“Please, call me Sebastian.” He takes my hand in his. “It was truly an ... experience meeting you, Emma.” He kisses me on the hand once more and I work hard to refrain from rolling my eyes. I am on camera, after all.
Instead, I flash him a smile. “You, too, Mr. Darcy.” I toss my hair, hold my chin up high, and walk away from him. As I reach the main doors, a member of the production crew greets me. I look back at Sebastian. He’s watching me, his lips curved into a self-satisfied smile.
Against my will, my belly does a flip, as though I hadn’t humiliated myself in front of him, as though he hadn’t been mocking me this whole time. I know it doesn’t mean anything. There’s no way I’m attracted to him. It’s got to be nothing more than the Mr. Darcy Effect. He is the most adored romantic hero of all time, after all.
Sebastian may be posing as a hero, but he is definitely no Mr. Darcy.
Chapter 3
“What are you wearing?” a woman in a dress similar to the one I discarded only moments ago asks, a look of shock on her stunningly pretty face.
We’re in a room with high ceilings, inviting sofas, and large windows, leading out to a pool. There are cameramen lurking around, capturing our every move.
“This is Timothy activewear,” I reply. “It’s super comfortable.”
She looks down at my feet. “But you’ve got no shoes on.”
“Wouldn’t fit in my clutch.”
I think it’s a perfectly acceptable explanation, but she’s clearly flummoxed. She pulls her eyebrows together (perfectly plucked, probably by Linda the torturer), and scrunches up her face. “I don’t get it.”
“There’s nothing to get, really,” I reply with a shrug. I’m hardly going to tell another contestant on the show that I smuggled my own brand of activewear in my clutch, and came out worse for the wear in a tussle with a sequined dress. Instead, I extend my hand. “I’m Emma, by the way.”
She takes it and smiles her beautiful smile at me. “I’m Phoebe.”
I glance at her long, straight, blonde hair. “Do you get Friends references much?”
She nods, giving a resigned but good natured sigh. “All the time.”
“So, you’re looking for your Mike, huh?” I say, continuing the Friends theme.
She laughs. “As long as his last name is Darcy, right?”
I smile back at her. “What did you think of him?”
“Oh, there’s no denying he’s gorgeous, and he was very sweet and old fashioned kissing my hand.”
Ha! I knew it.
“You got that too, huh?”
Her face drops a fraction. “Oh.”
She’s so sweet, I feel bad popping her bubble. “I think it’s just his thing, you know? Part of being Mr. Darcy or something.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Anyway, how could he not have liked you. I mean, you’re stunning.” And she is. She makes me feel like the poor cousin who’s got no clue about anything other than what to feed pigs, how to catch catfish, and how to smile without showing that half my teeth have fallen out. None of which I actually know how to do (and I still have all my own teeth).
Her cheeks blush pale pink, rendering her even prettier. “You’re so kind, Emma. Thank you.”
I eye her glass of champagne. “Where did you get that?”
“There’s a waiter lurking around here somewhere. I’ll go track him down for you.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I reply.
“Emma, on account of the fact that you have no shoes, I think it’s my duty to at least find you a drink.”
Kind and funny. I can tell we’re going to be friends. She’ll be the sweetest, kindest, prettiest one and I’ll be ... me.
“I’ll have a beer, thanks.”
She disappears and I survey the room. There have got to be at least ten women here, chatting away animatedly, as though they’re already the best of friends. Because there are a bunch of cameras around us everyone's on their best behavior. They’re all in glamorous evening dresses, pretty much cookie cutters of one another. It’s a lot like that old music video from the ’80s where all the women in the band look exactly the same.
“Hey. You look different,” says a woman with long dark hair who’s virtually orange as she’s got so much cheap fake tan on. Her enhanced cleavage is straining painfully against her dress with a neckline so plunging she may as well not be wearing one at all. She’s accompanied by another much more normal looking girl dressed in yellow, who beams at me enthusiastically.
“I’m wearing Timothy activewear. It’s super comfortable and—”
“And you stand out from the rest of us,” Orange Cleavage finishes for me, gesturing at the room. “Make him notice you from the start.”
