Definitely Not Mr. Darcy (17 page)

Chloe squirmed in her seat. “I'm not like that.”

“Of course not. None of us are like that,” Grace said. “If you enjoy reading and bird-watching, I should introduce you to the hermit on Dartworth grounds. He's very attractive. Very brainy. About your age. Fortyish, I should say. And an artist, too. Into nature. You would adore him. He just so happens to live in a hut he fashioned from scrap wood himself. The hermitage.”

“He sounds perfectly charming. I'd love to meet him.”

Mrs. Crescent snapped open her fan. “The hermit is here for our amusement only, Lady Grace. He is not suited to marry a lady's companion—much less Miss Parker.”

“Marriage? I'm never getting married ag—” She almost said “again.” Grace raised an eyebrow at her. “Just why are
you
here, Lady Grace?” Chloe asked, sliding closer to the window. “Maybe it's the footmen. They always seem willing to do anything you ask.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And I do mean anything.”

“So many footmen.” Grace smiled. “So little time.”

Imogene cut in. “I do hope we'll have time to read poetry again tonight. That was so wonderful when we did that a couple of weeks ago.”

It took them more than five minutes just to climb the staircase at Dartworth in the pattens, in the rain. The stone stairs and landings reminded Chloe of entering a museum.

“Welcome, ladies.” The Dartworth butler ushered them in from a marble foyer the size of the entire first floor of Chloe's brownstone, to a three-story domed hall. The rooms emanated melting beeswax. With all these candelabra and chandeliers, the candles alone must've cost a fortune. Blue sky, sun rays, and white clouds adorned the dome ceiling overhead. This beat any McMansion Chloe had ever been in. Grace, Imogene, and the rest of the women seemed unfazed, but they had been here before.

A maid came and whisked away Grace's wet fur capelet, guiding her to a sofa by the hall fireplace to unstrap her pattens. The white ostrich feather in her headdress drooped. More maids appeared, taking everyone's wet outerwear and helping the women with their pattens. Chloe admired the massive oil painting above the fireplace, wondering if it was a scene from Dartworth grounds. The foyer and hall struck her as elegant and rich, but not overdone.

She stood under a life-sized portrait of a man and boy that hung across from the fireplace. Judging by the man's ponytailed white wig and the boy's trifold hat, the portrait had been done in the late 1700s. The boy's dark eyes mesmerized her.

Imogene joined her. “Isn't he adorable? He's the Wrightmans' great-et-cetera-grandfather. One of the maids told me he was well known in this part of the country for being very generous and upstanding.”

Chloe sucked in her bottom lip, because this wasn't just a game, just a chance for her to win money and flirt around. Sebastian came from a long line of aristocratic ancestors, a heritage that seemed to have little to do with a letterpress printer from Chicago.

Lightning flashed in the semicircular fanlight window above the great doors in the foyer.

“The gentlemen await your arrival in the south parlor,” the butler announced.

This time, Chloe allowed Grace to lead the procession along with one of the cameramen. A camerawoman stayed in back of the group, filming Chloe. The butler guided them through the hall, past a library so vast that Chloe had to stop and stare.

It was a bibliophile's dream. Floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases loaded with leather-bound books covered all walls. A wooden globe in a stand, an antiquated drafting table, and a book stand that held an open birding book with color illustrations stood at various spots around the room. On the walnut secretary, a stick of red sealing wax and a quill knife anchored a pile of paper, and a quill held upright in a silver stand attached to the inkwell made it seem as if Mr. Wrightman had only just written to someone. A book of Cowper's poems lay open. Could it be possible that by seeing a man's office, or in this case, his library, you could fall for the man himself?

The firelight flickered on the gold lettering of the hardbound books, and in an instant, Chloe remembered the law library, in college, when she was dating a law student. She hadn't thought about him in years. Decades, even. They had been flirting and studying all night when he challenged her to look something up, and there, in the back of the stacks, he closed the book in her hands, slipped it back in the bookcase nearest her hip, and pressed himself against her, opening her mouth with his. Her back pressed up against the bookcase as he slid her skirt up slowly to her waist and a thrill zigzagged through her. Maybe it was the excitement of doing something illicit. Maybe it was the books. She remembered unzipping his jeans—

“You really are such a bluestocking, aren't you?” Grace asked.

