Dreaming of Mr. Darcy by Victoria Connelly Page A

because of her. They’d thank her in the speeches too, and Kay would blush at the top table, saying that it was nothing, really—that you can’t stop romance.
    There would be dancing—just like in Jane Austen’s time. Oli would be there, of course, and he’d lead Kay onto the dance floor, telling her how beautiful she looked and how he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since filming had stopped. He had been mad to leave her behind in Lyme. What had he been thinking? Could she forgive him?
    â€˜Of course I can, Oli,’ Kay said, except she said it out loud in the here and now, and Oli heard his name and turned around. He’d been half hidden amongst the group crowding around the back of one of the vans, but suddenly the group dispersed, and there he was.
    â€˜Hey, you!’ he said as he strode across the lawn towards her. Kay gulped. He did it so well. Maybe it was the boots he wore. Maybe they had the effect of making him stride like a fine pair of heels will add that extra little something to the way a woman walks.
    â€˜Hello,’ she squeaked. She swallowed. What happened to her voice?
    He smiled. ‘You come out to see us lot, then?’
    â€˜Yes,’ she said, her voice seeming to return to normal. ‘Adam brought me.’
    â€˜Adam?’
    Kay pointed to where Adam was standing with a polystyrene mug in his hands.
    â€˜Oh!’ Oli said. ‘Him.’
    â€˜He’s the writer and producer,’ Kay explained.
    â€˜Yes, I know. Doesn’t have much to say, does he?’
    Kay thought that comment was a little unkind. Maybe poor Adam didn’t get a chance to say much when surrounded by verbose actors.
    â€˜Coming out here was his idea,’ she said. ‘It was kind of him to bring me.’
    â€˜I’m glad he did,’ Oli said. ‘Fancy a walk?’
    â€˜Aren’t you needed on set?’ Kay asked.
    â€˜Nah. Not for ages. They’re about to film the retrenching scene—you know the one with Sir Walter Elliot?’
    Kay nodded, remembering the scene from the book.
    â€˜Come on,’ he said.
    They left the noise of the cast and crew behind them and skirted around the side of the house, through two tall hedgerows that led into a secluded knot garden.
    â€˜It’s lovely,’ Kay said, reaching out and pinching a lemon balm leaf between her fingers before sniffing it appreciatively. ‘How old’s the house?’ she asked him.
    â€˜Marlcombe Manor?’ Oli said, seeming surprised by her question. ‘Oh, it’s old. Very old. Stone Age or Roman or something like that.’
    Kay laughed.
    â€˜And these gardens,’ he continued. ‘Very fine gardens, I’m led to believe. They were designed and everything.’
    She laughed again. ‘You don’t know very much about Marlcombe, do you?’
    â€˜Nope,’ he said. ‘I’m just an actor. I go where they tell me, and I attach myself to the locations with great aptitude, but I rarely get to know them at all.’
    â€˜That’s a shame.’
    â€˜That’s the life of an actor. You can’t get too attached to anything, because you’re always moving on.’
    Kay wondered if his comment was a veiled warning to her. You can’t get too attached to anything , but maybe she was reading too much into it. Anyway, who was to say that he had any notion of attaching himself to her? She must stop thinking like that.
    â€˜So what’s it been like for you, with us all invading?’ he asked.
    â€˜Wonderful,’ Kay said, the word slipping out before she had a chance to rein herself in and appear cool and aloof. ‘I mean, I’ve just opened, so it’s wonderful to have all the rooms full.’
    They walked in silence for a moment, their feet crunching lightly on the gravel pathways. Kay could hardly believe it. She was walking in a beautiful English country garden with the most