I crossed my arms over my chest, semi-annoyed by Lacey’s assumed interest in Jeremy. She’d already stolen my future fiancé, she’d better keep her mitts off my new Darcy if she knew what was good for her. “Did she paw at Harrison’s sleeve?”
“What?” Mitchell’s forehead crumpled into a frown.
“Lacey was doing that the other night,” I explained. “And calling him “Harry”? Bleck.”
“Egads, no. At least I didn’t hear that. I would have thrown up a little in my mouth,” Mitchell drawled. He set Ms. Julia on the counter and adjusted her tiny cap. After that was done, the little dog trotted over to her fancy, hot-pink velvet bed that rested on the corner of the countertop, hopped inside, turned around a couple of times and snuggled down.
“Are you making Lacey’s clothes?” I asked Mitchell.
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t work for that crazy even if she asked me.” He stuck his nose in the air. “She has some Hollywood costume designer working on it. She’s been flying the woman in for fittings. Must be nice.”
I put my hand over Mitchell’s and squeezed. I could tell he was a little jellie. “You’re better than any Hollywood costume designer, Mitchy.”
He batted his eyelashes at me. “Oh, thank you, sweetie. I just couldn’t live out there in all that tinsel. And don’t get me started on the Scientologists. I so wish I could save that cutie John Travolta from them.”
I opened my mouth to reply when Jeremy pushed back the curtain of the dressing room and stepped out. My gaze swung to him and I swallowed. Hard. Standing about twenty feet in front of us was the hottest Mr. Darcy I’d ever seen. Tight, buff-colored breeches that hugged every curve and left nothing to the imagination, a white shirtfront, a sapphire blue overcoat, a perfectly starched white cravat and the black boots he’d brought with him to finish the look. My mouth was dry. Dryer than dry. There might have been a tiny trail of smoke coming out of the side of it as if an itty-bitty wildfire had started inside due to conditions being right.
Without taking his eyes from Jeremy, Mitchell squeezed my hand again. “Dear Lord, Miss Meggie, have you ever seen anything like it?”
“No,” I breathed. “No. I have not.”
We both tried to compose ourselves while Jeremy came strolling toward us. “What do you think?” he asked with a wide grin.
“I think I just had a little orgasm,” Mitchell whispered to me. He bit his fist.
“What was that?” Jeremy asked.
“Nothing,” Mitchell said more loudly. “You look great. Don’t you think so, Meg?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” Those were the only words that I could force out of my still ridiculously dry throat.
“It feels better than I thought. I thought it might be awkward, but I’m kinda digging it,” Jeremy said, stopping in front of us.
“I’m digging it, too,” Mitchell breathed. “Turn around,” he ordered. “Let’s see the cut of the coat in the back.”
Jeremy dutifully spun around, and Mitchell and I both knew neither of us was looking at the cut of the coat. “Now lift it,” Mitchell ordered. Jeremy dutifully complied with that order too. Of course we were looking at his butt. His perfect, round, fully-outlined-in-the-tightest-of-tight-breeches butt. We both sighed simultaneously.
“Is it good?” Jeremy asked.
Mitchell leaned his chin on his open palm, his elbow braced on the countertop in front of him. “Oh, it’s so good.”
“Perfect,” I breathed.
Jeremy turned to face us. “The pants feel a little tight, but—”
“Breeches,” I said. “They’re called breeches. And they look perfect. They would have been worn that tight during the Regency, trust me.”
“Thank God,” Mitchell breathed, fanning himself with his ubiquitous handkerchief.
“Right, breeches,” Jeremy said. “I’ll remember that. This is what I’ll wear during the costume competition, right?”
“Yes,” I answered. “It’s perfect. Next you should try on the clothing you’ll wear during the acting part.”
“The green waistcoat, right?” Jeremy asked, studying my heated face with slight puzzlement.
“Emerald,” Mitchell corrected. “I don’t have your formal wear for the grand ball done yet, but it’ll be ready before you leave, I promise.”
Jeremy nodded and stalked back toward the dressing room to try on his next look. Mitchell and I watched him go, our heads tilted to the sides in matching angles. I swear Ms. Julia was watching too.
“Are the breeches for this one as tight?” I asked Mitchell as soon as Jeremy was out of earshot.
“Girl, you know it.” He waved his handkerchief at me and giggled.
I rubbed my hands together with glee. “I feel kinda bad objectifying this poor guy, but Holy Mary, Mother of God, he looks good in breeches.”
“Agree,” Mitchell said. “And anyone who looks that good should be appreciated for the fine specimen he is. Let’s take pictures this time.” Mitchell grabbed his cell phone from underneath the counter.
“Ooh, good idea,” I replied. “Though I’m pretty sure I’m going to hell for this.”
“I’ll be right there with you, sister.”
“At least I’ll be in good company, then.” I especially felt guilty at the knowledge that while I’d found Harrison handsome when he’d tried on his Regency clothing, I’d never been this slobbery and lecherous.
“I should keep on the cravat, right?” Jeremy called from the dressing room.
“Yes, please,” Mitchell replied in his singsong Southern voice. Then he turned to me. “Girl, I hope you know it’s going to take every ounce of your self-control to keep your hands off this Darcy in England.”
I bit my lip and whimpered. I was afraid that Mitchell was right.
Chapter 18
Friday night
We spent the rest of the week practicing our runway walks, going over our lines, and dancing. Every night, Jeremy and I broke our time into thirds and did all three, with a bit more time spent waltzing to make sure we had the moves down pat. We spoke with English accents as much as possible and laughed uproariously when we mispronounced words or said mundane things like, “Please pass the ketchup,” in the manner of a time-traveling Jane Austen.
On Friday night, Ellie came over again to help us practice whist. It would be our only other opportunity to practice because Luke was leaving for Nashville in the morning. This time Luke and Ellie managed to beat us, which had me feeling all sorts of nervous. Had our initial win been a fluke? Nigel and Mary, one of the couples from the Austen Society who would be in the competition, were crack whist players. Jeremy and I had to be good if we were going to beat them, not just okay.
I was cleaning up the cards when Luke came banging down the stairs with his beat-up, crappy-looking suitcase.
“What are you doing?” Ellie asked, watching him, her arms tightly folded across her chest.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m packing.” He pulled the suitcase into the living room, hoisted it onto the leather club chair and opened it.