Is this what’s called the pot calling the kettle black? Or should that be orange?
“I’ve got your number, girl. That’s your game,” she continues. “It’s smart, I’ll give you that, even if you look like you should be at the gym.”
My game? Riiiight. Like I’d want to have a “game” to win a guy’s heart.
I eye her up. There’s an undeniable ruthlessness about her you can spot a mile away. Well, that and the oversized orange orbs stuck to her ribcage.
“Well, I’m not the type to—” I begin then stop myself. Choosing a different tack, I extend my hand and say, “Nice to meet you. I’m Emma.”
“Hayley,” she replies with a tight jaw, her oversized lips giving her more than a passing resemblance to a fish, “and this is Sharon.” She nods at the woman in yellow beside her.
“It’s Shelby, actually, but that’s fine,” she says as she pulls me in for a hug.
Hayley waves her hand in the air as if to say “whatever.”
Nice girl.
“Oh, you smell lovely, Emma. Don’t tell me. Lily of the valley? Rose? No, I’ve got it: grapefruit,” Shelby says.
“Err, yeah,” I reply, thinking those scents are all quite different from one another.
Her face lights up in a fresh smile. “I knew it.”
“Shelby here thinks she’s destined to be with Mr. Darcy. She said it’s her fate,” Hayley says with an obvious note of distaste.
I raise my eyebrows at Shelby. “Which one? Sebastian or the actual Mr. Darcy?”
“Who doesn’t exist,” Hayley adds.
“Oh, Sebastian, definitely. He’s my destiny. I know it in my heart. Why else would we both be here right now? It doesn’t make any sense.” She gives us a confident smile.
I open my mouth to reply, then close it again. I’ve got no idea how to answer that. Well, not without sounding like a grown up, anyway.
Hayley rolls her eyes and changes the subject. “So, what do we think the lay of the land is here, ladies? Who’s a contender, who’s going home a-sap, and who am I going to have to poison in the dead of night?”
I blink at her. Is this woman for real? “Poison?” I ask.
Shelby rubs Hayley’s arm. “Oh, she’s only kidding. You’ll realize that as you get to know her.”
Hayley doesn’t look like she’s kidding to me.
“You two are friends?” I ask.
“We were the first ones in this room tonight,” Shelby replies. “Us and Camille, whom I know you’ll love as much as we do. We’ve bonded. The three of us are going to be besties for the whole show. Right, Hayley?”
Hayley harrumphs. “Sure.” She fixes me with her stark blue eyes, and I try my best not to wither.
“Here you are, Emma,” Phoebe says as she returns with a drink. “No beer, sorry.”
I take the glass of wine, thank her, and take a grateful gulp.
“Whoa!” a woman in a strapless hot pink taffeta gown exclaims as she comes to a stop beside me. “What look are y’all goin’ for there, darlin’?” she asks as her eyes glide over me.
“Not a look exactly,” I begin.
“Her game is to stand out from all of us,” Hayley says with her arms crossed. “It’s smart, even if s
he forgot her shoes and has ended up looking like she belongs in a yoga studio.”
“Oh, I love yoga,” Shelby gushes.
“Of course you do,” Hayley replies.
“Well, whatever you’re doin’, it’s workin’.” The girl grabs my arm. “Oh, I got it. I know who you’re trying to be.”
“You do?” I ask in surprise.
She nods, a triumphant look on her face. “Sporty Spice!”
“Sporty Spice? Oh, you mean from that ’90s band, the Spice Girls?”
“That’s right,” she replies. “You’re the feisty one who could actually sing.”
She and the other girls look at me in expectation.
I decide to give in to it. “Sure. Why not.” I punch the air. “Bring back Sporty Spice, that’s what I say.”
“You go, girl!” Pink Taffeta replies. “It’s good to stand out from the crowd.”
“Oh, she’s doing that all right,” Hayley harrumphs with a disapproving look.
Well, I didn’t stand out so much as fall out, but there’s no need to share my limo exit with anyone, is there?
