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

by Kate O'Keeffe

  “There’s no need to be rude,” Phoebe says. “Kennedy is gorgeous, and I’m no more a Disney princess than any of you.”

  Camille harrumphs.

  “Good morning, you two,” I say breezily. “You both look lovely today.” Mom always told me to kill the enemy with kindness, so I lather it on.

  Shelby smiles and thanks me as Camille replies, “Well, you look the same.”

  I glance down at my Timothy top and pants. Although she’s wrong in that they’re not the same as last night’s ensemble, because ew that would be gross, they are from the same line. But I doubt that’s what she means. “Actually, I do have shoes on today, so I think I’ve got a totally new look.” I raise a foot and wave it in the air.

  Camille harrumphs. “You tell yourself that, honey. You’ll be kissing those sweats goodbye soon, anyway. I’ve heard we’re being called for fittings.”

  Fittings? How fan-freaking-tastic.

  “I wonder if we’ll get any choice?” Shelby says excitedly. “If we do, I want yellow. I love yellow.”

  “I think I’d want pink, because it’s so girly and cute,” Phoebe says.

  “What color would you want, Camille?” I ask, acting all innocent. “Black to match your soul?”

  Kennedy stares at me. “You did not just say that.”

  “Oh, yes she did,” Shelby says as we watch Camille for a reaction.

  She opens her mouth to reply when the door swings open and Sebastian strolls in, instantly grabbing everyone’s attention. Which is probably a good thing for me, since I just insulted Camille.

  He smiles at us all. “I thought I’d pop in and say a quick hello after my workout. I trust you all slept well?”

  I run my eyes over him, like every woman in the room, and probably the serving staff to boot. If I thought he looked good in his tux last night, it’s nothing in comparison with how he looks right now. He’s wearing shorts and a tank top, his face glowing with exertion, his tan, muscular arms and legs on show for all to admire. In good shape? Heck, yes. But I’m sure he knows it, and dropping by to see us fresh from the gym is doubtlessly a calculated move to make us swoon.

  “Oh, we did sleep well. Thank you for asking, Sebastian,” Abbi says for us all. Inaccurately, in my case however.

  “That’s good to hear. I’m looking forward to seeing you all later in the day. I understand you’re going to look quite different then.” He flashes his smile and the women around me seem to melt. Not that I’m entirely impervious to his charms, because hello, he’s a hot guy, even if he is a stuck up snob. But melt? No thank you.

  “How’s the food? Is the coffee good?”

  “Would you like a cup, Sebastian?” Camille says as she twists her hair around her fingers. “I’d be happy to fetch you one.”

  “I thought she’d have servants to do that,” Kennedy mumbles to me under her breath.

  “She probably brought one in her suitcase. I bet he’s called Jeeves.”

  Kennedy snorts with laughter and instantly covers her mouth with her hand. Sebastian looks our way and I give him a little wave to say “Hi,” and instantly regret coming across as one of his simpering sycophants.

  He shoots me an uncertain look. “Thank you so much for the offer, Camille. Maybe later. Right now, I think I should take a shower before my fitting.”

  I’m sure every female mind in the room is picturing him in that shower.

  “Enjoy your morning.” He turns to leave and several of the women call out goodbye.

  I let out a puff of air. I’m glad I’m not “here for the right reasons” and have got to deal with a bunch of women thinking they’re half in love with the guy already.

  As the production crew begins to pick us off individually and herd us to other rooms for fittings, I sit and wait with Kennedy until it’s my turn.

  “Are you really here because your sister signed you up after a breakup?” I ask her.

  She nods her head. “Yup. She thought the experience would get me out of my head.”

  “And?”

  “I haven’t thought about my scumbag ex since I walked down the red carpet. Too many other dramas here, I guess.”

  “He’s clearly a man with poor judgment if he dumped you.”

  She taps her mug against mine. “You are so right, babe. I am moving on.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Emma,” Trudi, one of the production crew, calls from the doorway. “Time for your fitting.”

