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

by Kate O'Keeffe

  I’ve got to come up with another plan. This feels so much more than simply a lost opportunity to market Timothy. It feels personal. And I for one am—

  I feel a hand on my arm and look up in surprise to see Sebastian standing right behind me.

  “Move. Quickly.”

  He cups my elbow and steers me off the path in between some bushes. My petticoat snags on a branch and rips, and I hoist it up around my knees. How did women in 1813 manage to do anything physical while maintaining “decorum,” as Mrs. Watson puts it?

  We reach the other side of the bushes, and he drops his hand. “This way.”

  “Where are we going?” I hiss.

  “You’ll see.”

  I follow him as we enter the house. I rush down the corridor behind him, and into an area of the house I’ve not been.

  “My living quarters,” he says by way of explanation as he closes the door behind us.

  I cock an eyebrow. “So, you diss me in front of the cameras, then whisk me away to your bedroom?” I ask, incredulous.

  Who the heck does this guy think he is?

  Yeah, I know: Mr. Freaking Darcy.

  Well, he’s not Mr. Darcy. He’s just a pompous English stiff who thinks he can take what he wants, when he wants.

  “You and I both know you’re jumping to entirely the wrong conclusion, Emma,” he says sternly.

  I eye the bed. It’s the hugest bed I’ve seen—and I live in Texas. “We’re in your bedroom.”

  “I assure you, you are perfectly safe with me.”

  I shoot him a look. Is that meant as an insult?

  I give a short, sharp nod. “Good.” I take in the room. Other than the big bed, there’s a spacious seating area, a large TV (he’s a guy, so duh), and a door leading through a closet to an ensuite. It’s the opposite end of the accommodation scale the contestants have got to put up with, with three single beds to one room and shared bathroom facilities.

  He sits down on one of the sofas and looks up at me. “We’ve got a couple of minutes. I suggest you take full advantage of it.”

  He gestures at the sofa opposite.

  “Look. After what you pulled out there—”

  “I thought it was quite funny.”

  I cross my arms. “I bet you did.”

  “We’ve got one minute and thirty seconds now.” He gestures at the sofa once more and I give in and sit down.

  “Okay, here’s the thing.”

  “Another thing? You Americans and your ‘things.’”

  “Don’t you talk that way in England?”

  “We tend to use actual, descriptive words instead of relying on ‘thing.’”

  I give him a false smile. “Well bully for you.” I lean in, my elbows on my knees. “The thing is,” I begin, emphasizing the word for effect, “I can’t do what I intended to do on this show if I have to wear this.” I tug at the fabric of my petticoats.

  He raises his eyebrows at me. “You don’t want to wear clothes? Because if that’s the case, Emma, I would say you’re on entirely the wrong kind of show.”

  “These clothes. The Jane Austen stuff.”

  “So not clothes per se, then?”

  I pull a face. Does he think I’m some kind of exhibitionist nudist? “No! Of course not. I wear clothes like everyone else. Every day, in fact.”

  “Including your Spanx.”

  I pull my lips into a thin line. “That was Marni, not me and ... oh, forget it.” I cross my arms and sit back in my chair. “I’m asking you for your help here, dude. You being all smart and smarmy isn’t helping.”

  “My apologies. I will refrain from being smart or smarmy from now on.”

  “You do that.”

  “I will.”

  “Good.”

  We glare at one another for a moment and I wonder if I might break my jaw, I’m clenching it so tight.

  “So, Emma. Let’s start again, shall we? You were telling me about your intentions on the show, correct?”

  “I was about to, yes.”

  “I can only assume your intention is what it is meant to be: to fall head over heels in love with me. Because why else would you come on a reality dating show if not to fall in love?”

  Thrown momentarily off my game, I mutter, “Well, there is that—”

  “And now you’re telling me you can’t fall in love with me because you’ve got to wear a Regency period costume. Please tell me if I’ve got this wrong.”

  He is exasperating, infuriating, irritating. All the “ings.”

  “I’m not talking about that intention, and let me tell you something,” I brandish my finger at him, “there are some women out there who I bet are only here for the fame.”

  “How shocking,” he deadpans.

  So I guess he knows about that.

  “And some of them are certifiably insane.”

  “I am also deeply shocked by that information,” he replies in the same tone.

  I let out an exasperated breath. “I’m gonna be straight with you.”

  “Please do.”

  “What I wanted to do—other than fall in love, of course—was to showcase Timothy, the activewear label I co-own with Penny, my best friend. Who, incidentally is the reason I’m on this stupid show in the first place.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Stupid show?”