Pink Taffeta gives me a light hug. “I’m Reggie, and wow, do I want your butt.”
I shift my weight, feeling self-conscious, my admired-butt still throbbing with pain from its unfortunate collision with the tarmac a short while ago. “Had it all my life,” I quip.
“Ha!” Reggie exclaims so loudly, I fear for my eardrum’s health. “Abbi, Camille, Kennedy. Y’all have got to come meet this one. She’s a real hoot!”
Within moments, I’m surrounded by a gaggle of women, all of whom look like they stepped out of the eveningwear section of a beauty pageant, only they forgot to put on their sashes. At five foot three in my bare feet, they tower over me, and good butt or not, I feel like a prepubescent child.
“Didn’t you get the dress code memo?” a woman with expensively highlighted blond hair in an elegant silver dress says. She stands out from some of the other women around us in that she screams class—well, class and cattiness, that is.
“It must have gotten lost in the mail,” I reply.
She looks me up and down, clear she doesn’t like what she sees. “Right.”
I ignore her judgmental tone and instead smile at her. “I’m Emma. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Camille,” she replies as she continues to look down her nose at me. “It’s an interesting move to turn up today in this.” She gestures at me. “Do you really think someone as cultured and educated as Sebastian will be interested in a woman who dresses like ... you?”
I blink at her. Wow. Just wow.
“I guess we’ll find out,” I reply sweetly, taking an instant dislike to her and imagining the TV audience will, too. Has she forgotten everything we say and do is being filmed right now? But then, maybe she’s just doing her.
“Hmmm. My guess is we’ll find out pretty soon,” Camille replies as she turns her back to me.
I totally catch her drift. She means Sebastian is going to send me home tonight.
Well, we’ll see about that, Camille.
I feel a hand on my arm and turn to look at who it is. It’s a pretty girl with shoulder-length brown hair, wearing a gorgeous white gown that shows off her curves.
“I envy you,” she says. “This dress may look good, but it’s making it hard to breathe.” She extends her hand. “I’m Kennedy, and please be as normal as you look. There are some total freakshows here.”
I smile at her. She’s a girl after my own heart. “I’m Emma, and I’m pretty sure I’m normal.”
“Do you think you’re destined to marry Mr. Darcy?” she asks and I shake my head, thinking of Shelby.
“Did you sign up for the show because your boyfriend kicked you out and now you’ve got nowhere to live?”
“There’s seriously someone here who did that?”
“I’m not naming names. Let’s just say there are a lot of stories out there.”
“Well, personally, I’m beginning to wonder what the heck I’m doing here.”
She grins at me. “Oh, I’m with you. My well-meaning sister made me do this because she thought it would help me get over my ex.”
“How’s that working out for you so far?”
Kennedy rolls her eyes. “So well.”
I snort with laughter.
“There’s nothing for it but to take advantage of all this free champagne,” she says, holding her glass up and taking a sip.
“Because being drunk on national television is always such a great idea. Right up there with wearing activewear. I’ve been told I’ll be going home tonight.”
Kennedy’s eyes flick to Camille. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about her,” she says to me quietly. “She thinks she’s better than everyone because she comes from some wealthy New York family. Apparently, Sebastian is going to be able to tell straight away she’s one of ‘his kind’ and rush her down the aisle.”
“So, you’re saying we may as well give up right now?”
Kennedy grins at me, and I think I’ve found my reality TV bestie. “Clearly,” she replies.
An hour passes, maybe more, and then the atmosphere around us suddenly changes and a hush descends over the group. I look up from a comfy seat I’ve been happily nestled into with Kennedy for the last half hour as the man himself, Sebastian, the Mr. Darcy wannabe, saunters into the room. He has a drink in hand, a relaxed smile on his undeniably handsome face, and every eye in the room is trained on him.
My bet is it’s pretty darn good to be Sebastian right now.
He’s accompanied by another man. He’s about the same height, age, and build, with dark blonde hair and a flash of white teeth. The fun conversation of only seconds ago has completely dried up, and the women around me begin to flick their hair, sit up straighter, and simper, and nearly all the cameras are trained on him.
