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

by Kate O'Keeffe

  There’s more tittering among the contestants, but I’m too busy taking in Mrs. Watson’s getup in all its glory to pay much attention to what they’re saying. She’s in a cream Empire line dress that reaches the floor, with cap sleeves. It’s cut low enough to show off what my Nana would call her “bosom,” which is something I didn’t expect I’d ever think about when I met Mrs. Watson earlier this afternoon. She has on long white gloves that reach above her elbow, and her hair is arranged in a simple bun, except for the ringlets around her face. The entire look is topped off with what appears to be a frilly white shower cap standing proud on top of her head.

  “Ladies, as you know, this is Dating Mr. Darcy, not dress up time.” Her stony features melt a fraction as she gives a half-smile at her joke. “I assure you, there is a method to the madness. Forget your Millennial way of dressing. Forget your splits, your bare backs, your stretchy pants.” She looks pointedly at me.

  Stretchy pants? How insulting.

  “From now on, you are all going to dress as though it were 1813.”

  Wait what?

  I stare at her, wide-eyed. Is she kidding right now?

  I take in her smug expression, her chin raised as she looks down her nose at us all, and I know this is no joke.

  “Have we all got to dress like you?” Marni, one of the contestants asks.

  “You do.”

  No no no no no! No!

  This cannot be happening.

  If I’ve got to dress like that I can’t wear Timothy. If I can’t wear my label, what’s the point in being here?

  Penny’s and my entire game plan for this show has been vaporized by Mrs. Watson and her Lizzies.

  The contestants burst into a variety of responses, from the shocked to the excited and everything in between.

  My head begins to pulse.

  “Ah, Mrs. Watson?” I say loudly over the chatting. “Do we have to dress like you all the time?”

  “Only while you’re on camera.”

  “So all the time,” I clarify.

  “You’ll have your leisure time, of course. You can wear your comfortable clothes then, Miss Emma, but you’ll be wearing Regency dresses appropriate for ladies the rest of the time. We aim to make this show as authentic as possible.”

  “Authentic? Mr. Darcy is a character from a book!” I exclaim in exasperation.

  “Ah, yes, Miss Emma, but Jane Austen was very real, and he is her creation.”

  As if that’s an actual answer.

  “What do the dresses we’re going to wear look like?” Abbi, one of the contestants, asks, and Mrs. Watson’s attention is diverted away from me.

  I slump my shoulders.

  That’s it. Game over.

  There’s nothing for it. I can’t achieve what I set out to on this show.

  I may as well pack my things and go home.

  Chapter 6

  I don’t go home. Don’t get me wrong, with that little bombshell last night, I want to go home. There’s no point in being here if I can’t showcase Timothy. End of story. What’s more, staying here will be daily torture, thanks to the fact we’ve got to wear old fashioned dresses and that I’ll be forced to watch smug Sebastian pick and choose between the contestants.

  Memories of my dignity are becoming more and more blurred.

  Why not go home right this minute and collect that dignity at the door as I leave, you ask? The sad fact of the matter is that when I came on the show I signed a contract that says very clearly I can only leave when I’m sent home, I break the rules, or if I do decide to simply walk out, I’ll get slapped with a fine I just can’t afford right now—or at any time, for that matter.

  When I signed the contract, although pretty darn harsh, none of it seemed too bad to me. I knew from the outset a guy who would go on a show like this to find love was not my type, so I figured he’d send me home pretty fast, and all I had to do was make sure it wasn’t on the first night.

  Now? Well, now I’m forced to take things into my own Regency gloved hands. That means “Operation Make Sebastian Send Me Home” is well and truly on. Either that, or break some rules.

  Speaking of the man himself, the fact that he singled me out by sitting next to me last night before the “dress like it’s 1813” bomb was dropped, has really raised some of the contestants’ hackles, just as Kennedy said it did. Which is ridiculous. It’s not as though I asked him to come sit with me, and our conversation lasted all of five minutes, during which he poked fun at me for falling out of the limo and tried to get me to snitch on the other contestants.

