I instantly fall in love with that room. Maybe it’s because it was left intact or because of the library’s delightful, blended scent of old paper, leather bindings, and ink. It’s the warmest, coziest, most charming library I’ve ever seen.

  “You can use it for mediation or relaxation,” Jonas says as if reading my mind. “Just don’t smoke, OK? And handle the books with care. Some of them are rare editions.”

  Sandra throws her hand high above her head. “Attention, please! No one will touch any book in this library, understood? And no one will as much as think about smoking inside this house. Right, folks?”

  A chorus of rights, yeses, and absolutelies answer her decree.

  Anand pulls a face. “Not even in our rooms if we lean out the window?”

  “No,” Sandra says.

  Jonas skews a smile. “How about the garden? You can smoke in the orangery if it’s snowing or raining.”

  Anand consents, and we patter out of the library. When we backtrack to the grand staircase, Sandra urges Jonas to return to the Sky Hall.

  “Table work sounds easy, but it can take hours,” she explains.

  On our way, I notice that the walls in one of the service rooms are covered in child’s drawings.

  “That’s my son Matteo’s handiwork.” Jonas flashes me a mischievous smile. “As you can see, he’s very gifted.”

  “It’s too early to tell,” I deflect.

  “He’s exceptionally gifted!” Hyacinth steps closer to the wall and studies the drawings. “So much creativity!”

  At nineteen and the youngest on the set, she’s more socially competent than I’ll ever be. The fact that she has no fucks to give about the battle of the sexes or the classes, no doubt, helps.

  Hyacinth shifts her admiring gaze to Jonas. “I hope we’ll have a chance to meet your little boy. Are he and his mom at one of your other properties now?”

  Eww.

  Our costume master Tami and Melody, the standby Elizabeth Bennet, cringe along with me. Truly, no social skills can make up for lack of life experience! But Hyacinth’s teenage overconfidence no doubt makes her think she handled fishing for Jonas’s marital status very smoothly.

  His smile slips. “Matteo is at my other property with my mom and my sister.”

  Pursing his lips, he signals that he’ll say no more about Matteo’s mom.

  Oh my God, he’s a widower!

  I can’t imagine any woman leaving her child and her handsome, charming, rich, and titled husband for a reason other than to meet her maker. My chest constricts with sympathy.

  Jonas surveys the long faces around him. “Guys, guys! In case you assumed that Matteo’s mother had passed away, I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you.”

  Huh?

  “She’s quite alive,” he adds. “Remarried and resettled in New Zealand.”

  That doesn’t make any sense… unless he’s a drunk… or an incorrigible womanizer. Yes! That must be it!

  At one point, his ex must’ve decided she was done. She’d no longer stand for it. In response, he hired a hotshot divorce lawyer who managed to reduce the poor woman’s options to two equally unpalatable prospects. She could stay and tolerate her husband’s behavior. Or she could leave him and lose her son. She left. That makes her a tragic hero, not a villain. The villain in this story is the handsome and charming Count Jonas d’Alenq.

  Come to think of it, the way he’d paid off Nat should’ve clued me in an hour ago!

  On the other hand… Can we completely discard the possibility that Jonas’s ex dumped him for another man? No, we can’t. Perhaps she’d met someone even handsomer and more charming than Jonas. Or richer and posher. Or better in bed…

  It’s never a good idea to judge people based on rumors and conjecture. Just ask Elizabeth Bennet! If anyone deserves to be welcomed with an open mind, it’s our new Mr. Darcy, the man who saved the day.

  And so, for the sake of The Immersive Pride and Prejudice Experience, its capable director and everyone involved, I shall consider Jonas a decent man… until proven otherwise.

  CHAPTER 3

  JONAS

  Sandra leads everyone to the center of the Sky Hall. I can’t help but admire the aura of competence and authority that envelops her chubby form. The aura makes her almost attractive.

  A technician puts on a cheerful pop song. On Sandra’s command we begin the physical warm-up, performing various stretches and dance moves. After warming up the body, we must warm up the voice by humming, chanting, reciting limericks, tongue twisters, and other frivolous doggerel.

