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

by Kate O'Keeffe

  “I guess there’s a certain poetry in that.” I reply.

  “She is an inspiration to us all,” Reggie says. “Watch and learn, girls.”

  “She isn’t an inspiration,” Hayley spits. “She’s manipulating him with science.”

  I press my lips together to stop from laughing as I tilt my head to look at her. “With science?” I ask.

  “You know, the thing that happens when someone cares for someone else and they fall in love? The nurse and soldier thing.”

  “The Florence Nightingale Effect,” Kennedy says.

  I shoot her a questioning look, and she adds, “Psych major.”

  Hayley is clearly enraged. “That’s it. That’s what she’s doing. She’s Florence Nightingale-ing him. It’s unbelievable.”

  “And so degrading,” Camille adds, and for once, I’ve got to agree with her.

  I give a shrug. “I’m just glad she didn’t crack her head open on the coffee table.”

  Hayley looks at me as though I’m speaking a foreign language.

  “She could have really hurt herself pulling that stunt.”

  The look on her face tells me she still needs an interpreter.

  I try a different approach. “Oozing blood from your head isn’t very romantic, Hayley.”

  “Oh.” She taps the side of her nose. “Got it.”

  Where did they find these people?

  Shelby is now propped up on some pillows, surrounded by a gaggle of contestants, with Sebastian sitting right next to her as a crew member checks her over. Sebastian is cradling her hand in his, looking genuinely concerned for her.

  Huh. If he’s dumb enough to fall for that kind of nonsense, I know beyond a whisper of a doubt I will not miss a single thing about him when I’m gone.

  Chapter 10

  An hour later and Shelby has miraculously “recovered” and has either been clinging to Sebastian’s arm and gazing up at him as though he were her knight in shining armor, or whispering in corners with the other contestants.

  I, on the other hand, have decided that escape can take but one form: alcohol. Good thing it’s on tap. With my fourth glass of wine—or quite possibly my fifth, but who’s counting?—I find myself propped up against some cushions, chatting with a group of women I’ve not talked to much before, discussing the ins and the outs of our new costumes.

  “It’s the bloomers that get me,” I say as I take another sip of my wine.

  “Oh, me too,” agrees Lisa, a tall, slim girl from Southern California who doesn’t appear to be one of the crazies. “They’re so long and roomy!”

  “I miss my Spanx,” says Marni, a shorter, more voluptuous girl. “These things give no control to anything whatsoever. I’ve got lumps where I don’t need lumps.”

  “Oh, I hear you, babe,” Lisa replies, and I shoot her a look. There’s not an extra dash of fat on her frame, other than her lifted cleavage that sits perfectly rounded above her top.

  “You know, we could cheat and wear our regular underwear under these petticoats. No one would know,” I say.

  Spanx-loving Marni screws up her face. “I guess.”

  “It’s not like they’re checking or anything, because that would be a total invasion of our privacy,” I say. When the girls don’t reply, I get concerned. “They’re not checking, are they?”

  “How could they?” Marni asks. “It’s not like there are cameras in our rooms.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “You sure?”

  They wouldn’t do that, would they?

  Her response is reassuringly decisive. “I’m sure. I checked. Not my first rodeo, ladies.”

  “It’s not?”

  She shakes her head. “This is my third dating show, but I’ve acted on Vets in the Wild, too,” she replies, naming a TV show I’ve heard of but never seen. “Only a walk-on part, but it’s TV, you know? It all helps to keep my profile up.”

  Well, Marni’s clearly “here for the right reasons.”

  “You’re an actor?” I ask.

  “Actor, model, social media influencer. All of the above.”

  Lisa scoots her butt off the seat and pulls a face as she reaches up inside her skirt. I know what she’s doing because I’ve already had to do it a couple of times myself tonight.

  “Did your butt eat your bloomers?” I ask.

  “It’s so annoying. How can something so big and roomy work its way right up in there?”

  “Oh, I hear you,” Marni says empathetically.

  “I suggest we revolt,” I say. “Ditch the clown-like bloomers and snap on our Spanx. What do you say, girls?”