  Nice guy.

  Nevertheless, it would seem I’ve been labelled as a front runner by some, and deserve to be treated with disdain, suspicion, or all of the above.

  Lucky me.

  One of the contestants, a cute girl from Nebraska called Amy, asked me what my secret was, to which I had to reply I had none. Because there is no secret! Another, Abbi, accused me of using witchcraft to lure him in (I kid you not). With that one I simply nodded and moved to another table to eat my toast. I don’t need to be around that level of crazy before my morning coffee.

  But they’re the harmless ones.

  Several of the contestants have totally blanked me, including, of course, Hayley, the unnaturally orange looking girl with the stick-on cleavage. She and her cronies moved away from me when I sat down next to them to eat my breakfast, and they’ve continued to shoot evil glares in my direction ever since.

  It’s so Mean Girls meets a good old fashioned Salem witch hunt right now.

  So much fun.

  Some of the contestants seem nice enough, like Kennedy and Phoebe. But really, I don’t know these women, and I couldn’t care less what Sebastian thinks of me.

  The sooner I’m out of here, the better.

  And now I’m in a room with blacked out windows, sitting in front of fancy gilded wallpaper with a huge bunch of white roses on a table. Bright lights are trained on me as I’m peppered with questions by a member of the crew on camera.

  “What do you think of Sebastian?” a woman called Cindy with spiky peroxide blond hair asks.

  Many words spring to mind, but instead of being honest, I reply, “I think he’s just great,” as I give her my most winning smile.

  “What in particular do you like about him, Emma?”

  “His accent. I like it a lot. It’s a really, really great accent.”

  She looks at me in expectation. Clearly I need to add more.

  “You know it’s all English and stuff, which is nice. It reminds me of Downton Abbey, actually, but only the family’s accents, not the servants. Oh, and not the guy who was the chauffeur who ended up marrying the daughter that died. I think he was Irish or Scottish or something?”

  “What else did you like about him?” Cindy asks, cutting me off. I’m not sure she’s vibing with my Downton angle.

  I wrack my brain. “His suit. Yeah, I liked his suit. It was very James Bond-y, and I like that about him.”

  Cindy is clearly unimpressed with my responses. “Honey, what we’re looking for here is more personal detail. Did you feel anything when you met?”

  A sore butt?

  I shake my head. “Sorry, not really, no.”

  “No sexual tension? No desire to touch him, to kiss him?”

  I think of the way he made me feel when he came to sit next to me on the sofa and swiftly push those feelings away. “Nothing. I will try to feel something, though.”

  “You do that.” Her tone is not exactly genuine. She glances at her notes and then looks back up at me. “How about you tell us about the other contestants. Who do you think has a shot with him, who do you see as your competition, who do you want to be sent home next? That kind of thing.”

  There’s no way I’m going to get drawn into dishing the dirt on my fellow contestants. I’ve watched reality TV. I’ve seen how that plays out on these shows, and the person dishing the dirt is never portrayed in a good light.

  “Kennedy is ter
rific. She’s smart and funny and super pretty. I really like her.”

  “So, you see Kennedy as your competition?”

  “No. I mean she would be a good choice for Sebastian, that’s all.” If Sebastian weren’t a total douche, that is.

  Cindy looks at me like I’ve told her I’m a Martian who sucks people’s brains out through their ears. “You don’t see yourself as a good choice for Sebastian?”

  “Well, of course I do,” I reply hurriedly. “Who wouldn’t? He’s got the sexy accent that I mentioned before and the suit that makes him look like James Bond. It’s a winning combo.”

  Cindy gestures for me to elaborate.

  “Of course I find Sebastian attractive. I mean, he’s Mr. Darcy, right?”

  Either she’s satisfied with my responses or she’s completely despaired of me, but the next thing I know I’m being thanked and excused and I head to the dining room for some much needed caffeination.

  I’m pouring a cup when Phoebe appears beside me. She’s just as pretty as she was last night, despite the lack of makeup and styled hair, and I give her a smile, genuinely happy to see her again.

