Definitely Not Mr. Darcy (3 page)

“Mommy? Are you there?”

Chloe forgot she was holding the phone to her ear.

“Uh—Abby? Sweetheart? Is everything okay?” Her chest thudded as she squinted into the spotlights.

“Yeah, I just have some really good news.”

Chloe exhaled. “Oh, good. I want to hear all about it, but now's not a good time, okay? I'll call you right back.” Grabbing the white gown to shield herself, she clicked off the phone and tossed it on the washstand. She held her hand up toward the video cameras. “Stop the cameras! What the—”

Another guy materialized with a headset over one ear, an iPhone in one hand, and an iPad in the other. All plugged in, just like her ex-husband. “Great line,” the guy said in a juicy English accent. “What you said about letters. Romance. Could you say that again, please? On camera?”

Chloe stepped back, from the sheer panic of the moment, the intense spotlights, or possibly his manner of speaking. It couldn't have been his cropped auburn hair topped with a pair of sunglasses or his snug-fitting jeans. She was, after all, a raging Anglophile who could crush on any guy with an English accent, and this was the first male one she'd heard since she arrived. All this started with Disney's Christopher Robin when she was what—six?

The accent threw her, but only for a minute. “Excuse me?! What's going on?!” She clutched the white gown in front of her. It felt like a fine cheesecloth or voile, and she realized, despite her confusion and rage, that it must be muslin, that delicate Regency fabric she had up until now only read about. She softened her grip, but raised her voice. “Cut the cameras! Can't you see I'm half naked here?”

“I can see you're exactly what we're looking for. Spot-on.” He extended his hand. “George Maxton. Producer. Pleased to meet you, Miss Parker. You can call me George, but once you get on location, everyone's a ‘mister' and a ‘miss.'”

Behind the gown, Chloe buttoned her blouse single-handedly, a skill she'd mastered while breast-feeding nine years ago. She glared at George Maxton and the crew.

He gave up on the handshake. “Brilliant. You're gorgeous.”

Gorgeous? Cute, maybe. Nobody had called her gorgeous since—wait a minute. The nerve! “George, cut the cameras NOW.”

He eyed her from the top of her disheveled hair to the tips of her unpolished toes. “You do realize, Miss Parker, that this is a reality show?”

Something plummeted inside her; she struggled to speak. “You mean ‘immersion documentary.'”

“Documentary?” He laughed. “Now, that's the stuff I'd love to shoot. No money there.” He pointed to the two cameras as he said, “This, my dear, is a reality dating program, and you're going to be a brilliant contestant.”

She couldn't breathe. Her mouth went dry and her heart pounded. Was she hyperventilating? “Dating—what?! There must be some mistake—”

“No mistake. It's set in the year 1812. Cameras are on twenty-four /seven. Everything's historically accurate, Miss Parker, and I do mean everything. You will be pleased with that.”

The lights blinded her. Her bosom heaved, and not in a good way. Dating show? She didn't want to date anybody—she hadn't had a date in four years! No, it was more than four years, because Winthrop, her ex-husband, was out of town so much they never could manage a date night. How could
she
be on a dating program? Not to mention the fact that she hated those reality dating things. How could this be happening?

She paced the floor, her gown dragging on the floorboards. She caught her breath and began speaking a mile a minute. “I demand some answers here! What changed between the moment I signed the contract and now?”

“Not much, really; we tweaked the concept a bit to make it more marketable, but relationships and courtship were always part of the equation. You did read the paperwork and contract we sent, correct, Miss Parker?”

“I auditioned for a public-television documentary—I'd never sign up for a dating show—I expected Jane Austen trivia contests—I certainly won't participate in any antics with hot tubs and bikini-clad massages and . . . and . . .
dates
!”

“For a person who's so above reality TV, you seem to know a lot about it,” George quipped.

And he was right. “Unfortunately you can't have a pulse on this planet without knowing about reality television, especially if you don't have cable like me. Why can't you just film something tasteful?”