  “This sounds like an interesting conversation,” a deep, velvety voice with a distinctively clipped English accent says behind me.

  Oh, no.

  I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment before I open them and look up into a pair of brown eyes with a mischievous glint, trained right on me. The last thing I want to talk to Sebastian about is our underwear. He was probably the one who insisted we had to wear the bloomers in the first place.

  “It’s nothing, really. Just, you know, girl stuff.” My cheeks flame and try to think of cold things like icebergs and swimming pools in winter. Glowing red Easter egg dye, remember?

  “Girl stuff sounds interesting to me,” he replies.

  I hear the whirr of the cameras around us, which makes my blush go nuclear.

  “Spanx,” Marni says without preamble. “We were talking about Spanx and how we hate having to wear bloomers.”

  His lips twitch. “Bloomers? I had no idea.”

  Well, there goes that theory.

  “Oh, we’re full-on authentic here, mister,” Marni says.

  His laugh is deep. “That is good to know. Other than the, err, bloomers situation, how are you finding the new clothes?”

  “I love them,” Lisa says, moving her shoulders from side to side.

  I watch as Sebastian’s eyes drift down to her pert cleavage and linger for a moment too long.

  Ha! So much for being Mr. Darcy. He would never eye up a girl’s assets in such an obvious way. He would be a complete gentleman.

  Sebastian might have loads of money and come from an upper-class background, but at the heart of it all, he is just your standard, lecherous guy.

  Lisa seems quite happy with the attention, and even goes on to toy with the ribbon on her bodice to keep it on her. “I feel really feminine and pretty in it, especially next to you, Mister Darcy.” She looks up at him through hooded eyes, telegraphing her message loud and clear.

  Subtlety, thy name is not Lisa.

  Sebastian seems to be working hard to raise his eyes from her chest. “I’m pleased to hear it, Lisa.”

  I raise my eyebrows in judgment at him. Get a grip, dude. They’re only boobs.

  “Sebastian, tell us. Are you sending someone home tonight?” Marni asks.

  He wins the battle and manages to raise his eyes. “I have to, I’m afraid. Those are the rules of the show.”

  “But you’ve barely spent any time with any of us,” Lisa protests. “How can you know who to send home?”

  “That’s why I’m trying to talk individually to a number of women I’d like to get to know a little better tonight, just as I did last night. And on that note,” he looks from Lisa, to me, to Marni, and back to me again, “would you care to take a stroll with me, Emma? I have a rather nice little secluded spot set up in the garden.”

  I blink at him in surprise. “You want to talk to me?”

  He shoots me a look that questions whether I’m right in the brain. “Well, yes. That is the general idea.”

  I glance at Lisa and Marni. They’re putting a brave face on it, but I can tell Lisa, especially, is disappointed. She probably feels knocked back, despite going all in with her impressive weapons of mass distraction.

  I smile sweetly at Sebastian. “Sure. I’d be more than happy to talk with you, Mr. Darcy.”

  This is my chance. I need to get him away from the cameras, explain the situation
to him, and within the next few hours, I could be home free. And I’ve got a little plan up my sleeve to do it. Well, strictly speaking it’s down my top as my sleeves are miniscule, but you get the idea.

  “Have fun, you two,” Marni says as we turn to leave.

  We walk together past the contestants on one side, the pool on the other, and I’m sure Camille isn’t the only one weighing up whether to push me in right about now. Sebastian leads me down a path with low lighting to a pretty gazebo with a cushioned loveseat, and candles lining the edges.

  “Please, take a seat,” he offers, and I do my best imitation of Mrs. Watson sitting down on the edge of the seat beside him with a ram-rod straight back. I probably look ridiculous, but at least I look the part.

  He quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing.

  I concentrate hard on not looking at the cameras, as we’ve been drilled, and instead gaze out at the dark night sky. I take a steadying gulp of my wine. “How—”

  “What—”

  We both begin to speak at the same time.

  “What were you going to say?” he asks.