  “Wish me luck,” I say as I stand to leave.

  “Don’t forget to channel your inner Lizzie Bennet,” Kennedy says. “Not so hard for me, considering my last name actually is Bennet.”

  “You are the obvious choice for Mr. Darcy, then.”

  “Not if I value my life,” she replies, looking at Camille across the room.

  I shoot her a sardonic smile. Even though I’ve known Kennedy for less than a day, I know she’ll be the only thing I’ll miss about this insane asylum when I leave.

  Chapter 7

  I trudge behind Trudi down the wide corridor with its long Turkish runner carpet and black and white photographs of horses lining the walls. We reach a white painted door, and as she pushes it open, I spot Reggie in front of a wardrobe, filled with Empire line dresses. She grins at me, looking like she stepped off the pages of Pride and Prejudice itself.

  “Don’t I look cute, Emma?” She does a twirl.

  Her skirt is ivory, her top a pale lilac, and with her dark hair arranged like Mrs. Watson’s last night—but without the hideous shower cap—she does indeed look cute.

  “You totally do, Reggie.”

  “Why thank you, darlin’. Now, if only I had my phone I could post it to my followers.”

  “Missing social media, huh?”

  “Like I lost my right arm. Up until I arrived here, my entire life was catalogued on Instagram. My followers must be missing me somethin’ wicked.”

  “But you’ll have a great story to tell them.”

  “I’d better. That’s all I’m sayin’.” She does another twirl. “Dressing up is fun. Well, other than the undergarments piece.”

  “The undergarments?”

  She glides past me toward the door, followed by Trudi. “You’ll see, darlin’. You’ll see.”

  With the door closed behind them, it’s just me and an older woman I’ve never seen before. She peers over the top of her bright red glasses at me. “You must be Emma. I’m Mable Richardson, Head of Wardrobe. Let’s get started on this.” She’s got a no nonsense tone and a briskness about her.

  I eye the pile of weird looking corsets piled up on a chair.

  “I’ll need you to take everything off, and that includes your bra and underpants.”

  My jaw drops. “All of it?”

  Mable flicks her wrist. “There’s a modesty screen if you want it, but I’ve been fitting people for costumes for thirty-five years and I very much doubt you have anything I haven’t seen before.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I step behind the screen and begin to slip off my things. Before I’ve reached my bra—super supportive and soft sports bra by Timothy, naturally—her hand appears around the corner of the screen, thrusting something at me.

  “Put these on.”

  I take it from her and examine it. It’s a pair of underpants so big and roomy, it puts my nana’s to shame. And my nana had some pretty big underpants in her time.

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Put the bloomers on, please.”

  Bloomers? Dear Lord, help me now.

  I pull the huge garment up and tie it at my waist. It reaches down to my knees and is easily the least sexy item of clothing I have worn in my life. How anyone is going to feel like flirting with Sebastian while wearing these is beyond me.

  “In the Regency period, bloomers didn’t have a gusset,” Mable explains helpfully. “We thought the contestants would be more comfortable if we broke with that tradition, so you’ll find your bloomers do.”<
br />
  “Comfortable” doesn’t begin to describe wearing these things. Did I mention they’re huge?

  “Right. Thanks,” I mumble.

  The original crotchless panties, and they’re as voluminous as a pair of curtains.

  Mable delivers the next item of clothing around the screen. This one looks like some kind of oversized smock, the sort you’d see the French artist Monet wear with his beret as he paints his masterpieces. I slip it on over my head and, assured that I’m now fully covered, I take a tentative step out from behind the screen.

  “Next is this.” Mable holds up what looks like an old fashioned and deeply uncomfortable bra type of contraption.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s called stays, and it’s the Regency era’s answer to a corset. Turn around.”

  I do as instructed, and she hoists me into the “stays,” pulling on strings so tight my usually modest boobs spring up toward my chin in shocked protest. I glance down at them in alarm. The Regency answer to the push-up bra is about as comfortable as wearing a tight wooden barrel around my chest.

  “Is this good for me?” I ask.