“Oh yes, all I ever think about are books.”

What had stirred to life within her?

“We have an eight-course dinner and a gorgeous man awaiting us, but you're gushing over the
library
.”

“You're right. Nothing interesting ever happens in a library.”

Imogene laughed.

“Come along, dear,” Mrs. Crescent said.

Chloe shook off the memories. It was like seeing a cut from a movie you had watched but forgotten all about.

“Look at this solarium,” Mrs. Crescent said. It soared to two stories high with palm trees, singing canaries in wooden cages, and unpainted wicker furniture, but Chloe couldn't blot the library from her brain. They reached another domed hall. The butler stood in front of twin mahogany-paneled doors, each flanked by a footman, and the camerawoman came closer to Chloe.

“Ladies, take a moment,” said the butler. “As soon as we pass through these doors, we will be in the crimson drawing room. A carriage awaits outside. Five of you will be offered invitations to dinner. Three of you will not be invited. Those three will be asked to leave Bridesbridge.

For once, Chloe didn't have a wisecracking thought in her swirling brain. She didn't want to go—and not just because of the money either. Beyond just lusting for Sebastian, she actually wanted—no, needed to be with him, to talk with him and learn more about him.

The footmen opened the mahogany doors. “Ladies.” It was George, dressed in a butler's coat, his auburn hair coiffed to Regency perfection, with a curl tumbling down his forehead and into his eye. He was a player. Why hadn't Chloe seen it? She leaned in toward him, hoping for a message from home, but there wasn't one. The footmen shut the mahogany doors behind George.

“Before we enter the hall, I'd like to take a moment to review everyone's Accomplishment Points.” He pulled a black leather-bound book from his pocket. “Lady Grace d'Argent leads with three hundred and ninety points. Miss Julia Tripp, three hundred and eighty points. Miss Gillian Potts, three hundred and eighty points. Miss Becky Carver, three hundred and sixty-five points. Miss Olive Silverton, three hundred and sixty points. Miss Imogene Wells, three hundred and thirty points. Miss Kate Harrington, three hundred and twenty-five points. And Miss Chloe Parker . . . fifteen points.”

Mrs. Crescent patted Chloe's arm. Grace lifted her chin in the air.

The butler continued. “But it's only fair, considering we have a new guest, to even the playing field, especially as our guest has been a lady about the entire situation and not raised a complaint. As of tonight, everyone will start over with zero points.”

The women, except for Imogene, gasped and stepped away from Chloe, as if this were her fault. Grace narrowed her eyes at Chloe, and all of them, Grace in particular, because she was in the lead, had real reason to hate her now.

“And in terms of popularity, according to our online audience ratings system, there is one woman who far outranks the rest at the moment.”

The women all looked around at one another, except for Grace, who nodded and smiled at her chaperone.

“Miss Chloe Parker wins the week's audience popularity contest by tenfold,” George said.

Chloe had never been superpopular before. But here, in England, in 1812, apparently they liked her, except for her fellow contestants.

“Now. The Invitation Ceremony. May I point out to you again the importance of the invitation in this era. Entire seasons, entire destinies are made or broken by invitations. If you are lucky enough to get invited to the right balls, the right dinners, you may meet the husband you are destined to be with. Without the invitations, you could become a spinster. Invitations are everything. Good luck,” George said. He gave a nod and the footmen swung open the doors to a room swathed in crimson and lined with velvet curtains and velvet-stuffed chairs.

Sebastian stood next to a footman holding a silver salver stacked with five creamy envelopes, all with red
W
seals, no doubt. He stepped forward in his starched cravat, tailored black cutaway coat, off-white breeches, and stockings that showed off the muscles of his calves. He bowed, his dark eyes flitting from girl to girl. Chloe's white-gloved hands shook as if she'd had a round or two of triple-espresso lattes without the latte. Maybe what Grace said in the carriage was true. Maybe all that mattered to her was the money. But there was more to it than that. Mrs. Crescent nudged Chloe until she curtsied.

