Chapter 24
Elle
Oh, my sweet baby Jesus.
Parka Pete has just guided me from the costume trailer to the sound stage we’re on, protecting me from the drizzle with a golf umbrella (no umbrella for him.
He has his trusty parka). This is one of those precious moments: those moments it all begins to feel real, the moments you sense what magic you all may be capable of creating together.
It’s my first time in full costume, hair and makeup, though I’ve had numerous fittings for the seventy-plus dresses Georgiana will wear over the course of the series. It’s also my first time seeing the sets, and I’m beyond excited.
Whenever my parents took me to the theatre when I was younger, I would obsess over the sets.
I just wanted to climb on stage and examine every lick of paint, every prop.
I’m not sure any theatre production has had a more appreciative audience member than me.
So I’m simply dying to get up close to these sets and see how gorgeous and sumptuous and detailed they are.
Anyway. I digress. The reason for my blasphemy is that, as Pete and I traverse the wasteland of the studio floor and make our way over to what looks like a delightful set of a duck-egg blue parlour, I spot Josh.
In full Dominic regalia.
Holy fuck.
He’s lolling against a pillar, and I sweep my eyes over him as we approach.
His hair is mussed and pulled forward in the style of the era.
He’s sporting fake sideburns, but they look seriously good.
A white shirt, collar starched and up, framing a cravat.
A burgundy waistcoat, and black trousers, tails and boots.
He looks like every romance reader’s fantasy.
Colin Firth has nothing on this guy. I really wish Nora was here.
She would die. Dominic, Duke of Coventry, is her favourite regency romance hero of all time (mine too.
Nora and I are suckers for the bossy, commanding ones).
‘Jesus,’ Pete whispers in awe at the sight. I can relate.
Josh doesn’t take his eyes off me either as we approach, even though I have on my coat and a hairnet protecting my up-do. Not quite the first impression my dashing husband makes. He pushes himself off the pillar and comes towards me.
‘Your Grace,’ I retort, to break the tension. Well, I have no idea if he feels any tension, but I do. Thick and fast.
His eyes flash. ‘Georgiana. You look beautiful.’
I pat my head self-consciously. ‘Hopefully better once I lose the net. You look… convincing.’
I step closer.
‘Good sideburns.’
He switches to his regular accent. ‘Aren’t they? Wanna feel them?’
Why not? I’m curious. And our faces will be squished together soon enough, anyway.
I put my hand up and stroke a sideburn carefully with my fingertips.
He watches my face the whole time. Dear Lord, why must the guy look so good in this get-up?
These fake rodents stuck to his cheeks should be ridiculous, but they give him gravitas.
The mullet should be a disaster, but he just looks like he’s been riding through the moors and has dropped into a ball. It’s so unfair.
‘They’re scratchier than I expected.’
‘Yeah. They itch. I tried growing my own, but I couldn’t cultivate enough hair. It was just a bunch of butt-fluff on my face.’
I laugh a little. ‘Butt-fluff. Nice.’
This is by far the most civil conversation we’ve had to date. I still hate him. He’s still a sociopath. But I’m in my dream role on my dream show, and I’m damned if I’ll let Josh Lander spoil my fun today.
I squint at his hair. I’m standing far too close to him. Need to move back. ‘Is that all your own hair?’
‘They used some extensions.’ He’s still staring down at me. ‘I didn’t have enough natural volume for their liking.’
I blink. ‘Right. Me neither.’
Hayley, one of the hair stylists, comes up behind me and unclips the clips holding my hair net on. She lifts it gently off my head.
‘Want me to take your coat, lovey?’ Parka Pete’s been hovering, drooling silently over Josh-as-Dom.
‘Thanks.’ I slip gingerly out of it—I’m terrified I’ll snag the intricate beading on the dress underneath—and hand it to Pete. Josh’s eyes rake over me.
‘Anyone want a drink?’ Pete holds up a water bottle carrier. The bottles in it have our names stuck on. He’s seriously organised.
‘No thanks, Pete.’ We shake our heads.
‘Alrighty, then. I’ll have a nice cuppa waiting for you both after this.’
‘Coffee, please,’ Josh tells him, and then he fixes his molten brown eyes on my mouth. ‘I’m gagging for a coffee. Didn’t dare have one before I kissed my betrothed.’