  “Hey, Emma. How was your night? Sleep well?” she asks as she collects a fresh coffee mug from the collection on the table.

  “It was fine,” I answer without a hint of truth. You see, I’ve got roommates. Two of them: Reggie and Lori. Between Reggie’s snoring and Lori’s sleep talking (all mumbled, nothing of interest), I think I grabbed only a handful of hours of sleep. “How was yours?”

  “I slept so well,” she replies with a beaming smile. “I’ve got the nicest roommates. We talked for a while, and agreed to be friends no matter what happens with Sebastian.”

  “You did? Who are your roommates?”

  “Hayley and Camille,” she replies, naming the two worst possible girls she could.

  “I’d be careful with them,” I say under my breath.

  “Why?”

  “Just trust me on this one.”

  “Okay. Want to sit with me?”

  “Sure.”

  We find a free sofa over by the window with a view of manicured lawns and the fields beyond and sit down. We could almost be in Mr. Darcy’s Pemberley, if it weren’t for the fact everything in this ranch was made in China.

  “Have you done your first interview?” I ask her.

  “Oh, yes. I got called in early. It was fun to get to talk about Sebastian and all the wonderful people I’ve met so far on this show.”

  I take a much-needed sip of my coffee. “Why did you enter the show?”

  “I don’t know,” she replies with a shrug. “It seems so romantic, you know? Meeting the love of your life on somewhere as crazy as a TV show? It’s worked for others, so I figured, why not for me?”

  “I’m not sure it’s worked for many others, exactly.”

  “It has for some, though.”

  “Really?”

  “Definitely.”

  Phoebe is relentlessly positive, I’ll give her that.

  “Do you think Sebastian’s the guy for you?” I ask.

  She bites on her lip for a moment as she looks out at the view before replying, “I think he could be.”

  “Personally, I think the chances of one of us finding love with this guy are about as likely as the Pope wearing a tutu to his next public event.”

  She giggles. “I’d like to see that.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  She takes a sip of her coffee and asks, “Why do you think he won’t fall in love with one of us?”

  I shrug. “I dunno. He’s this great looking, super rich guy who lives in an English castle, right? Why would he need a dating show to help him find a girlfriend?”

  “Maybe he’s a romantic, like me?”

  I try not to scoff. Chances of that are as likely as the Pope hula-hooping in his tutu at his next public event.

  “Can I join you?” Kennedy is standing in front of us, holding a plate and mug.

  “Definitely,” I reply as she takes a seat opposite me.

  “How are things? Survive the night?”

  “Barely,” I reply as Phoebe says, “Totally.”

  “We were just talking about why we think Sebastian is doing this show,” I say.

  “To find his one true love, surely,” Kennedy remarks with a twinkle in her eye.

  “See?” Phoebe says, missing the glint altogether. “We’re not all hardened cynics like you, Emma.”

  “What’s your theory?” Kennedy asks me.

  “I’ve got a couple. I think either he lost a bet, or the Mafia’s after him and he needs to hide away somewhere for a while.”

  “The Mafia?” Phoebe shakes her head at me. “Emma, really?”

  “Okay, so maybe hiding from the Mafia isn’t plausible, but he could have lost a bet.”

  “Oh, I think you were totally right about the mafia thing,” Kennedy replies. “He looks the type to get chased around the globe by gangsters.”

  I giggle. “There’s a type that’s got to hide from a gang of angry Italians?”

  “Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

  “Isn’t love a good enough reason?” Phoebe protests.

  She’s so sweet I half expect chirping cartoon birds to fly around her head like she was Snow White.

  I pull a face to show her exactly what I think of her hypothesis and slide my eyes to my comrade-in-arms. Kennedy laughs and shakes her head.

  “No matter what you say, I think Sebastian is here for the right reasons, and you’ll eat your words when you see him fall in love with one of us,” Phoebe says.

