Читать книгу What Would Lizzy Bennet Do? - Katie Oliver - Страница 17

Chapter 7

‘Are you well acquainted with Mr Darcy, Miss Bennet?’ Wickham asked.

‘As much as ever I wish to be,’ Elizabeth retorted. ‘After four days spent in the same house with him, I must admit I find him most disagreeable. His pride precedes him. You won’t find him mentioned with favour by anyone.’

‘I’m not surprised. The world sees only his fortune and consequence, or is so impressed by his imposing manners, as to see him only as he chooses to be seen.’

‘Cut,’ the director called out wearily. ‘Ciaran, you forgot the “I cannot pretend to be sorry” bit again.’

‘Oh, bloody arsing hell,’ Ciaran Duncan grumbled, and let out a short breath of frustration. ‘Sorry,’ he called back. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.’

Cara Winslow smiled sweetly. ‘Too much champagne and too many underage girls last night, perhaps?’

He glared at her. ‘Fuck off.’

‘Temper, temper,’ she tutted.

‘Let’s all take ten minutes, shall we?’ the director said. He cast Ciaran a meaningful glance. ‘And let’s make sure we know our lines. All of them.’

Charli Bennet watched the exchange from her vantage point on the edge of the set, and suppressed a giggle. She and Harry sat perched on a wardrobe trunk, watching the filming of Pride and Prejudice. ‘It sounds as if Mr Duncan’s a bit of a player, doesn’t it?’

Harry glanced at the actor with an inscrutable expression. ‘You have no idea.’

‘Goodness. I’ll have to remember to watch my heart around him, then,’ she murmured. ‘At least, while he’s in costume.’

Her avid grey gaze devoured the handsome actor, from his long, breeches-and-boots-clad legs to the dark mop of hair on his head, and a yearning came over her, sudden and strong.

He was quite the best-looking man she’d ever seen. She covertly admired his firm, kissable lips… his fine, high forehead… and his tantalisingly tight breeches.

How jealous her friends would be if she got to meet Ciaran Duncan!

She leaned closer to Harry and whispered, ‘Introduce me.’

‘Are you mad?’ He looked at her in surprise. ‘I can’t do that!’

‘Why not? You live here. Surely you can introduce me to Ciaran.’

‘Number one, I don’t know him, and number two, he’s way out of your league.’

She glared at him. ‘What do you mean? I’m not a child. And I happen to like older men,’ she added, and tilted her head back slightly so that her long, blonde hair – partially covered by a black, floppy-brimmed hat – spilled down her back.

‘Older men?’ he echoed, and snorted. ‘You mean older, as in upper sixth form? Get real, Charli. You’re still a kid as far as Ciaran’s concerned. Besides, your father would kill you – not to mention me – if I introduced you to that tosser.’

‘But what makes you say such a thing?’ she demanded. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘Do you know something about Ciaran I don’t?’

‘I know he’s no good,’ Harry said shortly. ‘More than that I really can’t say.’

Her eyes widened. ‘You’re protecting someone! Who? A girlfriend? An ex-girlfriend?’

‘Never mind. Just know that it’s a truth universally acknowledged,’ he retorted, ‘that Ciaran Duncan, like Mr Wickham, is a shit. Just pick up any tabloid on the newsstand on any given day, and you’ll see for yourself how he ploughs his way through an endless swathe of actresses.’

‘Tabloids print a load of rubbish,’ Charli said stubbornly. ‘Everyone knows that.’

Harry made an impatient gesture. ‘Listen to me. You like all of that Austen stuff, don’t you?’

‘I can’t get into the books,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve tried, more than once. But I adore the films.’

‘Then you know that Wickham’s no good. And knowing that Ciaran’s exactly like his namesake should be enough to make you hoick up your petticoats and send you running.’

‘I’m not like that silly Lydia Bennet,’ Charli scoffed. ‘I know better than to fall for his… his…’

‘Bullshit?’ he finished.

‘Please, Harry, just introduce me,’ she pleaded. ‘That’s all I want, just to meet him.’

But an introduction proved unnecessary when the actor returned from a brief discussion with the script consultant and spotted the two of them. His gaze locked on Charli.

Her eyes widened, and she clutched at Harry’s arm. ‘Oh, my God. He’s coming this way!’

Before Harry could respond, Ciaran was upon them, with a smile on his face and his hand extended. ‘Hello. Harry Darcy, I believe, isn’t it?’ he said, his words polite. ‘Hugh’s little brother. I’m Ciaran Duncan.’

The two men shook hands, and Harry turned, grim-faced, to Charli. ‘This is my neighbour, Charlotte Bennet.’

