What Would Jane Austen Do? (28 page)

   Then quickly, before she could change her mind, she undid the hooks and snaps and slipped off her amber silk gown, laying it gently next to her accessories. Her chemise, corset, underdress, and stockings covered her more than if she had worn a pair of shorts and tank top to the grocery store. Not to mention what she would wear to the beach or at the pool. When she turned to face Shermont, he raised an eyebrow.

   "One should never wear a ball gown to a picnic," she said in imitation of Mrs. Holcum's most proper upper crust tone. Eleanor retrieved her glass and sat on the blanket, her legs decorously curled to one side.

   "Correct attire is always essential," Shermont agreed, removing his coat and laying it on the bench beside her dress. He sat down on the blanket across from her.

   Eleanor clasped her hands in her lap. "What does one do on a moonlight picnic?"

   "Drink champagne," he said, holding out her glass after topping it off. He raised his glass in a toast. "To your beautiful eyes."

   "Thank you." Although she had a good idea where he was leading, she wasn't going to let him off easy. "What else?"

   "Your delectable lips."

   "No," she said with a little shake of her head. "I wasn't fishing for another compliment, but I do thank you. I meant, what else do we do?"

   "I thought we might get to know each other. You are quite a mystery."

   "Me?"

   "What do you enjoy doing? I only know you don't play the pianoforte or croquet, and you don't shoot a bow."

   "Was I that bad at croquet?"

   "Actually, you did quite well for someone who watched others for direction on what to do."

   "You noticed that." She ducked her head.

   "I am aware of everything you do."

   Unsure how to respond, she directed the focus of the conversation to him. "What do you like to do?"

   "You first."

   "I like to read and sew." She could hardly tell him she liked to rollerblade or go bicycling with friends. "I like to watch the sunset on the beach." And drink margaritas on the patio of a little Mexican restaurant. She smiled at the memory of the
bon voyage
party her friends had thrown there.

   Shermont furrowed his brow. "If you live… how could…"

   Oops. She realized she couldn't have lived on the West Coast of America during the Regency period, and the sun would rise over the water on the eastern shore. "It's something I remember from my child hood and hope to do again soon. When I get back to a place where that's possible," she said to cover her
faux pas.

   "Oh. Do you have a trip to the coast planned? I remember Huxley said something about going to see the butterflies in a fortnight."

   Eleanor shook her head. "I hope to be hard at work in a few weeks."

   "Work?" He was taken aback.

   Another slip of the tongue, but one she couldn't cover easily. "I'm starting my own dressmaking busi ness. I suppose you think that scandalous."

   He shook his head. "No. And that's one reason I'm fairly certain I wasn't born to the aristocracy. I don't have their inbred aversion to commerce."

   "Enough about me. What do you do for recreation?"

   "The usual. I typically ride in Hyde Park early in the morning before the see-and-be-seen set hits the Serpentine Path. Spend time at my club. I spar several times a week at Gentleman Jim's. Keep up with social obligations." He shrugged. "I enjoy the racing season."

   "You play cards?" she prompted.

   "On occasion."

   "That all sounds rather frivolous. And you don't impress me as a trivial person."

   He gave her a sharp look that said he wasn't used to his façade being questioned. His astonishment was quickly replaced by a bland expression. "I am cognizant of the responsibilities of my title. A great number of livelihoods depend on the success of the Shermont estates. If Parliament is in session, I attend to my duties in the House."

   She sensed he was hiding something. "And do you find that fulfilling?"

   Shermont glanced down at his now empty glass. Her question went directly to the heart of his issue with the title. He understood hobnobbing with the nobility was the only way to ferret out those who had no problem betraying their country for Napoleon's gold, the privileged few averse to doing an honest day's labor. Scovell was certain the foreign agents reached into the highest level of the aristocracy.

   If she had been any other female of his acquain tance, he would have brushed aside her question with a witty reply, dismissing good deeds. But, for whatever reason, he wanted her to think better of him.

   "To my surprise, I found myself involved in the cause of compulsory education for all children," he said. "Although we are years away from passing an act, the groundwork is laid. I think nationwide literacy will influence the future for the better, and I find that rewarding."

   "I think that's admirable."

   Although he basked in her approving smile, he knew he should change the subject before he revealed too much. His goal was to get her to divulge her secrets, not vice versa.

   "We are too serious for a discussion held in the moonlight." He pulled the basket toward him and unpacked it. "One must have food on a picnic. Sandwich?" He held out a plate.

   Eleanor was baffled by the sudden change. Yet her time with him was limited, and she wanted to get to the seduction part of the picnic that she'd expected and hoped was coming. She played along. "What kind of sandwich?"

   Shermont opened one. "Some sort of paté."

   Although the little triangle and circle shapes were attractive, she declined.

   "Here we go. Biscuit?"

   Eleanor took a cookie from the second plate and nibbled on the edge.

   "And the
pièce de résistance.
" He removed two more objects from the basket with a flourish. From one bowl he chose a perfect strawberry, dipped it in the smaller dish of clotted cream, and held it out.

   Her hands were full, so she opened her mouth to take a bite. Thankfully, she didn't close her eyes. A big dollop of cream slipped off the strawberry. With a small cry of dismay, she dropped the cookie and caught the gooey blob in her palm before it landed on her clothes.

   Shermont tried to prevent the messy accident by lunging forward. Halfway prone, his outstretched hand came up underneath hers.

   That spark, no less intense because of its familiarity, leaped at first contact.

   He gazed at her and after a heartbeat flashed a mischievous grin. He tipped her hand toward him and licked the cream from her palm, lapping with quick thrusts and then using the length of his tongue.

