Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set by Gigi Blume (ebook reader with highlighter txt) 📕

“Thank you, fifteen!” I bellowed.

“Is that the proper way to greet your guests?”

The image of Catherine de Bourgh filled the reflection of my vanity mirror. She stood in the threshold of my dressing room, having clearly let herself in.

“Oh. Hello,” I stammered, turning to face her. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Evidently.” Her eyes did a once-over of the room. Whatever she expected my dressing room to look like, she clearly didn't approve.

Well, this was awkward.

“Um… if you’re looking for Stella—”

“I’m not.”

“—or Will…”

She closed the door with a soft thud and took three steps into the center of the room.

“I’m here to see you, Miss Bennet.”

I blinked once and watched her stare me down. Her severe eyes burned white hot, and she lifted her chin, so she could narrow them on me down the bridge of her nose.

At length, she said, “Are you not curious why I’m here?”

“Um… candy gram?”

“I’m not interested in your jokes, Miss Bennet. I’m here because I heard something rather disturbing about you.”

Something rather disturbing? It couldn’t have to do with the dress I left soaking in the sink. Could it? Maybe she knew about the Jorge fiasco.

“Do you have any idea what that might be?” she questioned. She needed to get on with it if she wanted to see the top of the show.

“No,” I replied. “Enlighten me.”

She bristled at my remark but went on anyway.

“I’ve heard through less than reputable sources, that you’re in a serious relationship with Will Darcy. Considering the validity of the source, I must say I could hardly believe it. Even so, despite it being ridiculously impossible, I decided to hear it straight from you.”

I stared at her for a long moment, incredulity clouding my understanding. Was she seriously confronting me about my love life?

Or… lack thereof.

“Why don’t you ask Will?”

“I intend to,” she snapped. “But right now, I’m talking to you.”

“If you’re having such a hard time believing these rumors, I wonder why you bothered to come backstage to see me.”

“So,” she scowled. “You admit someone is spreading rumors. Perhaps it was you and your friends.”

“Why on earth would I do that?”

“May I ask you now if these rumors are false?”

“You can ask me anything you like, but that doesn’t mean I have to answer.”

She threw up her hands. “I can’t believe this.”

“That seems to be a recurring problem with you.”

“I just want to know if there’s anything going on between you and Will Darcy.”

Oh, boy. Wasn’t that the question of the century.

“You just said that would be ridiculously impossible,” I cried.

“It ought to be impossible if he were level headed. But you’re a pretty girl. I’ll give you that. If you were smart, you’d stay away from him.”

“And why is that?”

“Do you know who I am?” she said calmly. “I am a major stockholder in Pemberley Pictures. I’m entitled to know his business.”

“Actually, no. Not his personal life. And not mine either.”

If I didn’t get her out and soon, I’d miss Will’s entrance. I didn’t want to miss Will’s entrance.

“Listen to me, young lady,” she spat. “When I die, my granddaughter will inherit all but five of my shares in the company. I was obliged to leave the rest to my sister’s good-for-nothing son. With only forty-six percent, Anne won’t be the controlling board member as I am now. That is why it’s so imperative she join her stock with his. Through marriage.”

Ummm…

“That’s actually kind of creepy and archaic.”

“What a brassy, impolite girl you are. Is this how you thank me for the hospitality I showed you at the New Year’s Eve ball?”

Right. That was a night I couldn’t soon forget. But not because of her hospitality.

“I can pull the plug on his funding at any time, you know,” she threatened. “Sell the stocks and dissolve the company. Is that what you want?”

I shook my head. “That really has nothing to do with me.”

“Oh, it doesn’t?” she hissed. “Then tell me once and for all. Are you or are you not dating Will Darcy?”

I really didn’t want to satisfy her with an answer, but after a long moment to consider if I would, I decided it would be better to get her out of my dressing room before the show started and so I replied, “No, I’m not.”

She shut her eyes in evident relief and slowly exhaled. “And do you promise you never will?”

“No.”

Her eyes shot open. “What?” She shook her head with apparent disgust and spat, “I am not leaving until you make me that promise.”

“Well, then you are going to be standing here a long time.”

At that moment, the ASM made another pass with a tap on the door.

“Five minutes.”

“Thank you, five.” I shrugged and reached for my parasol. “Gotta go. Five minutes to curtain.”

I brushed past her to leave, but she maneuvered around to block my exit. She was fast for her age, that was something. All those years dancing. I silently noted she reminded me of a mixture of Madame Giry and Professor Umbridge.

“I’m not done talking to you,” she said with a vice grip on my arm.

“Too bad. Because I stopped listening. Now I have to get on stage.”

“You’re not in the opening number,” she snapped.

“And neither are you,” I replied as sweetly as possible. “So, please take your seat in the audience.”

I wrenched free of her grip and mentally gave her the bird as I walked away.

“Enjoy the show.”

Ugh! That infuriating woman. Where did she get off poking her nose in my personal life? How did she get backstage? It wasn't like she was the only VIP in the house. The audience was full of them. Imagine if every single performance artist in the audience felt entitled to wander into the dressing rooms. It would turn out to be a study in narcissism.

I tiptoed to the crossover, where even if that woman had followed me, she’d have to remain silent unless she was hell bent on ruining the show. The audience hushed as