‘And a very lovely neighbour she is, indeed.’ Ciaran took up her hand and brought it, in true Regency fashion, to his lips. ‘Equally as lovely,’ he added as he released her hand and turned back to Harry, ‘as Cleremont. I’d forgotten what a stunning house this is. It’s a privilege to film here.’

‘Thanks,’ Harry replied, and glared at him. ‘We like it.’

The actor’s gaze lingered on Miss Bennet. ‘I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Charlotte.’

‘Oh, please call me Charli,’ she told him airily, and smiled. ‘Everyone else does.’

‘No,’ Ciaran decided, his eyes studying hers. ‘No, I I shall call you Charlotte. I much prefer it.’

‘O-okay,’ she stammered, starstruck.

‘Places, you lot,’ the director shouted. ‘Chop, chop.’

‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to go.’ He turned to leave, then paused. ‘I wonder…’

Charli held her breath. ‘Yes?’

‘I don’t have my mobile phone with me; it’s not allowed on set,’ he explained. ‘Might I give you my personal number? If you ring me tomorrow – I’m not on the call sheet – perhaps we might arrange to have a coffee together, or do a bit of sightseeing.’

Her eyes widened and she caught her lower lip between her teeth. Had an international film star really just offered to give her his private number and asked her out on a date? Oh. My. God. ‘I’d like that,’ she said, as if getting asked out by a film actor was an ordinary occurrence and she wasn’t about to burst with excitement.

‘Tomorrow’s Sunday,’ Harry pointed out. He frowned as he glanced at Ciaran and back at Charlotte. ‘Church, remember?’

‘Oh, bother, you’re right. I’d forgotten.’ She sighed. Her father allowed the girls to miss a Sunday service only if they were extremely ill, dying, or dead. Afterwards, the family ate lunch, either in the dining room or on the terrace, with whomever Mr Bennet had invited to join them.

Only then were the girls free to go their own way.

‘Call me when you get home,’ Ciaran suggested, and smiled. ‘Perhaps we can arrange to do a bit of sightseeing. Or… something.’

‘Yes.’ Despite the mad pumping of blood through her veins and the light-headedness that threated to swamp her, Charli withdrew her mobile with trembling fingers and handed it over, watching in excited disbelief as the actor tapped his private number into her phone.

‘We have to go, Charli.’ Harry’s words were implacable.

‘Just a minute,’ she murmured, starstruck. ‘Please.’

‘Places, everyone.’ The director and crew were ready to resume filming the scene. ‘Let’s go.’

Ciaran handed her phone back and met her eyes. ‘Until tomorrow,’ he said, his voice low and intimate.

She nodded. She couldn’t speak, could barely think. Ciaran Duncan’s proximity, and the delicious, sexy scent of his aftershave made forming a response or even a thought all but impossible. He smiled, offered a polite ‘goodbye-and-nice-to-meet-you’ to Harry – who looked ready to implode – and left.

Charlotte stared after him, admiring his trim physique and erect posture (not to mention his tight buttocks), and let out a small, dreamy sigh.

It wasn’t so much the prospect of having lunch with Ciaran that dazzled her, she reflected as she watched him take his place next to Cara on the set, or the fact that the film star had just given her his private number.

No, what left her knees weak and filled her mind with impure thoughts was the promise of those two, tantalising words, ‘or… something.’

She imagined what it must be like to make love with someone like Ciaran. Her own experience of sex was limited to hurried gropings in the passenger seat of various boyfriends’ cars, stolen kisses in the back of the movie theatre, and avidly reading well-thumbed copies of books like Fifty Shades of Grey and Fear of Flying that she found in the used-book stalls or the pound shop.

Most of the local boys refused to go too far with her, not because they didn’t (literally) fancy the pants off her, but because her father was the former vicar and they feared his wrath (not to mention the wrath of God) if they should get his youngest daughter in the family way.

And she was really tired of being a virgin.

Harry tugged at her hand. ‘As soon as they’re done with this scene,’ he hissed in her ear, his words steely with determination, ‘we’re out of here.’

Charli scowled. ‘But I don’t want to leave,’ she sulked. ‘I want to stay, and watch Ciaran.’

‘If you don’t come with me the minute this scene is over,’ Harry promised, his expression grim, ‘I promise I’ll tell your father exactly what you’re getting up to with Ciaran Duncan. He won’t approve. And he’ll never let you come here to Cleremont and watch the filming again.’

‘Oh, very well,’ she retorted, and crossed her arms against her chest in irritation. ‘Honestly, Harry – you’re no bloody fun at all.’