Dating Mr. Darcy: A romantic comedy (Love Manor Romantic Comedy Book 1)

by Kate O'Keeffe

  Dating Mr. Darcy

  A romantic comedy

  Love Manor Romantic Comedy Series

  Book 1

  by

  Kate O’Keeffe

  Dating Mr. Darcy is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  ISBN: 979-8667690634

  Edited by Grapevine Editing

  Cover design by Sue Traynor

  Copyright © 2020 Kate O’Keeffe

  About this book

  Is it a truth universally acknowledged, that a girl must compete on reality TV to win a modern-day Mr. Darcy's heart?

  Clothing designer Emma Brady is having serious doubts about how far she'll go to promote her new activewear line. Sure, being on a reality show would be great for business, but is putting up with Mr. Darcy-wannabe Sebastian Huntington-Ross really worth it?

  Sebastian is straight out of an Austen novel. But it's hard to focus on his chiseled jaw, broad shoulders and wickedly sexy accent when all Emma can see is his pride, arrogance, and smug demeanor.

  But Sebastian has a secret reason for being on the show, and when Emma figures out what it is, her heart warms to him without her permission.

  Will Emma hold fast and keep the aristocratic Sebastian at arm's length? Or will she put her reservations aside when the lines between reality and "reality show" start to blur?

  Dating Mr. Darcy is the first book in the Love Manor Romantic Comedy Series and can easily be read as a standalone novel. For news and releases, please visit kateokeeffe.com and sign up for Kate’s newsletter.

  Also by Kate O’Keeffe

  Love Manor Romantic Comedy Series:

  Dating Mr. Darcy

  Marrying Mr. Darcy

  Finding a New Darcy – coming soon

  Cozy Cottage Café Series:

  One Last First Date

  Two Last First Dates

  Three Last First Dates

  Four Last First Dates

  High Tea Series:

  No More Bad Dates

  No More Terrible Dates

  No More Horrible Dates

  Wellywood Romantic Comedy Series:

  Wedding Bubbles

  Styling Wellywood

  Miss Perfect Meets Her Match

  Falling for Grace

  Standalone titles:

  Manhattan Cinderella

  The Right Guy

  One Way Ticket

  I'm Scheming of a White Christmas

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Marrying Mr. Darcy

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Is it a truth universally acknowledged, that a girl must compete on reality TV to win a modern-day Mr. Darcy's heart?

  Of course not. That would be totally, off-the-charts insane, right?

  And yet, here I am, moments away from becoming a contestant on the reality TV show, Dating Mr. Darcy.

  I know, I know. You’re judging me. Heck, I’m judging me.

  But let me set the record straight. I’m not here for the guy. No way. I mean, who in their right mind would willingly date someone on national TV? Someone who’s posing as Mr. Darcy, one of the most romantic fictional heroes of all time? The guy’s got to be a total idiot, or at least have an ego the size of my home state of Texas. And even though my current dating life can be summed up with the word “laughable,” there’s no way I’m that desperate.

  Yet, despite my lack of enthusiasm, here I am, sitting in a faux-leather swivel chair, my back to one of those Hollywood-lit mirrors as an overzealous, tweezer-wielding makeup artist plucks yet another hair from my poor, tortured eyebrows. Eyebrows that apparently I misguidedly thought up until about an hour ago were perfectly fine.

  As another hair is pulled from its happy home, I scrunch my eyes shut. Ah, how I miss those carefree eyebrow times. Really, I didn’t know how good I had it.

  “You see, it’s high def, honey. The cameras will pick up every little imperfection and totally magnify it,” my torturer Linda says helpfully as she stands back to examine her handiwork. To my horror, she leans back in and begins to pluck some more.

  I work hard at not breathing in her stale garlic breath while she continues to torment me. If she would let me turn around to see my reflection, I bet the skin around my brows would be so swollen, I’d look like Andre the Giant’s kid sister right about now.

  “The last thing you want to be known as is ‘Monobrow Girl’ or some other such name,” Linda continues.

  “People would do that?”

  “You better believe it, girl. One contestant on the show a couple of years back had blackheads all over her nose. Bad ones, like someone had gotten a pen and jabbed it at her face, you know?”

  I nod, pleased for the reprieve in the tweezer-induced torment.

  She pulls out a large brush and starts applying face powder. “She got known as ‘Dalmatian Chick,’ which was kinda funny, but also kinda sad. People would hum the tune to 101 Dalmatians when she passed by, and there were memes all over social media.”

  I knit my considerably lighter brows together. “That couldn’t have been fun for her.”

  “I know, right? What I want to know is why she couldn’t have gotten her skin fixed before coming on the show? I mean, duh.”

  I blink at her reflection. That was the problem?

  “She did get a great deal promoting skin products after the show, though, so it all worked out in the end,” Linda adds.

  “Right.”