No wonder this guy’s ego is the size of this ranch.
The man with the dark blonde hair begins to speak. “Ladies. You all look wonderful tonight, and I would like to thank you personally for being here.” He’s so upper class English, he sounds like Queen Elizabeth—only a lot younger and a lot more masculine. Obviously. “My name is Johnathan Bentley, and I have the dubious honor of being Sebastian’s best friend.” He grins at Sebastian.
I nudge Kennedy in the ribs. “He’s probably his lover.”
“They both do dress extremely well,” she replies.
I glance at the camera filming us. I should probably keep my opinions to myself.
“Now, you might be wondering what I’m doing here. Well, one of the things you were required to do before coming on the show was to read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. If you did, you’d know that Mr. Darcy’s best friend is Mr. Bingley.’ He gives a bow and the women around me titter with excitement. “Unlike Bingley, however, I’m not looking for my Jane. I’m simply here to support my good chum and help him find his Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” Johnathan flashes his grin at us all, and I’m certain several of the women swoon.
“Does that mean he’s up for grabs, too?” Kennedy says out of the corner of her mouth.
“He is very attractive,” Phoebe, who is next to us, replies.
“The show’s not called ‘Dating Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley,’ so, my money’s on ‘no,’” I respond.
“Pity,” Kennedy says with a sigh.
“And now, without further ado,” Johnathan continues, “I give you the man you’re all here for and, I’m quite sure, eager to get to know better: Sebastian, your Mr. Darcy.” He stands back and gestures at Sebastian, who waves and smiles as the women applaud. Somewhere behind me I hear a catcall followed by a couple of woots.
“Ladies,” Sebastian begins in his equally ‘I’m-related-to-the-Queen-of-England-and-lead-a-life-of-total-luxury’ voice, “I am truly honored to be Mr. Darcy. I only hope I can live up to your expectations of such a beloved character.”
More titters among the women.
“I look forward to getting to know e
ach and every one of you over the coming weeks.”
I scoff. I bet he is.
And yes, I know, I’m being harsh, cynical, and uncharitable. Take your pick.
Who knows? Maybe this Sebastian guy is actually genuine? Perhaps he really has come on the show to find love? Maybe he’s been out there on the dating scene, hoping to find his Mrs. Darcy, and keeps getting knocked back by the good women of England. Because, let’s face it, us women hate good-looking rich guys with sexy English accents, don’t we?
As if! With his Henry Cavill good looks and his air of cockiness, it’s so obvious he doesn’t need a TV show to find love.
Which begs the question: why is he here?
I chew on my lip. Publicity, sure. That’s a given. But to what end? Is he a narcissist, wanting to see himself on TV getting chased by a bunch of gorgeous women? Is his multimillion dollar inheritance from Daddy not enough to keep him in Lear Jets and private islands?
“But for now, I think a drink is in order,” Sebastian continues with that smile of his pasted across his face. “Would any of you care to join me?”
There’s a rush of excitement, and as women scramble to reach him first, I’m elbowed in the face and kicked in the shin with a spiky heel.
“Ouch!” I rub my injured shin.
“What’s the rush?” Kennedy says, leaning back against the cushions beside me. “The guy’s not going anywhere, girls.”
“And he’s not getting any less self-satisfied, either,” I add.
She turns to look at me. “Oooh, you don’t like him.”
“It’s just that I’ve got the champagne and the comfy seat and you. I’m all set.”
“Good call,” she says with a laugh. “There’s plenty of time to get to know him.”
We sit back against the soft linen cushions and watch the games begin. Sebastian is already surrounded by a horde of eager participants, and I’m quite sure his ego is swelling to the size of Jupiter.
“You know we’ll need to talk to him at some stage if we don’t want to be sent home first,” Kennedy says.
“I figured I’d wait until things calm down.” I watch Camille, the one with the expensive hair from a wealthy New York family, as she holds onto his arm and coos in his ear. “I see Camille’s moved in straight away.”
Dating Mr. Darcy: A romantic comedy (Love Manor Romantic Comedy Book 1) Page 3