Definitely Not Mr. Darcy (13 page)

Grace dropped her fan.

Chloe looked down at it. “Dropping your fan means ‘I'd like to be friends.' And of course, I'd love to. The pleasure's all mine.”

Mrs. Scott lifted her vinaigrette to her nose. “Oh my, oh my. How can I bear it? I do regret that the lovely Miss Gately had to leave! You two are like oil and water.” She breathed into her vinaigrette. “Miss Tripp?”

Julia was practicing the dance steps off to the side with her chaperone, who looked quite worn-out and happy to sit down.

“You will resume Miss Parker's fanology lesson in your spare time.”

Grace sighed. “Thank goodness. If you will excuse me, ladies, I really must get dressed for my excursion with Mr. Wrightman. I see the stable boy has already brought our horses, Lady Martha.” She nodded toward the window.

Mrs. Scott crossed her arms. “Ahem. There will be a fanology test soon. I expect everyone to know the terms.”

A chestnut Thoroughbred and a creamy mare shook their manes in the courtyard.

Lady Martha pressed the sheet music against her dress with a crumple.

Chloe stepped toward the door, but Mrs. Crescent yanked her back. “The woman of highest rank always enters and exits a room first,” she whispered in Chloe's ear.

“Perhaps they don't have such customs in America,” Grace said. “From all accounts I hear, Americans seem quite wild. It's no wonder we're at war with them.”

Chloe put a hand on her hip. She was surprised Grace would be smart enough to reference the war of 1812. “It's war, all right. And the Americans declared it against the English on June eighth—just a few weeks ago. The gauntlet has been thrown down. I wonder who will win?”

America won, and Chloe was sure Grace knew that, too.

Grace turned her back on Chloe, bustled out of the drawing room, and Lady Martha scuttled after her.

Mrs. Scott sat up, snapping her vinaigrette closed. “Miss Parker, I'm not done with you yet. You will dance with me these next three hours. You need to learn this dance to earn your Accomplishment Points, and so you're all mine.”

Chloe pressed her ink-stained fingers against the window, looking out on the horses tied to the post in the courtyard. If she had known that this was going to be boot camp in ball gowns, she might not have enlisted. Just half an hour ago she was all about dancing, but Grace had ruined that for her.

Beyond the courtyard, past the sculpted shrubs, along the country lane curving in the distance, Mr. Wrightman, Mr. Sebastian Wrightman, rode in on his white horse, galloping toward the house, his greyhounds barreling behind him. He wore a black hat, a tan cutaway coat, a cravat in a ruffle at his throat, and riding boots. He moved up and down in the saddle in a slow, rhythmic pulse. Chloe clenched her fan in her left hand.

“Ah,” said Mrs. Scott, fully recovered. She came to the window. “Carrying the fan in the left hand means you desire his acquaintance.”

Chloe felt color rise to her cheeks.

“Yes, but it's going to take more than a morning of archery practice and a few dance lessons to earn an introduction,” Mrs. Crescent said.

Mrs. Crescent looked at Chloe as if she were a schoolgirl. “First impressions are so very important, don't you agree, Mrs. Scott?”

Mrs. Scott nodded her head. “Oh yes. Absolutely, dear. Crucial. There has to be that spark—that je ne sais quoi—right from the beginning.”

Chloe's shoulders slumped. If Mrs. Crescent was depending on a good first impression, well, they were screwed.

Alongside Sebastian, the film crew rode in an ATV, cameras rolling. Hanging off the back of the cart, in his blue jeans, sunglasses, and baseball hat, was George.

“George,” Chloe whispered. Her mind flitted back to Abigail, the money, the modern world. She really wanted to dash out there and ask him if he'd heard anything from home, but that, of course, would not be the ladylike choice.

Mrs. Crescent, obviously sensing Chloe's urge to see George, hung on to the ribbon tied behind Chloe's Empire waist, and that, too, held her back.

“Don't go out there. Think of William,” Mrs. Crescent murmured.

“I think of him more than you know.”

Mr. Wrightman dismounted and took off his cutaway coat to inspect one of the horseshoes on his horse.

“I daresay,” Mrs. Scott said from behind her lace fan at the window, “that must be quite a ‘whore pipe' Mr. Wrightman sports under his inexpressibles.”