  “I was going to ask you how things are going, I guess. This is, what, day two? And we’re already playing dress up.”

  Well, that came out a whole lot flirtier than I’d intended.

  The outer edges of his mouth curve into a small smile, and I know he took it that way.

  “I mean, we’re in costumes. Me in this,” I claw at my petticoats, “and you in your jodhpurs and whatnot.”

  “Breeches.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “They’re called breeches. Jodhpurs are what one wears when one rides a horse.”

  “Forgive me,” I say in mock apology. “I grew up in the ‘burbs, not in some massive castle knowing what the right pants are to wear on a horse. In fact, there weren’t a lot of horses on my street for one to ride.”

  His smile is now fully formed. “I imagine not if you grew up in the ‘burbs, as you put it. By which I assume you mean the suburbs.”

  I look at him out of the corner of my eyes. “Are you for real?”

  He pats his chest. “I believe so, yes.”

  I roll my eyes. “And a lame comedian at that.”

  “I do try. The boys at Eton were pleased with my efforts, I recall.”

  I throw my hands in the air. “You see? That’s what I’m talking about here. ‘The boys at Eton’ and ‘one wears jodhpurs on a horse.’ You’re from a totally different world from me. From all of us.”

  He nods, a thoughtful look on his face. “And that’s bad in your books?”

  “No. Not necessarily. It’s a thing, that’s all.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “A thing?”

  “A thing.”

  “Well, I’m glad we got that cleared up.”

  I flick my eyes up to his and see the amusement written across his face. This guy has got such a stick up his butt, I’m surprised he can even sit down.

  He smiles, and it’s hard not to warm to the guy a little. Not a lot, of course. He’s still a toffee-nosed, over-privileged, castle-owning Mr. Darcy imposter whom I morally object to on so many levels I could form a high-rise in my mind. But still. A little.

  And right now, this particular pompous snob is standing between me and going home. Although I hate to admit it, I do need his help.

  I’ve never been a girl scout, but I thought ahead and I’ve come prepared. I wrote a note that says, We need to talk, just you and me. NO CAMERAS, and I was forced to put it in the only place I knew it would be secure. No pockets, you see.

  It’s time to dig it out.

  I avert my eyes from his as I fish around inside my top for my piece of paper. I check one side of my ... “obstacles,” and then the other. Dang it, it’s not where I put it. How could it have moved? It’s not like I’ve been exactly active while wearing this outfit, unless you count dodging Camille and Hayley’s evil glares, that is.

  Chewing on my lip, I dig deeper, and finally, with a rush of relief, I locate my note. I pull it out and give a sigh of relief.

  Sebastian is looking at me as if I’m some kind of freak.

  “Duh. No pockets,” I explain, which is, like, so obvious.

  His lips curl up in that sexy smile of his. You know, the one to which I’m entirely impervious.

  Okay, I admit to a little wave of tingles, but it means less than zero.

  “No pockets. I see.”

  With the warm and slightly damp (ew) note in my hands, I glance out of the corner of my eye at the camera. It’s trained on us, as I totally expected it to be, of course—this is a reality TV show, and I’m sitting alone with Mr. Darcy. Like the non-girl scout that I am, I knew there was no avoiding the cameras while I did this. So, I’ve got a cover story.

  “Look, Seb. Can I call you Seb?”

  “No.”

  See? Stick. Butt.

  “I’ve written you a note to tell you how much I, err, like you.” I try to retain eye contact with him, but it’s beyond my capabilities right now. Like this guy? Ha! Never gonna happen.

  He blinks at me a couple of times. “You have?”

  “Yup. You’re my type. Totally my kind of guy.”

  “Well, that’s ... reassuring.” The sarcasm oozing from him is not lost on me.

  Whatever. I’ll be gone tonight, and we will never have to see one another again.

  I barely manage to keep the sarcasm from my own voice when I reply, “I thought you might think that. So,” I lead as I angle the note away from the camera so only he can see it.