  As though public humiliation can all be fixed by financial gain. I feel sorry for the girl, blackheads and all.

  “My point is, honey, people can be mean. Remember that.”

  I nod at her. “And don’t have unruly eyebrows.”

  She winks at me. “You caught on quick.”

  She pulls off the barber’s cape she tied around my neck and stands back from my chair. “There. Much better.” She spins me around so I’m facing the mirror. “What do you think, honey?”

  I sit up straighter in my seat as I take in my full reflection in the bulb-lined mirror. It’s hard not to be impressed, even if I know it’s not the real me. My eyes look larger and greener than they’ve ever looked in my life, my skin is glowing, and my lips are full and glossy. Despite the pain, my brows look perfect, and my brunette hair falls in soft waves around my bare shoulders.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m a girly enough girl. I like to dress up to go out, I wear makeup, and I get my hair done with a guy called Stefaaan with three a’s at a swanky Houston salon for a small fortune every eight weeks.

/>   But I’ve never in my twenty-seven years looked like this.

  “I love that red sequined dress on you. It totally complements your shape.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur, still taking it all in.

  “He’ll love you. I bet you’ve got a real good shot at winning his heart.”

  I flick my eyes to hers. The Mr. Darcy imposter. Right. I’d temporarily forgotten about him. I paste on a smile and say what’s expected of me. “I so hope you’re right, Linda.”

  She leans in conspiratorially. “You know, I’ve seen him. He is hot. Tall and muscular and handsome. And that British accent of his?” She fans herself. “So sexy.”

  “Oh, great,” I reply, not caring one bit. The guy could be Quasimodo as far as I was concerned. It made no difference to me.

  “I heard he’s super rich, too, from this aristocratic English family.” She leans even closer to me and I take an accidental lungful of garlic breath. “I’m not meant to tell you this, but he owns some fancy house in England, like Downton Abbey. They call it his ‘manor,’ and I heard he’s got servants, too.”

  An egotistical rich idiot.

  Better and better.

  “I tell you, if it wasn’t for my Eugene, I’d be making a play for him for sure.”

  My phone beeps on the counter in front of me, saving me from having to comment on Eugene and the Mr. Darcy imposter. “I should check this.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  It’s a message from Penny. My best friend since we met at college—all wide-eyed and out of her depth—and more recently, my business partner.

  Call me! Last minute idea!! xoxo

  I smile to myself. Penny has got to be the most enthusiastic person I know. Sometimes, I don’t know how her husband Trey copes. But—and there’s a big but— it was Penny’s idea for me to apply for the show. Sure, we agreed that doing it could give our new, struggling activewear business, Timothy, a much-needed boost. But equally, if it wasn’t for her, I would be home right now, curled up on my sofa, watching Netflix with Frank, my tabby cat.

  And I know practically every contestant on reality dating shows like this say they were put up for the show against their will by their friend/ mom/ podiatrist/ a pimply teenager who packs their groceries. But I am that girl.

  Linda nods at my phone. “They’ll be taking that off you pretty darn soon, honey.”

  I pull a face. “It’s going to be a nightmare.”

  As I begin to tap out my reply, I look up, startled, as loud approaching footsteps come to a sudden stop. In the mirror, I’m met with an extremely officious looking woman. She’s probably in her forties, she’s dressed in a navy suit, a clipboard in hand, and with a stern look on her face.

  “Linda. You’re needed in room fourteen,” she says.

  “No problem.” Linda places her hand on my shoulder. “Good luck, honey,” she says to me. “I hope you win.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for making me look like this.”

  “It’s all you,” she says with a smile before she slips away.

  Sure. All me and a fancy dress I could never afford and expert styling. But I’ll take it.

  With Linda gone, the severe, frankly scary looking woman throws a critical eye over me before she consults her clipboard. “Emma Brady. Correct?” she says in a curt British accent that makes me want to slump down in my chair and hide.

  “That’s me,” I reply brightly. I carefully slide my soon-to-be contraband phone under my sequin-clad butt.

  “Well, it’s an Austen name, even if it is the wrong book.”

  I shoot her an uncertain look. And this matters how, exactly?

  “I’m Margaret Watson. I’ll be coordinating the contestant’s activities over the coming weeks. Anything you need, you come to me. Of course, I probably won’t get it for you.” She laughs at her own joke.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Ma’am.”

  “Mrs. Watson. That’s what you’ll be calling me from now on.”

  “Mrs. Watson. Got it.”

  “You’ll be leaving to meet our Mr. Darcy in approximately ten minutes. We need you to hand him this.” She fishes in a capacious bag she has slung over her shoulder and produces a piece of material. She hands it to me and I look at it in puzzlement.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s an embroidered handkerchief.”

  “We’re out of Kleenex, huh?”