“Welcome to Dartworth Hall. So pleased to see you, Miss Parker.”

Heat rose up her neck and into her cheeks. “Pleased to see you,” she said, and curtsied again. She was more pleased than he could know.

The chaperones stood in a cluster off to the side, shifting their feet and adjusting their assorted headdresses and necklaces. The eligible women had been instructed to stand in a line straight across, arm's length apart, facing Sebastian.

“I just want everyone to know that this was one of the hardest decisions I've had to make.” He looked down at his brass-buckled black shoes, reached for the first invitation, and looked straight ahead, then, after a pause, his eyes darted toward Chloe, then away.

“Miss Kate Harrington.”

Kate stepped forward.

“Miss Kate Harrington, will you accept this invitation?”

“I will.” She curtsied, went back to her place, and sniffled.

The blatant sexism that defined this reality show ate away at Chloe as she watched Julia, then Gillian gratefully “accept” their invitations. But George was right when he said invitations could make or break a Regency woman's future. It just never hit her until now, this pathetic aspect of being a woman in 1812. She tasted something sour in her mouth, but that could've been the tooth powder.

“Lady Grace d'Argent.”

Grace sauntered forward with a smirk on her face.

“Lady Grace d'Argent, will you accept this invitation?”

“Absolutely.” She curtsied, and slowly walked back to her place.

George stepped in front of the cameras. “Ladies. There is one invitation left.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Mr. Wrightman, proceed.”

Chloe felt nauseous, probably hungry. It couldn't be that her fantasy Regency world wasn't all she had cracked it up to be or that it was all crashing down around her. Mrs. Crescent crossed her fingers.

“Miss Chloe Parker.”

Instead of looking at Sebastian, she looked at Mrs. Crescent, whose shoulders slumped in relief—she, who prided herself on her excellent posture.

“Miss Chloe Parker,” Sebastian said again.

In a muddle of happiness and humiliation, Chloe stepped forward. This was what it felt like to be a woman in Regency England, waiting for men to determine your destiny.

Sebastian smiled. “Miss Parker, will you accept this invitation?”

The red wax seal looked like candy.

“Yes, I will.” She hardly knew where the words came from. Glad to be asked, but mortified to accept, she curtsied, and on her way back, she noticed Imogene wipe a tear from her cheek. She, Olive, and Becky didn't have an invitation. Chloe's three favorites.

“Ladies,” said George. “Mr. Wrightman has made his decision. You may say your good-byes.”

Grace held her arms out to Imogene, who instead threw herself at Chloe. Abigail had cried like this when she finally understood that Winthrop wouldn't be living with them anymore. Chloe wrapped her arms around Imogene and realized that even Imogene could use a shower.

“I can't believe he chose Grace over me,” Imogene whimpered into Chloe's neck. “I actually have feelings for him and . . . and I don't want to go.”

“I know. I'm going to miss you.”

Imogene was the closest thing to a friend Chloe had here, and Sebastian ripped her away. Who else would Chloe talk to? Paint with? Imogene stepped back and squeezed Chloe's arms. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Good luck.”

“That's quite enough now.” George linked his arm in Imogene's, avoiding eye contact with Chloe. “Your carriage is waiting.”

Chloe hugged Becky and Olive. They wished her well, even though, Olive said, Chloe seemed a mismatch for Sebastian. The audacity! Imogene threw Grace an air kiss. Sebastian said good-bye and thank you to the women. As Imogene walked out the double mahogany doors, her blue satin bow on the back of her gown drooped like a frown.

Sad as Chloe was to see her go, and embarrassed as she was to have participated in the ceremony, she thrilled at the thought of staying on, for the money and the man, and this mix of emotion made her uncomfortable. A torrent of lust and a wave of hope for love overcame her. Her mouth quivered into a smile as Mrs. Crescent congratulated her.

Sebastian turned and smiled at Chloe, but protocol dictated that he escort Grace. He took her arm and they both turned their backs on her. The other women and their chaperones followed suit, leaving Chloe in the back of the promenade alone.