“Do you really think people want to watch you sit around in your gown sipping tea and taking Jane Austen quizzes for three weeks?”

Chloe felt the sting of her naïveté, and once again she lived up to her name, Chloe, which meant “young green sprout” in old Greek, and she felt grass green, despite her age.

A log fell in the dwindling fire across the room, sending sparks flying and a wisp of smoke curling into the air.

Then it hit her. “I must be cast as a doting aunt or chaperone, right? A thirty-nine-year-old in 1812 would be strictly on the shelf, not making her ballroom debut. And couples didn't date in the nineteenth century anyway.”

“You're absolutely correct, Miss Parker, on two counts. Regency couples didn't ‘date.' Men courted women, and that sounds so much more refined, doesn't it? Wouldn't it be wonderful to educate the public on the intricacies of Regency courtship? There weren't any hot tubs in 1812, so you needn't worry about that. To accommodate you we've bent the age rules, making you a bona fide contestant, Miss Parker. You're much too young by today's standards, and feisty enough by any standards—to be on the shelf!”

Chloe stomped her bare foot. “This can't be legal.” She tried to be rational. “You misrepresented the show. Is there really any prize money? I need to call my lawyer.”

“You're free to call your lawyer, but nothing was misrepresented. You will be partaking of historically appropriate tasks, in an 1812 setting. There is a one-hundred-thousand-dollar prize, and I will explain all that.”

He kept checking his iPhone, and looking up when he could. “But even you, on your audition video, referred to the woes of the single American woman. During our extensive interviews with you, you said you're open to finding love and happily-ever-after. Is it true, Miss Parker, or did you misrepresent
yourself
?”

He had her there. The spotlights shone bright and hot, and she hesitated to say it on camera.

“It's true. What you said.”

George smiled and looked her straight in the eye. “Say it, Miss Parker.”

“I'm still hoping to find true love.”

George clasped his hands.

“But not now—someday. And it'll never happen on a reality dating show.”

“Don't think of it as ‘dating'; think of it as ‘courting.'”

“If I took this on, the only thing I'd be courting is disaster.” Chloe steadied herself with a palm on the whitewashed wall. She squeezed her eyes shut. “What is the name of this atrocity?”

“The working title is
How to Date Mr. Darcy
.”

Chloe's stomach churned. “You have
got
to be kidding me. If Jane Austen only knew! ‘Dating' is right there in the title, it's an anachronism. Where's the courtship? Where's the class?”

“Even if the title is a little on the commercial side, the production is top-notch. Trust me.”

Trust him?!

A text message beeped on her phone, and, still holding the gown in front of her, she scissor-stepped over to it. Abigail's text said “<3 u” and Chloe would never have even known that meant “heart you” had Abigail not taught her. “Hugs 4ever,” Chloe texted back. She needed to call her.

Chloe sighed, phone in one hand, gown in the other, wondering what to do. If she quit this thing, would she regret it? She'd be out the money for the plane ticket, which she'd paid for with the last of her savings. She'd have to face a short sale on the brownstone, her bankrupt business, and worse, she'd have to explain to Abigail why she quit. One of the perks of doing this thing was to set an example for her daughter that a woman, even a single mom, could go to another country, hell, another era—and kick butt. But what kind of PR for her business would come out of something called
How to Date Mr. Darcy
?

Speaking of how, how could she leave England now, when she'd been dreaming of coming here her entire life? And why did the image of her on a dark-haired Mr. Darcy's arm just pop into her head?

She stared at her phone, as if it would have the answers.

“Bit of a mobile addict, Miss Parker?” George asked.

That snapped her back to—dare she think it—reality. George obviously hadn't read the bio she sent. “Oh yes, I can't get enough of modern time-sucks like Facebook, Twitter, or reality TV. Bring it on. Who would want to step back in time a couple hundred years and actually live a quality life?”

“That's the attitude, Miss Parker! So glad you're on board.”

“I never said—”

His phone blared a British police-siren ringtone. “So sorry, best take this one. Whatever did we do without these things?”