  Mrs. Watson’s face doesn’t crack. “It’s meant to show your interest in him. Although traditionally a man would give his handkerchief to a woman in Regency England, in this instance we’re reversing that moray. Look at it as a handkerchief you embroidered yourself, a personal, enchanting gift for a gentleman to treasure.”

  I look down at it in my hand. That sure is a lot for one small scrap of material to achieve. I scrunch up my face. “Do I have to?”

  “On the red carpet when meeting Mr. Darcy, every girl has a bit. This is yours, Emma.”

  My bit’s a lame handkerchief? Terrific.

  I smile up at her. “Sure. No problem.”

  “Good. My assistant will come and get you when we’re ready for you to go. When you exit the car onto the red carpet at the ranch, please remember to smile. You need to be open and friendly towards him. He’s Mr. Darcy, and it’s your job to impress him as well as you can.”

  Well, if that doesn’t make me feel like the little woman who should know her place, I don’t know what will.

  I nod, knitting my brows together to show how serious I am about this. “Smile. Friendly. Impress. Got it.”

  She writes something on her clipboard, and I’m dying to know what it is. Obedient? Impertinent? No way is Mr. Darcy going to go for this one?

  Not that I care.

  I’m not here for the guy.

  “And Miss Emma?” she says, eyeing me once more. “That mobile you tried so dexterously to slip under your posterior when I walked in needs to be handed in before you get into the car. Need I remind you, no devices of any kind are allowed.”

  I shoot her a weak smile. Totally busted.

  She turns on her heel and clomps out of the small room, leaving me alone with my now very warm phone. I abandon my message and instead dial Penny’s number.

  She answers almost immediately, and I can just imagine her sitting in our office (okay, her garage, if you’ve got to be nitpicky), waiting to hear from me. “Em. How are you? Are you nervous? What are you wearing? Are you ready for this?”

  “So many questions, Penn.”

  “Sorry. I’m nervous for you.”

  Nerves hitting me for the first time. “I don’t have long. I’ve got to get in the car to go meet him soon. What was your new idea?”

  “Well, you know how we agreed that you’re going to wear Timothy items out on dates with him and lounging around the mansion with the other contestants? Well, I thought to amp it up, you could wear some of our shorts and a top under your evening wear at the parties.”

  “Why?”

  “That way you can whip your dress off and show our label!”

  “You want me to take my dress off at the parties? Penny, this is Dating Mr. Darcy, not some sexy Vegas revue.”

  “Look, if you were wearing your underwear, I’d totally agree, but the whole point of you being on this show is to get publicity for our label. Everyone will be talking about you, and, most importantly, they’ll be talking about Timothy.”

  We named Timothy for our dads, who are both called, you guessed it, Timothy. Penny’s the creative mastermind and I’m trying to use my business degree from the community college where we met to make her vision a reality. We’re two plucky gals, working hard to change our fortunes.

  Wrong side of the tracks? We grew up so far from them, we couldn’t even hear the trains.

  Going on this show has got to work, for both of us. End of story.

  “I’ll think about it, Penn.”

  I’ve got zero intention of pulling my dress off to show our label. It’s one thing to be a contestant
on this tragic show, it’s quite another to come across as a stripper on national TV. “I’ve got my Timothy leggings and top in my clutch, ready to change into in the limo.”

  “Atta girl. You will totally stand out in activewear next to all those girls in evening gowns. Have you heard anything about the guy posing as Mr. Darcy?”

  “Only that he’s super rich, super posh and consequently, I will have nothing in common with him.”

  “Who knows? Opposites attract, Em. Maybe you’ll stay on the show the whole time, wearing our label as you fall in love?”

  I let out a sudden laugh. “Not gonna happen. His money aside, a guy who goes on a reality show to fall in love is so not my kind of guy.”

  “But he’s Mr. Darcy.” I can hear the swoon in her voice, like she’s all flushed and weak at the knees.

  And yeah, I get it. Mr. Darcy is considered one of the most dashing heroes of all time. Many a woman has been known to swoon over him, with that heroic, masculine, man-of-few-words thing he’s got going on, not to mention his gallantry and immense wealth.

  “Penn? You do know Mr. Darcy isn’t real, right?”

  “Of course I do. But the guy on the show has got to be like him, right? I bet he’ll be gorgeous and confident—”

  “And zero fun,” I add, cutting her off. “Mr. Darcy isn’t exactly the kind of guy to do tequila slammers and hit the clubs.”

  “Do you want to do tequila slammers and hit the clubs?”

  “Well, no,” I admit. “We did more than enough of that together in college.”

  “Those were the days,” she replies with a sigh. “Meeting you was the only good thing to come out of that boring business studies course we did.”

  “You quit it to go to design school after about five minutes, Penn.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “Well, my point is that if this guy is anything like Mr. Darcy, he’ll be all formal and rude and boring.”

  She sucks in air. “How dare you,” she mocks. “Never say never, that’s all I’m saying.”