I lick my lips.
It’s like a reflex when he looks at me.
Bugger bugger bugger.
JOSH
Call me fucked up, or a total dick, but I’m really looking forward to this kissing scene.
I can tell Elle is not; she’s twitchy as hell, and the look she shoots me when I make my betrothed comment is pure fucking hatred.
Shame. We were playing so nicely there for all of thirty seconds.
She even stroked the furry friend on my cheek.
And I saw the look in her eyes when she spotted me in costume.
Huh. That was interesting. I remember how much she liked it when I took charge.
When I pinned her wrists over her head when we had sex.
Remember is an understatement. I recall every single second with her.
How her back arched with frustration when I teased her.
How her hips rose off the bed. How her lips parted in bliss when she liked something I did.
(She still does that, by the way. If she knew how often she showed her tell, how often she licked her lips around me, she’d be fucking furious).
But it makes sense that she’d be into the whole dominating duke thing. Alyssa let slip that Elle’s a raging fan of the Grosvenor books, apparently. Dominic’s a total prick—at this point in his story arc, anyway—but he’s an awesome character to play. I’m going to have serious fun with him.
Especially when he’s educating his sexy, clueless little wife in the pleasures of the flesh.
I look down at her. She has fantastic breasts: they’re the perfect handful. High and tight. But in this dress, with whatever she’s got going on beneath, they’re on a fucking platter. Especially from my height advantage. This is a seriously great angle.
Maybe I should get the foreplay going. Rile her up for the main action.
‘I’m sorry we gotta go straight into such an intimate scene,’ I say now, playing up the concern in my expression.
Her eyes narrow in an are you kidding me way and she draws herself up to her full size, which, unfortunately for her, still puts her at a massive height disadvantage.
Especially since my fancy black boots have heels.
She takes a deep breath and I swear, her tits heave.
She tugs at whatever corset or thing she’s got going on under that dress.
I may or may not have done some googling on regency underwear for women.
What can I say? I don’t have much going on in my hotel room at night.
I can’t even hit the mini bar. Anyway, I bet her corset is amazing.
Uncomfortable for her, but amazing-looking.
No wonder Dominic is desperate to get her married and into his cold bed as soon as possible.
‘I have no problem with that,’ she spits. ‘We’re both professionals. It makes sense to eat the frog first thing.’
My eyes widen. Jeez. Could she come up with a worse analogy for kissing me than eat the damn frog?
‘It’s Mark Twain.’ She smirks.
Jesus H Christ. She is so darn intellectually arrogant. ‘I know it’s Mark Twain. I’m just disappointed you would compare kissing me to eating a frog.’
‘You made the link. Not me.’
‘Is that how it used to feel when I kissed you?’ I shake my head slowly and step in closer to her. I tut at her from my lofty vantage point. ‘I don’t think so, baby.’
She puts her hands on her hips. Her head is practically the whole way back, her milky throat on display. What I wouldn’t give to run my fingers down it and along her collarbone.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
I’m being a dick. I know. There’s only one dick in this situation; there’s only one person who bears any blame for the fact that she hates my guts, and that’s me. And I’ve overstepped the mark, bringing up our past. It’s one boundary she asked me to respect, and I’ve shit all over it.
But hear me out. She’ll thank me for this on set. She was in danger of forgetting how much of an unworthy tool I am, just then, and losing her edge on camera. This is me giving her back her edge. Reminding her to despise me.
Besides. This friction, this sparring, is the only thing I have with Elle anymore.
Off camera, anyways. There’s no small talk.
No reminiscing. This is the way to ignite that spark we never extinguished, despite my shitty behaviour.
It’s pathetic. It’s low. But it’s all I got, and I’m getting off on it.
That said, I don’t want her to totally despise me, so I throw her a bone.
‘I’m pissing you off. Georgiana needs to be pissed at Dominic.’ I shrug. ‘I thought it might help.’
She blinks, surprised, and looks up into my face. ‘I’m perfectly capable of harnessing my character’s motivations without your help.’
I put my hands up in surrender. ‘Got it.’
‘Pull a stunt like that again, and I’ll bite your fucking tongue when you’re trying to kiss me.’ With that, she spins and flounces onto the set.