  “We’ll see,” I reply. Not that I have any plans to be here at the end to see him fall in love—or, more likely, not fall in love. I’m out of here just as soon as I can wrangle it.

  “Keep your head down,” Kennedy says before she raises her mug and literally hides behind it.

  “What? Why?” I ask.

  She hooks her thumb in the direction of one of the tables, where Camille, Hayley, and Shelby are now standing.

  “Which one?” I ask quietly.

  Kennedy nods. “Camille. She’s a nightmare. She told me I’ve got the dress sense of a blind turkey. Whatever that means.”

  I skim my eyes over Kennedy’s t-shirt and shorts combo and decide she looks perfectly normal. “How do blind turkeys dress, exactly?” I ask.

  “Not in Prada or Gucci, like Camille over there. She tells anyone who’ll listen that she’s from some super rich New York family and only came on this show because she’s bored.”

  I glance back over at Camille. She’s flicking her hair, and laughing prettily at something one of the girls is saying. “Nice for some.”

  “I know, right? I had to give up my job and sublet my apartment to be here.”

  “Me too,” Phoebe chimes in.

  I think of my own current lack of funds. If Timothy doesn’t begin to show some sort of serious profit soon, Penny and I will have to quit our dream.

  “What do you think of this whole Regency thing?” Phoebe asks.

  “Regency?” Kennedy asks.

  “The era we’ve got to dress in. It’s called Regency because the Prince Regent was ruling Britain for his father at the time.”

  “Look at you with the knowledge,” I say.

  She shrugs. “History major back in college.”

  I scrunch up my nose. “Well, whatever you want to call it, I’m not exactly thrilled about it, that’s for sure. Not unless we get to kill zombies, of course.”

  “What are you talking about?” Phoebe asks as Kennedy questions, “Zombies?”

  “You know that movie based on Pride and Prejudice where the Bennet sisters are all trained assassins who kill zombies?”

  They look at me as though my brain just fell out of my head and landed with a splat on the table.

  “It’s a book and a movie?” When they continue to stare at me blankly, I say, “Forget about it.”

  “Well, I for one am excited to wear these dresses,” P
hoebe says wistfully, just as I expected she would. “I think wearing Regency clothes will add to the romance of the whole thing. The long dresses, the gloves, the up-dos with the ringlets around your face.”

  Kennedy shakes her head. “Nuh-uh. I’m not doing ringlets.”

  I shudder as I think of Mrs. Watson’s hair last night. “The ringlets are the worst part. That’s what hair straighteners are for.”

  “Actually, I think the worst part is that weird hat Mrs. Watson was wearing,” Kennedy says.

  “Oh, you mean the shower cap?”

  Kennedy shudders.

  “Only married women and older spinsters wore those, so we won’t have to,” Phoebe explains.

  “Praise the Lord for that,” Kennedy says.

  Phoebe collects my hair in a ponytail and pulls a few strands out around my face. “You’ll totally rock the look, Emma. Don’t you think, Kennedy?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Half nun, half poodle?” I suggest.

  Phoebe drops my hair and resumes drinking her coffee. “Do you think Sebastian and his friend will be dressed in Regency clothing, too?”

  “Probably,” I huff. “I mean, the show’s called Dating Mr. Darcy, so it figures.”

  I picture Sebastian dressed like Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy in the BBC adaptation my mom used to watch. Wow, did I have a crush on him! I mean, who didn’t, right? In tight pants and knee-high boots, that jacket with the long tail things and a white shirt to show off his dark hair? Not to mention the wet shirt clinging to his muscular frame when he got out of that pond ...

  “He’ll look hot,” Kennedy says. “Don’t you think, Emma?”

  “I don’t hate the idea of him dressed as Mr. Darcy,” I admit in my Colin Firth-induced haze.

  Camille and the delusional Shelby arrive at our table.

  “Well look at you. If it isn’t Sporty Spice, the Disney princess, and,” Camille looks at Kennedy with disdain, “your nondescript friend.”

  “Nice, Camille. Real nice,” Kennedy says.