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.’
Sunday morning, for the Darcy family, meant church.
After a light breakfast of eggs, toast and tea, Lord and Lady Darcy rose from the table and made their way to the dining room door.
‘Don’t be long, darling,’ his mother reminded Hugh. ‘You know Father Crowley frowns on latecomers.’
‘We’ll be along shortly.’ He glanced at Holly, who looked at him with a trace of apprehension, and reached out to give her hand a reassuring squeeze.
Harry pushed himself away from the table as well. ‘Gotta go. See you later.’
‘You’re welcome to ride with us to St Mark’s if you like,’ Hugh offered.
‘Thanks, but I need to get to church a few minutes early. I promised Father C I’d help with the Offertory this morning.’
‘I never pegged you for the church-going type.’ Holly set her coffee cup down.
‘I’m full of surprises.’
‘So I’m learning.’
‘Come along, then, darling,’ Lady Darcy urged. Harry followed them into the entrance hall and out the front door.
Holly couldn’t help but notice, as she laid her napkin aside and pushed her own chair back to leave, that Harry, normally so quick with a joke or a clever comment, hadn’t said above a dozen words during breakfast.
‘What’s up with Harry?’ she asked as she followed Hugh out to the hire car. ‘He didn’t say much beyond “good morning”, “please pass the butter”, and “see