“We read books and talked face-to-face. We didn't watch reality, we lived it.”

George winked at Chloe. “Hallo,” he answered his phone. He whispered to her, “You're perfect. Just relax. Forget the cameras. You'll make a fabulous governess.”

Chloe almost dropped the gown. “Get out! I can't be a governess! I—I forgot all my college French.” Being cast as a governess would be her worst nightmare. Homeschooling spoiled children in an attic somewhere? Wearing gray up to her chin? Dealing with a moody master? This sounded more
Jane Eyre
than Jane Austen.

“I'm kidding. Kidding. Of course you're not a governess. Not in that gown. Though it will tear if you step on it, I'm afraid. It's sprigged muslin.”

Chloe lifted the gown and narrowed her eyes at him.

“You've just proven to me that you really do want to be a contestant and not just a—governess.”

She had passed a test, and didn't even know she was being quizzed.

This time she had the questions, so many questions, and it was her turn to get some answers, but George didn't give her a chance. He left, the cameras stayed.

He slammed the door so hard behind him that something shook above her. It was swags of drying lavender. Ah, lavender. England. Regency England, where leather-bound books were treasures, where women who had a talent for drawing were called “accomplished,” and where men were gentlemen—not sleazy producers.

Fiona brought over a stack of garments, placed them on the chaise, and hung the gown back up.

“Fiona, please tell George I insist on finishing our discussion.”

“You're to see him after you're dressed, Miss Parker, and you can sort it all out then, can't you?”

Chloe eyed the gown. If she left, she'd be leaving this picture-perfect inn, and she hadn't even seen Bridesbridge Place yet. She slunk down on the chaise and ran her fingers over the red velvet. “I don't want to go. You can really feel the history here.”

“Forgive me, miss, but it's just an inn.”

“Fiona, did you know this was a dating show? What should I do?”

Fiona shrugged her shoulders. “I'm only the hired help.”

“Oh, Fiona, you're much more than that, come on. What are you in the real world? A law student? Working in the financial sector?”

Fiona shook her head.

Chloe realized that Fiona wasn't going to reveal anything about her twenty-first-century self. “I guess there's no harm in trying the gown on—I'm here, aren't I?”

“You're quite lucky,” Fiona said. “I know a score of charwomen and scullery maids ready to trade their lot with yours this instant.”

Chloe rubbed her temples. There it was again, that flash of her and a tall, dark, and white-cravat-throated someone, this time in a ballroom under a candlelit chandelier.

The door swung open again. It was George.

“George!” Chloe called out. “We need to talk.”

“We will talk. We will, Miss Parker. And not to worry. We'll edit out any naughty bits, for the American market at least. And soon as you're ready I'll explain all the rules. Cheers!” He slammed the door again behind him.

Chloe shot up. “Naughty bits? What naughty bits?!”

“I dunno, Miss Parker. Dunno.”

 

 

M
uslin turned out to be a very thin fabric, nearly sheer, and Chloe knew better than to hope for petticoats, because those had gone out of fashion by 1812.

Just as Fiona held up an equally threadbare chemise to go under the gown, Chloe's phone rang.

“See, Fiona, how modern technology interrupts our lives?”

It was Abigail. “Hi, Mom! Grandma told me not to tell you yet, but Dad took me out to lunch today.”

Chloe rolled her eyes. After the plethora of times he'd been on the road, missing Abigail's school plays and hip-hop dance recitals, Chloe was out of town for the first time since the divorce, and he'd swooped in on day one.

“Dad's engaged,” Abigail continued. “He's going to be married in September and the good news is I get to be a flower girl! I get to wear a pretty dress and throw the petals and ride in a limo and . . .”

Chloe leaned against the cold whitewashed wall to support herself. She didn't even know that Winthrop was dating. He hadn't even talked to her as to how to approach this with Abigail. “Are you sure about this, Abigail?” The gown loomed in front of her. White. Floor-length. Gown. The last time she'd worn one of these was . . . her wedding.