  With the vocal warm-up out of the way, Sandra shouts, “Circle up, folks!”

  The cast and crew stand in a circle and hold hands. Excitement brightens the eyes and vibrates through the air. As I recall from my amateur acting days, the director will now say something to pump everyone up. The goal of this quick ritual is to enhance focus and boost the morale. Show circles also reinforce the sense of being part of a team that sails together on one barque or sweats blood together on one galley. In either case, if the vessel sinks, everybody drowns.

  It’s a shame show circles aren’t as common in filmmaking as they are in theater.

  Sandra kicks off my first show circle on her team with a breathing exercise. When we are inhaling and exhaling in sync, she delivers a brief pep talk.

  When she’s done, we shake out and chant, “Am I ready to make art? I am ready to make art!”

  Sounds silly, but it works. I’m surprised to feel this energized at a production morning at Royal Riviera.

  To mark the end of the show circle, Sandra wishes us good luck.

  I have barely uttered “thank—” when a hand covers my mouth. It’s attached to a fine-boned wrist and a shapely arm. I follow the limb with my gaze to a gray-eyed brunette standing next to me. The one who doubted Matteo’s gift for wall painting.

  “So sorry,” she mutters, dropping her hand. “I had to act fast.”

  Around us, people laugh.

  “Have you heard about the ‘no thank you rule’?” Sandra asks me. “It’s a common theater superstition.”

  In fact, I used to know and abide by that rule, but I’d forgotten all about it in the intervening years.

  “Duh.” I roll my eyes. “Never thank someone for wishing you luck before a show or a rehearsal, or you’ll be cursed with bad luck.”

  “I’m glad it’s coming back to you,” she says, chuckling.

  When we sit around the read-through table, the impeccably timed Mrs. Everly and my handyman Oli bring in trays of freshly baked scones, homemade jam, tea, and coffee. It was my idea.

  When in London, do as the Londoners do.

  The scones taste as good as they smell. We eat them while the cast introduce themselves to me. I do my best to memorize their names and what character they play. The gray-eyed brunette who covered my mouth is Margot Nolan. A Londoner who’s half-English and half-French, plays Caroline Bingley. After finishing her thirty-second presentation, she wolfs down a scone and licks the crumbs off her fingertips.

  Mmm. I could lick those lovely fingers, too.

  But I won’t. The stakes are too high.

  When it’s my turn to say something about myself, everyone claps and shouts their thanks for my benevolence, bless their hearts. I also get many bright smiles from the ladies.

  If circumstances were different, I would’ve picked Margot. Compared to Hyacinth’s and a few others’ come-hither looks, Margot’s smile isn’t coquettish at all. Bizarrely, that only enhances her appeal.

  Too bad I won’t be picking Margot or any other beddable lady over the next two weeks. Considering that the one I will be pursuing has yet to make an appearance, I must keep my relationships with the others strictly professional.

  “Did you grow up in England?” Sandra asks me after the applause dies down. “You’re lucky your accent is a match for Mr. Darcy. An American or French accent would’ve been a nonstarter.”

  “British nannies and teachers,” I explain honestly, before regurgitating my cover story, “I was born and raised in Monaco.”

  Hyacinth crosses her hands over her collarbone. “How very chic!”

  Wait until you see Mount Evor!

  She never will, of course.

  “My father died of a heart attack two years ago, which is when I inherited the title and the London townhouse,” I say. “Matteo and I have been spending extended periods of time here since then. We both like it. And he loves all the cool child-friendly activities that London has to offer.”

  Only three days away from the little rascal, and I already miss him!

  Liam tilts his head to one side. “I am told you’re a film producer.”

  “That’s right, I co-own a studio in Cannes with my sister and cousin called Royal Riviera. It was founded by our grandfather back in the 1950s.”

  “Now that Jonas has met everyone,” Sandra says, “and you’ve learned a bit about him, let’s get down to work!”

  She picks up her copy of the script. There’s a rustle of paper as we open ours. Liam hands out sticky notes and sharpened pencils.