  “You’ll survive,” Mable replies, dismissing my concern. “Now, it’s time for a petticoat.”

  “Another layer? But it’s 90 degrees out.”

  She ignores me as she fastens the floor-length petticoat with hooks. It’s ivory, just like Reggie’s, and it’s trimmed with lace.

  I glance in the long mirror. So far, I look like a vaguely pornographic fairy without the wings. So not my preferred look.

  Mable brandishes a pair of long white things in my face. “Stockings.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  There’s no point in fighting it.

  I sit down and pull them up, holding them in place below my knees with the garters she hands me.

  She points at the cropped jackets on the rack. They’re all in pastels, and look like they’ve been cut too short for adult women to wear. “These are spencers, and you’ll be wearing one of them over the top of your petticoat. Choose your size and preferred color.”

  I run a hand across the “spencers” and settle on a pale blue version with puff sleeves. I know it’s very Elizabeth Bennet in the BBC adaptation, but I figure I’d may as well go for it in the short time I’ll be wearing these clothes.

  Mable helps me pull it on and do it up, and hands me a pair of ballet slippers. I slide my feet into them.

  Then, she tells me to take a seat on a hard, wooden chair. She yanks my hair back, twisting it into what I can only assume is a bun like Reggie’s, then pulls some strands out around my face and curls them with a hot iron.

  “You’ll need to learn to do this yourself for the soirées. This is just to show you how to do it.”

  As she leans over me, I notice her chin hair poking through her thick foundation. I look down at my lap. Man, I hope she doesn’t singe my hair.

  “After we’re done here, go to the living room to join the others for your training.”

  “Training?”

  “Of course. You need to learn how to be a nineteenth-century lady.”

  “I’m sure I can manage.”

  “It’s compulsory.”

  Oh, how terrific.

  Mable stands back and assesses me. “You’re all set.”

  I can’t resist the urge to look in the mirror. The transformation is surreal. As I look at myself, a young woman from 1813 England peers back. It’s like I’ve stepped off the pages of Austen’s novel and into this Texan ranch, the spitting image of Lizzie Bennet herself.

  And if I’m Lizzie Bennet, then Sebastian must be my Mr. Darcy ...

  The door bursts open and in sashays Mean Girl Camille, accompanied by Trudi. Although she gapes at me for a moment before she remembers I’m a nobody and certainly not worth her time, it pulls me back to the current century—and the fact this is merely dress-up for the audience.

  I force myself to shake off any silly, romantic ideas I might have of being an Austen heroine. I’m being ridiculous. Put one costume on me and I turn into a little girl, fantasizing about another life, another time.

  I turn away from the mirror and leave the room, giving myself a stern talking to as I return to the dining room.

  I’m Emma Brady. Single. Co-owner of Timothy. Parent of Frank the smug, but lovable, tabby cat. And, most importantly, a girl who needs to get the heck off this dating show before it does any more weird things to my head.

  Chapter 8

  I walk down the corridor toward the living room, my feet kicking my petticoat with each step. Despite being determined not to, I feel like a heroine of a period drama. To add to that feeling, when I waltz into the living room, it’s like a scene from Pride and Prejudice itself. About three quarters of the contestants are already dressed in their Regency outfits, and they’re sitting on the sofas and chatting, appearing like they belong in the fancy looking room. All of them have their hair in buns, with curled tendrils around their faces, just like me. It suits most of them, but especially Phoebe, who looks like she was born to be the perfect Regency lady.

  I plunk myself next to her and Reggie. “Hello, ladies of the Regency era,” I say with a grin as I take in their costumes. Although Phoebe is dressed identical to me, right down to our matching cornflower blue spencers, somehow she manages to look ten times better than me and ten times more beautiful. “Wow, you two. What a transformation.”

  “Who knew we’d be doing this, right?” Reggie says. “It’s kinda fun, but kinda weird, too, don’t y’all think?”

  “Weird in what way?” Phoebe asks.