  I watch as he takes the note, reads it, and then looks back at me. “Well, that’s a lovely note, Emma, thank you.” He slips it into the top pocket of his Mr. Darcy jacket. “It is against the rules to invite me to your bedroom, though, I am afraid.”

  My bedroom? What is he talking about?

  “That said, I do look forward to spending a lot more time with you, too. Although, it is a little soon to be speaking of love, don’t you think?”

  I stare at him, agog. Love?

  “I’m sorry, what now?”

  He places his hand on mine, and adds in a heartfelt tone, “Let’s just take it one day at a time, shall we, Emma? Let things progress at a natural pace.”

  I glare at him and notice that irritating smile of his has returned full-force. I’m itching hard to pull my hand away. But, like a cat with a mouse, he’s toying with me, and he’s loving every moment of it.

  “Thank you, Seb,” I say with a Phoebe-like simpering smile. “That’s very understanding of you.” My eyes throw a series of pointy daggers right at his stupid face.

  I cannot believe he’s made out that I’ve written him a love letter on national television!

  “Just to set the record straight though, I said I like you and did not mention my bedroom.”

  “Oh. I think you did.”

  I shake my head. “Uh-ah. Didn’t.”

  “Don’t be ashamed, Emma. It’s only natural.”

  Oh, the cheek of this man! Problem is, he may be a self-absorbed jerk who apparently likes to make jokes at my expense while being filmed, but he holds all the cards. I’ve got to get him on my side if I stand any chance of getting out of here.

  I control the urge to throw my drink in his face, Real Housewives style, and instead smile at him and say, “Thank you for our little chat. I hope you take what I said in the note into consideration. I’m going to go now.” I stand up, my eyes not leaving his. “I. Need. To. Go. To. The. Bathroom.”

  “I see.” He stands up slowly, and I notice his impressive height, my Regency slippers no better than bare feet in the “give Emma a much needed three extra inches” stakes.

  He calls me closer to him with his index finger, and hope springs inside. He’s going to meet me! This nightmare will be over soon!

  I wait in expectation as he leans down toward me and whispers in my ear, “I’m certain the American people don’t need to know about your toilet habits, Emma, but thank you so much for sh
aring that information with them, and with me.”

  He straightens back up, looking very pleased with himself, and it’s all I can do not to stomp on his foot in sheer frustration and storm off like some reality TV star diva. Which would be childish and very poorly thought out, I know, but ... argh! The man is beyond infuriating.

  To add to the infuriation (is that a word? If not I’m making it one because it is perfect for Sebastian), he then proceeds to smile at me and offer me his arm as though he hasn’t just embarrassed me on national television and completely ignored my plea for help.

  I stare at his outstretched arm in disbelief before I lift my eyes back up to his smarmy, arrogant, condescending (but still handsome, damn it) face. I know I could say something cutting. I’ve been known to have a quick wit. I could bring him and his arrogant game playing down to size. Instead, I choose to rise above it. I’m the bigger person. I don’t play games.

  And I need him to help me out.

  “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around, Seb.” I pat him on the arm, flash him a smile, and turn on my slippered heel and walk away.

  “It’s Sebastian,” he calls after me, but I’m already out of the shot, so I hold my head high and trudge up the path as my fury bubbles up inside.

  Chapter 11

  With my head held so high I’ll need a chiropractor to snap me back into place before too long, I trudge down the path, crunching gravel beneath my flimsy ballet flats, as I head back to the terrace.

  Well, that was a big fat waste of my time. What was I thinking appealing to his sense of decency? The guy didn’t even give me a chance! He cut me down to size with his ridiculous line about me professing my love for him in my note, making me look like some sort of prepubescent schoolgirl with a crush.

  Oooh, I’m so angry I could scream!

  That man is beyond exasperating. He’s so arrogant and I can tell he thinks so much more of himself than he does anyone else. Save perhaps for Johnathan, even though he’s probably some actor being paid to pretend he’s Sebastian’s friend.

  I can tell you one thing for free: that little exchange between us back there makes me even more determined to get out of here as soon as I can. Between the cast of Mean Girls and Snobby Sebastian, I cannot stand another minute here.