  “As we read,” Sandra says, “be mindful that this project is about bringing Jane Austen’s masterpiece to life in a way that’s both fresh and faithful to the author’s intent.” The goal is common to all adaptation efforts. No director, ever, wants to render a literary work in a way that was already done or betrays the original. But the devil is in the execution. Few succeed in at least one of their noble endeavors. And, let’s face it, hardly anyone achieves both. But who knows, maybe Sandra is that rare bird…

  We begin the read-through.

  Liam settles behind a camera with audio to record the table work. It’s a good idea. At the studio, we do that, too. Sandra cautions against using movement, body language, facial expressions, accents—basically no acting—at this time. After that, she instructs Peter who plays my bestie Charles Bingley, to begin.

  Duly warned, Peter reads the first line. We go through the script in a neutral, round-robin style with each actor picking up whatever line comes next instead of their character’s lines.

  The aim of this exercise is to scour the script for what the profession calls “facts” about the characters’ back stories, occupations, social status and relationships, the historic and political details, settings, and so on. Another aspect we focus on is how the audience will take part in every scene and interact with the cast. Finally, we spend a good deal of time debating what we’ll do if the day’s Elizabeth forgets her lines and fails to follow our cues, jeopardizing the show.

  “Can’t we get rid of them altogether?” Melody throws her hands up in frustration. “It’s OK to have amateurs as extras, but it’s much too risky to have them as leads.” She will play Elizabeth Bennet if the amateur actress is a no-show, or if she abandons ship at any point during the performance.

  “Remember, £10,000 times seven equals £70,000,” Sandra adds.

  We carry on, transitioning from one scene to the next and fine-tuning the script. There are brief interruptions to make a note, clarify a confusing detail or give Sandra feedback on a line that sounds off. Tomorrow morning, we’ll do a technical rehearsal. In the afternoon, we’ll rehearse again. We’ll keep rehearsing, taking dance lessons, and planning for contingencies through the rest of the week.

  If we’re lucky, there’ll be no need to activate those plans. Hopefully, our amateur Elizabeths will come as prepared as they should be, and our amateur extras won’t suck too much. And, Sandra’s crazy dream of a show that’s both big on improv and still controlled and faithful to the book might just come true.

  Four hours after we began, the read-through is over. We grab sandwiches delivered in the meantime. When the last bite is washed down, I ask if the cast and crew are up for a surprise. They totally are. I shepherd them up the grand staircase to the third floor. When I open the door and usher everyone into the “secret” salon, gasps of delight are my reward.

  Years ago, Dad had it converted into a bar, complete with an impressive selection of spirits and nonalcoholic beverages that occupy an entire mirrored wall. The other walls are painted a bold, dark hue of teal. Silver-framed mirrors and artwork, as well as the white plasterwork ceiling, provide contrast to its richness. When the decorator had proposed this style, Dad didn’t like the idea, but Mom green-lighted it regardless. And an excellent decision that was!

  The lighting is an expert mix of soft candlelight, warm chandeliers and bright LEDs, casting an inviting glow that shimmers off the polished wood floor—no carpets here—and gleams against the mirrors. Cool music pours out from the best sound system money can buy. A subtle aroma of brandy and rum from the cocktails lingers in the air, adding to the ambiance.

  All that makes this room a very pleasant place to be. My parents entertained here more often than in the Sky Hall or the dining room downstairs. I plan to do the same.

  Behind the bar, a mixologist in a crisp white shirt and black slacks is shaking cocktails. Celeste recommended him to me. My sister claims that no bartender on either side of the Channel can hold a candle to this guy. We shall see.

  My guests walk around the room in awe, examining the details up close.

  “The drinks are on the house tonight,” I announce. “But for the remainder of your stay you’ll have to pay for them.”

  The bartender flashes them a grin. “Don’t worry, I charge less than a pub.”

  “We’ll have no time for pubs, anyway,” Sandra butts in.

  “Hurrah for Jonas!” the crowd hollers.

  “Thank Jove for this room!” someone adds enthusiastically.