   The touch of his mouth sent goose bumps up her arm. He followed with warm kisses from her wrist to her shoulder, stopping at that sensitive spot below her ear. Strange how shivers could heat her blood so quickly.

   She tipped her head to allow him easier access. She melted and raised her arms to wrap them around his neck.

   Suddenly he rolled away, thereby avoiding the stream of champagne she would have dumped inad vertently down his back.

   "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, watching the wet stain spread on the blanket and scrambling backward to get out of its path. "I totally forgot I had the glass in my hand."

   "No harm done," he said. In truth, he'd been saved only by a stroke of luck. His attention had been diverted by the sound of heavy footsteps nearby, as if the owner of the large feet had wanted to be heard approaching. Then he'd recognized that the nightingale he heard was actually warbling "La Marseillaise." Napoleon might have banned the tune for its revolutionary associations, but it was still the French people's unofficial anthem. Was it a signal for the foreign agents to meet nearby? Or was it a warning for Eleanor? "I think the possibility of interruption has passed."

   But the magical mood had been spoiled.

   "We should get back to the others before we are missed," he added.

   "Just what I was going to say," Eleanor lied.

   She turned her back to him to slip into her dress,

gather her accessories, and regain her composure. A few more hours and she would never see him again. Perhaps it was for the best that he'd turned cool toward her again. She could think the words, yet her heart still ached.

   She turned and headed toward the entrance, but the broad leaves had closed ranks. She couldn't see a way out. He grabbed her hand and spun her into his arms.

   "I'm sorry we must leave," he said.

   "Me too." Her words held a different meaning than his, but her regret was genuine. She forced herself to breathe through her mouth, hoping to forestall her tears.

   "We will have another chance to be alone later," he said, promise in his voice.

   "Possibly."

   "We must make it happen."

   Eleanor nodded, unwilling to trust her voice.

   He gave her a long, gentle kiss and then stepped away to push the leaves aside and clear the path back.

   As they walked up the steps to the terrace, she spotted Jane Austen and her sister Cassandra wandering around the terrace, looking for something on the stone floor.

   "Can we help you?" Eleanor asked.

   Miss Jane looked up. "Oh. Are we intruding? I'm sorry. We'll come back later."

   "No. What's wrong? Did you lose something?"

   She put her hand to her throat. "My necklace. An amber cross, similar to the one Cassandra is wearing. Our brother Frank is in the Navy, and he brought them from Spain. The chain on mine must have broken." She looked around her feet. "I was wearing it when we came downstairs, but we've looked everywhere."

   It seemed a bit presumptuous for Eleanor to ask what Jane Austen would do when the very woman was standing in front of her. She knew Jane would take the honorable path even if it hurt, and in her heart Eleanor knew what was right. She took her necklace out of her reticule and held it out. "Is this yours?"

   "You found it!" Jane picked up the amber cross reverently and held it to her breast with both hands. "How can I ever thank you?"

   Eleanor felt a sharp spasm of loss, but that was quickly replaced by a glow of satisfaction. The necklace had been returned to where it belonged. "No thanks are necessary." Giving joy to the woman who had provided her with so many hours of reading pleasure was enough.

   But when the Austen sisters turned to reenter the ballroom, Eleanor could not let the opportunity slip past. "Please…"

   Jane turned. "Yes?"

   "May we speak privately?"

   She nodded, and they walked ten paces away from the others.

   "I just wanted to…" Eleanor paused. How could she tell Jane Austen how very much her novels meant to her without revealing she knew Jane was the author? "I wanted to recommend a book. My favorite. It's titled
Pride and Prejudice."

   The flash of wariness in Jane's eyes was instantly masked behind feigned indifference. "Well, thank you. I will remember your suggestion. If you will—"

   "I am compelled to tell you how much I enjoy reading the story. I find the characters so filled with life. Every time I read it, I fall in love with the hero Mr. Darcy all over again." Eleanor knew she was speaking too fast and verging on babbling, but this was a golden opportunity that would never be repeated. "I want to have Elizabeth Bennet for a sister or at least for my best friend."

   "Ah, but if you were her friend, then you might wind up marrying Mr. Collins." Jane smiled. "You see, I am… familiar with the work of which you speak."

   Eleanor let out a sigh. Jane hadn't given her the cut direct, or worse, run in the opposite direction. "Aside from pure enjoyment, I really think the story helped me learn valuable lessons, or at least helped me cope when life gave me an education in relationships the hard way."

   "A book did that?"

   "Elizabeth's journey taught me I should listen to my brain and my heart and to neither exclusively. Love does not demand perfection because imperfections make each of us unique. Appearances can be false, and what is important comes from the inside."

   Jane chuckled. "That's quite a lot for an unpreten tious little volume about unimportant people."

   "A person does not have to be of great consequence to be influential."

   "I suppose you're right." Jane took a half step back as if she was about to close the conversation.

   Eleanor wasn't ready to let her go. "Where did you… where do you suppose the author got her ideas?"

   Jane narrowed her eyes and gave her a long look that said she realized Eleanor knew who the author was, but didn't understand how. Then her expression cleared as if she'd decided not to admit anything. Then the other woman could not be sure.

   "I suppose this author is much like any other," Jane said. "I once… heard an author describe writing as taking bits and pieces of her experiences and observations, then she questions, dissects, and analyzes them. She extrapolates from them, stretching the thought out. Then she adds from her imagination a big dose of what might have been, a good measure of what would never be, and spices it all with wishful thinking."