Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler Page A

to such language as this,” I say, and start laughing myself. Only Lady Catherine de Bourgh could speak such words and keep her countenance.
    “I knew it,” says Frank.
    “Knew what, pray tell?”
    “That you’re having a little fun at everyone’s expense.” He brings his face close to mine and gazes intently into my eyes. I can feel his warm breath on my lips. “And that you don’t hate me. You don’t hate me, do you.”
    “Of course I do not, I—”
    He brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, and the touch sends a thrill through my body. “Everyone deserves a second chance, don’t you think?”
    His lips move so close to mine that they are practically touching. And then he does touch my lips with his own, so lightly and softly that I cannot summon the wherewithal to push him away. And then the kiss becomes more urgent, more intoxicating, and I am drunk with it, and when he runs the tips of his fingers over the edge of my jaw, the touch instantly brings me back to another day, and I see and feel myself with him as he touches me in the same way, kisses me in the same way. And I am kissing his lips, tasting his mouth, lying with him in bed, his body stretched over mine, his skin against my skin, his leg against my bare leg. And I know with all my soul that this is not me, but it is me. My body, this body, knows that this is a memory. A memory as vivid as any memory I have ever had before. Yet it is a memory of something that never happened. It is Courtney’s memory, not mine. I know not how such a thing can be; yet it is as real as any sensation I have experienced since awakening yesterday morning. How can I remember having been with this man? And in a manner far more compromising than anything I ever did with Edgeworth.
    My face burns—and I am pushing him away. Almost without volition I scramble off the chair, away from Frank, away from Wes and the shocked look in his eyes, and I run towards a glowing sign on the other side of the room that says “Ladies.” Perhaps it is a sanctuary, a drawing room.
    “Hey!” I hear behind me. Frank’s voice. I reach the door, a padded door, red of course, and pull on the handle. Inside is a wide mirror to my right with a row of wash-hand basins beneath it. To my left is a series of doors that do not reach all the way to the floor, or to the ceiling. I fiddle with the handles on one of the wash-hand basins until a cool stream of water flows into the bowl. I wet my face.
    What have I done? How could I let a man kiss me, and in public? A man I do not even know. I who never kissed a man till Edgeworth, the man I loved, and we would have raised a scandal had anyone seen us in the woods that day, though he asked me to marry him. Yet I let Frank kiss me. And I feel it again, his lips on mine, his body lying on top of mine, and my arms pressing him closer to me, my hands running down the length of his torso, his—dear God, what is happening to me? What sort of woman have I become? Have I longed for a new life and had my dearest wish fulfilled, have I been transported somehow, transmigrated somehow, into this body, only to learn that I am an unmarried woman who has actually bedded a man she would not marry, that I am a woman who frequents public houses with men, who imbibes liquor and does not attend church, a woman who is godless and profligate and fallen?
    The realization that I have inherited all this sin almost takes my breath away. What has become of me? How will I live with myself? And how will I ever face that man again? I must get out of here. I cannot look at him. My breath comes fast and hard, and I have to grip the edge of the wash-hand basin to avoid stumbling back against the row of doors behind me. I may be mad. I may be fallen. But I shall not faint.
    “You okay?”
    I hear myself gasp. I look up, and in the mirror’s reflection is a young lady who has just emerged from one of the three-quarter doors behind me. Her skin is the color of chocolate laced