  As they order their drinks, I hear them swear this is where they’ll spend every spare minute of every evening over the next two weeks. I believe they will.

  Soon the clinking of glasses, tinkle of laughter, and the occasional buzz of a mobile phone combine with the background music to create a unique soundtrack for the soirée. Everybody wants to mingle with me. And mingle with everybody I do. But I also catch myself stealing glances at Margot, who is monopolized by Peter. I note the sound of her voice, the ring of her laughter, the shape of her jawline and neck, the curve of her derrière…

  Shit.

  It’s a good thing Peter seems to be into her. My best course of action is to keep as far away from them as this room permits. I can’t afford to have Margot trying to seduce me. If she does that, we might end up in my bed. Which could ruin my mission.

  She laughs at some skit Peter is performing for her, and my body reacts to her silvery, healthy laugh.

  Staying away won’t cut it.

  She seems to be a proud, independent woman. Perhaps there’s a way I can make sure she’ll never flirt with me.

  CHAPTER 4

  MARGOT

  I sip my tequila sunrise and listen to Peter with half an ear.

  Not that his tale is bad or that I don’t care. I do want to know how his story ends. And Peter is very pleasant to look at. Not to mention that he is interested in me, which flatters my ego. What’s more, we agree on everything, and that he’s an all-around great guy.

  But… I’m a little bored by his conversation.

  He may have sensed it, because he offers to show me a skit that always cracks his friends up. As he performs it for me, I laugh at his punch lines. Except, I don’t find them funny.

  It must be me. Not me as such, but my mood tonight.

  My gaze wanders off. I look at the rows of artfully arranged bottles, mixers, and ice buckets on display against the mirrored wall. Then I spend some time watching how the wine glasses that hang upside down above the bar sparkle in the light of the chandeliers. And then I slide my focus down and right, to Jonas. He’s currently talking with a group that includes Sandra, Liam, Melody, Larry who plays Mr. Collins, and Julia, our choreographer.

  Without the slightest warning, Jonas’s dark gaze swings my way. Our eyes meet. The naked desire I see in his sets off a completely inappropriate chemical reaction in my body. Ashamed of myself, I redirect my gaze to Peter.

  “Hey, Jonas, do you have any dance music?” Melody asks.

  Behind me Julia laughs. “I’m always happy to dance! Especially when I don’t have to correct you.”

  In my line of sight, Hyacinth claps. “Yes, let’s dance! Let’s dance!”

  “As you wish, ladies,” Jonas says.

  I sneak a peek at him while he searches his playlists. But I avert my eyes at once, reminded of why I’d turned away in the first place.

  “Have fun, children,” Sandra says. “I have some agony-aunting to do for my husband, who’s alone with three teenagers, and then I’m off to bed. Don’t stay up too late! I need you fresh in the morning.”

  “I’ll kick everyone out as soon as Anand is in the zone,” Liam reassures her.

  Having gone out for drinks with them once, I think I know what he’s talking about. But I’ll await confirmation.

  When Jonas finds the right music and the dancing starts, I dig my heels in and ramp up my efforts to enjoy Peter’s skit.

  I won’t dance. I won’t go anywhere near Jonas tonight. Margot Nolan can control her primitive urges. She doesn’t do casual sex, she’s never had a one-night stand, and she’d like to keep it that way.

  Peter suggests we move to the sofa by the wall, out of the dancers’ way. What a great idea! I rush ahead and plonk myself down, my back to the dancers. Out of sight, out of mind. In theory, anyway.

  The party goes on. The dancers dance, the talkers talk, and everyone drinks. After listening to Peter for over an hour and interjecting a nod here and there, I feel drained. The dancing has ceased, and the mass in the center of the room has broken into clusters again.

  I need to stretch my legs and mingle with others, including Liam. If there’s any mistrust he harbors for me, then the best way to do away with it is for us to get better acquainted. Pretexting an empty glass, I head to the bar for a second cocktail. And then—to my horror—instead of taking me to Liam, my legs carry me to the group around Jonas.