Chloe laughed. She didn't know much Regency slang, or “vulgarian,” as it was called, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that one out. She covered her mouth with her gloved hand.

“Shocking!” Mrs. Crescent gaped at Mrs. Scott.

“You know I was an actress, years ago, Mrs. Crescent. Not as well bred as you, I'm afraid.”

Mrs. Crescent tightened the reins on Chloe. “Miss Parker, Mrs. Scott, I beg you to be discreet. Consider—”

“Consider they'll never see us behind these draperies,” Mrs. Scott said. Mrs. Scott wore a marquis-cut wedding ring, but her blue eyes sparkled even more than the diamond. She really charmed Chloe with her dramatics. “Consider we're rather man-depraved around here. I'm quite overcome. Oh, to be young again!” She lifted her hand to her heart.

George directed the camera crew around the front door. He spotted Chloe in the window and lowered his sunglasses down his nose. She raised her eyebrows. Then he seemed to wave her over toward the front entrance. Mrs. Crescent released the ribbon, and Chloe stepped on Fifi's paw.

The dog yipped and growled. “Sorry, Fifi. Sorry, Mrs. Crescent, I didn't mean to—”

Fifi bolted.

“Someone catch him!” Mrs. Crescent shouted.

Chloe ran after him, with Mrs. Crescent's voice trailing behind her. “He's going to run out to the stables again and get trampled!”

Hot on Fifi's trail, Chloe pulled off her gloves and flung them on the silver salver on the hall table. She swooped down to grab the dog, but he wriggled away. Fifi charged down the hall and skidded in the front foyer, where the footmen were just opening the front doors. Just before the dog made it to the threshold, Chloe grabbed him single-handedly, and she bumped right into—Sebastian. She conked right into his ruffled cravat and snug waistcoat. She pressed her hand against his chest and pushed herself away. He glanced at her ink-stained hand, then his waistcoat.

Fifi barked.

“Excuse me,” Chloe managed to say, holding the pug in her arms. “I had to stop Fifi from running outside.”

Sebastian smiled. “Miss Parker? I presume?”

“Uh—yes.” She curtsied. It was the tall, dark, and handsome rich English gentleman who had the power to change her destiny. The one she insulted at the pond. But they couldn't acknowledge each other until they had been properly introduced.

Chloe stood on her toes, just for a minute, to look for George. Only a single cameraman stood on the portico filming; the ATV was gone. She turned her attention back to Sebastian, who stared deeply into her eyes. His pupils seemed to grow bigger.

“You seem—different from the others,” he said under his breath.

Good different or bad different?
Chloe wondered. Still, he had noticed she stood apart from the other girls, and he was right.

“I'm afraid we have not been formally introduced, yet, sir,” she said. Mrs. Crescent would have her head if she knew they were talking.

“I will have to secure that introduction, and fast.” Sebastian lowered his voice. “Perhaps you're more—intelligent than the rest? More multifaceted? Independent? With a sense of humor? Entertaining to talk to?”

Chloe was smitten, but her ink-stained hands were tied.

Fifi growled at Sebastian's greyhounds. They didn't even look at Fifi.

“Fifi. Stop.” Chloe petted the dog. Sebastian bowed.

Chloe felt herself—swoon. Fifi flailed in her arms, Chloe had to catch him from jumping out, and she and Sebastian butted heads.

“Ow,” Sebastian said, rubbing the cleft in his chin.

“So sorry,” Chloe said, and curtsied. “I don't mean to keep—bumping into you like this.”

He laughed and stepped closer. “I quite like a girl who can make me laugh.”

She whispered, “I'm sorry about what I said at the pond, too. Really.”

“Oh, that? My apologies as well, for invading your—privacy.” He bent forward just enough for her to appreciate his smile.

“Why, Mr. Wrightman,” Grace said from the landing on the staircase behind them. In her slate riding dress with half boots and a so-very-tight cropped riding jacket, she stopped for a moment, smiling, and stared down on Chloe. Grace looked quite the seductress in her black riding hat, a scaled-down version of a man's hat with a sheer black ribbon tied in a knot under her chin, and a riding crop tucked conspicuously under her arm. “I didn't know you had been introduced to our latest arrival from the Colonies.”

