Excerpt from The Austen Affair by Madeline Bell, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

And I guess along the way I convinced the director and the casting department to forget about Chuck Brown—I mean, I kind of already had. But when it came to Northanger Abbey, I had to show up for this. I had to risk it all and prove my talent to not only everyone in that casting room but also myself. I had to get that role or die trying. Because if I could pay tribute to my mom with an Austen movie, I was going to nail it. I was going to be a revelation. I'd be a prayer and a eulogy and a heartfelt epitaph.

I'd be my mother's daughter.

"Tess!" Katie from the wardrobe department rushes over, swatting me away from the food station. "Do not tell me you were eating in that costume!"

I fumble my phone in my haste to pull the glove out of my mouth. "Only carrot sticks and celery!"

Katie gives a wry laugh. "Because you don't have the ability to eat anything even halfway liquid without getting it all over yourself!" She points a stubby finger at my loose glove. "And don't think I didn't see you with that in your mouth. It's hand-embroidered, Tess."

I give Katie my most sheepish expression. "Sorry, K." My stomach churns as I wonder if Katie has seen the news about me. Maybe she's judging me now, privately thinking that I'm a huge mess, and my costume carelessness is just a symptom of my larger character flaws.

Katie returns a grudging smile, and my muscles unclench. "Please try to remember our commitment to costume continuity."

"For you, my dear," I tell her, pocketing my gloves and putting them out of harm's way, "anything."

Just then, I see a towering blur of charcoal gray speed past me. I shoot my hand into the air, peeling after my costar. "Oh, Hugh! Would you be free to run lines for this next scene with me? I really want to get this right." Hugh is famously dedicated to his craft. Maybe, if I can just convince him that I'm also taking this überseriously, I can break through to him. And hopefully make this massive career risk I took for Northanger Abbey worth it.

Hugh Balfour—the authentically British actor who was cast opposite me as the movie's romantic lead, Henry Tilney—comes to an abrupt, though reluctant, stop. Heat is rising in my cheeks from the exertion of catching up with him. Hugh has incredibly long legs, and I am in period-accurate Regency stays, which may have been perfectly comfortable for those who were used to wearing them day in and day out but to which I have not yet become accustomed.

Honestly, I'm the kind of person who comes home and immediately unhooks her modern bra, so learning to like stays was probably always a reach for me.

"Miss Bright," Hugh tells me, his thunderous voice dour, "how many times do I have to inform you that I do not run lines?"

"At least once more," I tease him. I hit Hugh with a cheeky grin, praying that banter will make the ice between me and my costar finally thaw. Hugh considers himself a strict Method actor, but so far, he's coming off more as a big snob. Really, what else can you call someone who refuses to socialize on set, who sticks to Regency-era manners and address, and won't rehearse with his scene partner? To top it all off, Hugh won't sit in the makeup trailer if an actress is present, because according to him, Henry Tilney wouldn't be alone with an unmarried woman without risking the ire of polite society.

I don't care that he was trained at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art—as far as I can tell, he is out of his goddamn mind.

But I will not not be liked, even by some stuffy, blue-blood lunatic. Certainly not when so much is riding on our chemistry in this movie. People already hate me and love him. Fans will be going into this movie expecting me to suck, which, I am happy to inform you, I do not. But if we can't sell the romance between our characters, the whole film will land like a lead balloon, and people will blame it on me.

Excerpted from The Austen Affair by Madeline Bell. Copyright © 2025 by Madeline Bell. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Griffin. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.