  “Do people really want to see us contestants dressed up like we’re in some movie?” she asks.

  “The production crew clearly thinks they do,” I reply. “Maybe there’s a market for this kind of thing.”

  “Perverts,” Reggie says and I can’t help but giggle.

  “Is it considered perverted to get a bunch of women to dress in Regency clothing with their cleavage hoisted up to their chins and film them vying for the attention of one lone man?” I tap my chin. “Hmm. When you put it that way…”

  Reggie’s eyes light up. “See? Like I said, it’s perverted.”

  Phoebe shakes her head at us. “It’s not in the least. It’s perfect.”

  “Let me guess, Phoebe. You think this is super romantic and we all look like elegant ladies from yesteryear.”

  “Well, yes,” she admits. “Haven’t you always wanted to be Lizzie Bennet, winning Mr. Darcy’s heart and living happily ever after? I know I have.”

  “How do you know they lived happily ever after?” Reggie says. “The book ends with their weddin’. They could have had a miserable marriage, divorced, had affairs. Who knows?”

  “He might have turned out gay,” I offer. When Phoebe blinks at me, I add, “He was very close to Mr. Bingley and he was always perfectly groomed.”

  Reggie grins. “Good point, darlin’. Good point.”

  Phoebe lifts her chin in defiance. “I don’t care what you two say. Lizzie and Mr. Darcy do end up living happily ever after, and nothing either of you can say will change my mind.”

  “I can’t believe we didn’t know about this. I think we should’ve been told upfront that this was gonna happen,” Reggie says.

  “Heck yes,” I agree. “I wouldn’t have come onto the show if I’d known.”

  “I bought an entire new wardrobe of sexy dresses and the like, and now I can’t even wear them,” Reggie complains.

  I think of my suitcase, packed to the brim with Timothy activewear and I let out a heavy sigh. I have got to get Sebastian away from the cameras so I can get him to send me home soon. “I know what you mean.”

  We spend the next hour sitting together in the large living room, waiting for everyone to get their fittings and for this “training” we’ve been told is about to begin.

  One thing I’ve noticed in my short time on this show is that there isn’t a whole lot to do when we’re not filming. Like
nothing. No Internet, no social media, no Netflix. Not even a book to distract us. It’s like cramming for finals: all you’re allowed to think about is the show. It’s almost impossible not to get wrapped up in the world they’ve created.

  What all this free time does, however, is give me time to devise an exit strategy. Despite secretly enjoying the costume—and I’m not going to delve too deeply into that little gem—I know there’s no point in me hanging around now that I can’t get my label on TV. The best thing I can do now is to get back to work and hope the small amount of TV time I might be given will help us promote Timothy once the show goes to air.

  Better that than sitting around here in stays that are digging into my ribs and making my boobs look like a couple of baseballs.

  My plan is simple, really, and that’s the beauty of it. I’m going to get Sebastian away from the cameras tonight at the soirée and ask him to send me home. No messing around with breaking the rules and no silly games. Just a straightforward request. I’ll explain to him that I made a mistake coming on this show, and now I need to be sent home.

  I know it’ll work. I don’t think he likes me, and I sure as heck don’t like him. I’m the girl who fell out of the limo and embarrassed herself. I’m the girl who had to talk him into letting her get a do over to avoid national humiliation. I’m the girl he thinks is a total pushover, the one who’s not tough in the least.

  I’m probably as much of a pain in his butt as he is in mine.

  And he’s got so many contestants to choose from. What’s one less?

  The cameras are wheeled into the room, which must mean someone is about to turn up to train us to be Regency ladies.

  I try to contain my unbridled excitement at the prospect.

  The chatting amongst the contestants comes to a sudden halt as someone unexpected walks into the room. It’s Johnathan. No sign of Sebastian.

  The cameramen aim their lenses at him.

  “Good afternoon, ladies. You really do look quite something,” he says. “I know you’re about to start your training, but I am here to deliver a message from Mr. Darcy himself. He would like to invite one lucky lady to attend an afternoon picnic with him today.”