Chloe turned toward Grace. “They're not colonies anymore. It must be some time since you've read the newspaper. Like maybe thirty-six years?” It had been thirty-six years since the American Revolution, and Grace knew it.

Sebastian covered his mouth as he laughed.

Grace fluttered her eyelashes. “I daresay I'm not even thirty-six years old.”

“Really? You seem so—mature.”

Sebastian cleared his throat. “Pleasure to see you as always, Lady Grace.” He bowed in her direction. “I haven't yet had the pleasure of formally meeting our newest guest.”

“Pity,” Grace said as she descended the stairs with her maidservant carrying the train behind her riding dress. She brushed past Chloe in a waft of lavender water.

Sebastian took Grace's arm and led her to her horse, but he did look back at Chloe and gave her a meaningful, lingering stare.

Grace nudged him. “Are you quite ready for our ride?”

“Quite.” He bowed to Chloe.

Chloe curtsied, her mouth dry. Sebastian set a mounting block next to Grace's horse and handed her up into the sidesaddle. Lady Martha nudged past Chloe and the stable boy helped her into the saddle of her horse. Fifi had settled down and was now licking Chloe's arm.

Chloe didn't see George anywhere. A bee buzzed through the front doors and into the foyer.

“Excuse me, miss,” one of the footmen asked. “Will you be going out?”

She wanted nothing more than to either continue watching Sebastian or run out and ask George if he'd heard anything from anyone back home. “Out? Oh. No, thank you.”

When the footmen shut the doors, she set Fifi down and he scampered back to the drawing room. Chloe got a glimpse of herself in the silver-leaf entry-hall mirror. She looked, in a word, disheveled. Grace, in her riding habit, was so put together.

Still, Sebastian had spoken with her, and made her feel so good about herself.

She fell into a reverie, of Sebastian kissing her, of his hands tracing her curves, of him crushing up against her.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder and she gasped.

It was Mrs. Scott, her blue eyes beaming. “Shall we dance?”

 

 

T
hree hours later, Mrs. Crescent was sparkling with hope. “Thank goodness you won your Accomplishment Points for the day. We're up to fifteen now. You're almost as accomplished a dancer as Miss Gately, that wonderful charge of mine, was. A shame that she had to leave. But you have her level of talent, nearly.”

“Well, that
is
a compliment,” Chloe said, collapsing onto a settee. She craved a bottle of ice-cold water. When was the last time she craved water? The dancing made her thirsty, dizzy, and sweaty. Mrs. Crescent rang for tea.

Chloe whispered, “Tell me more about William. The lump is benign, right?”

Mrs. Crescent rubbed her pregnant belly. She eyed the camera and dropped her newspaper. The headline read THREE HANG ON THE GALLOWS AT NEWGATE. When she bent over to pick the paper up, she whispered back, “That is our hope, but it won't be properly biopsied until it's removed. Now. Not a word more of it.”

Fiona came in, spotted the newspaper headline, and just as quickly looked away. “Ladies, a messenger has arrived from Dartworth Hall and your presence is requested in the parlor, if you please.”

This would've all been very exciting were it not for thoughts of William losing his curly hair and Abigail with a new stepmom, not to mention the haunting image of three people hanging from the gallows.

In the parlor, a minty-green room with chairs and tables that dotted a heavily carved marble fireplace, Grace, back from her excursion, was looking out the window through a bronze telescope. Her chaperone darned stockings at the table. And, in a chair by the fire, a young redheaded woman, younger than Grace but older than the rest of the women, sat reading a book of poems. She looked up from her book with big green eyes and stood, smiling at Chloe.

Mrs. Crescent made the introduction. “Miss Parker, I'd like you to meet Miss Imogene Wells and her chaperone, Mrs. Hatterbee. Mrs. Hatterbee just returned from London.”

Imogene offered her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Parker.”

Chloe shook, but her hand went limp. Was this woman the latest recruit? And London? What was up with that?

“Surely I told you about Miss Wells.” Mrs. Crescent lowered herself into a neoclassical chair.

“No doubt you did.” Chloe leaned against the chair opposite. She was trying to be as nice as possible about this because Mrs. Crescent's son was sick.

“Miss Wells took to her room these past few days. Indisposed.”