be victimized to act like victims. Patriarchy is upheld by women who choose to pander to men, even when they don’t have to.”
Jonas’s attentive gaze settles on me again.
“Let me give you a concrete example,” I say. “My younger sister Doreen, the Caroline Bingley of our time.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Aha?”
“She’s a high achiever, a career woman who makes a lot more than I do,” I explain. “And yet she never misses an opportunity to ingratiate herself with Dad or with other men in positions of power.”
Jonas’s eyes glint with mischief. “Whereas you, Margot Nolan, would rather self-combust than do anything that might look like you’re ingratiating yourself with a man.”
You think you’re funny?
Well, he is, a little bit, but I’m not going to smile and give him the satisfaction of acknowledging that fact.
I hold his eyes. “You think you know me, huh?”
“I do.” He scoots close enough to rasp in my ear, “But you can prove me wrong right away.”
“How?”
“Go ahead and ingratiate yourself to me.”
We stare at each other.
My voice suddenly coarse, I ask, “Just out of curiosity, how would you suggest I do that?”
“You could, for example…” His gaze never leaving mine; he touches the back of his hand to my cheek and slides it down to my chin, in a slow, unbearably sensual way that makes my breath catch in my throat.
“For example, what?” I manage.
His fingers trace the outline of my cheek and jaw. He pulls away just enough to get a better look at me. The intensity of his gaze wreaks havoc on me, making my heart dance a furious quadrille in my chest.
He leans in, his lips hovering just above mine. “For example… You could kiss me.”
Who needs a fire in the grate when the air between us sizzles with sexual tension? My heart is pounding harder still. I’m acutely aware of his breath on my cheek. The intoxicating smell of his cologne fills my nostrils. It grounds me in the moment, making the world around the settee fade away.
Jonas’s hand tightens around the nape of my neck, and he pulls me closer. The air between us is warm with the heat radiating from him. It’s electrified, thick with his want. And with mine.