  “Well, it is, isn’t it? You can’t tell me you’re actually here to find love.”

  He shifts in his seat. “I already told you that is exactly what I intend to do. Why else would I be here? I don’t have an activewear label to promote. Or a friend called Penny, for that matter.”

  I eye him up and decide to drop it. He’s sarcastic and enjoying this. And anyway, does it matter to me whether his intentions are genuine or not? Not at all.

  “Well, I have both an activewear business and a friend called Penny, and like it or not, the fact I can no longer wear my label on camera because I’m forced to wear Regency stuff means I can’t stay here any longer.”

  “I see.”

  “But I do genuinely, genuinely hope you find your princess or duchess or whatever she’ll be, and you both live happily ever after with your fifty servants in your posh English castle.”

  “Whomever I marry will be called ‘Lady.’ And I don’t have fifty servants.”

  “But you still live in a castle.”

  “It’s what we refer to as a manor, even though there once was a castle on my family’s land.”

  Potato pot-ah-to.

  I raise my hands in the surrender sign. “My bad. I really should brush up on the homes of the English aristocracy.”

  “You may find it quite educational.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. I think I detect a hint of snark in his voice, but I could be wrong. “Anyway, now you know I can’t wear my label while I’m dressed like Elizabeth Bennet every time I’m on camera, so—” I lead.

  “Why not simply leave? You are able to do so, you know.”

  “I, ah, I can’t do that.”

  He raises his brows at me.

  “There’s a fine, and cash is a little short right now.”

  The understatement of the decade.

  “I see. I’m guessing you need me to help you.”

  I tap the side of my head. “Handsome, rich, and smart. You’re the triple threat, Seb.”

  He chortles. “So, you definitely weren’t dragging me off to have your wicked way with me.”

  Right on cue, those darn tingles twinge. “Puh-lease! Neither of us wants that.” I frame it as a statement, but a small part of me wants to pose it as a question.

  A part that needs to be stamped out immediately.

  His lips quirk. “Indeed.”

  “And anyway, we both know you’re not interested in the likes of me.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Do we?”

  “Heck, yes. You could have drowned in Lisa’s cleavage back there on the terrace.”

  “Drowned, you say?”

  “Oh, yeah. Dogs
drool less over a juicy bone than you did, I’m telling you, dude.”

  “Is that jealousy I detect in your voice, Emma?”

  “Jealousy?” I scoff. “Do you think no woman is capable of resisting you?”

  “Oh, I’m certain there are some who can.”

  I shoot him a sardonic smile. “Like women related to you, right?”

  “And don’t forget the lesbians.”

  I let out a surprised laugh. It ends in an embarrassing snort, and he looks at me with a dash of smug amusement in his eyes.

  “Endearing laughter aside, without the ability to promote your designs on the show, you want me to send you home. Is that correct?”

  I give an emphatic nod. “Yes.”

  He stands up and smooths down his pants. “All right.”

  Hope rises inside. “Is that ‘all right’ as in you’ll do it?”

  He gives a short, sharp nod. “I’ll do it.”

  I’m so ecstatic, I leap out of my seat and throw myself at him, gushing, “Thank you, thank you!” As I press up against him I do my best not to notice how big, firm, and muscular he feels. Which I do an absolutely terrible job of, truth be told.

  Smooched up together, he looks down at me and our eyes lock. My heart rate kicks up and those darn tingles make a reappearance, only this time they’ve brought backup, so they’re more like a jolt.

  The thing is, despite the long list of things I dislike about this guy—and it is a very, very long list, believe me—there’s something alluring about Sebastian.

  Something I most definitely do not want to explore.

  I pull away from him and instead stick my hand out. “It’s a deal.”

  He takes my hand in his and we shake. “It can’t be tonight, though, I’m afraid. I’ve already made my decision to send the blood vial contestant home.”

  My heart drops a fraction. Jessie, a girl with intense, starey eyes I’ve managed to mostly avoid so far. I can understand why he’d want her to leave. She’s pretty intense. “Oh.”

  “Next elimination?”

  “Sure.”

  “With that agreed, we’d best get back to the others.”

  “Of course. You’ve got love to find, and that’s not going to happen for you tucked away here with me.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  We walk to the door.

  “Have you got any clue who you’re going to choose? Because I’ve got someone in mind for you.”

  “You do?”

  “Kennedy. She’s gorgeous and fun and really nice. Oh, and her last name is Bennet. Wouldn’t it be cute if Mr. Darcy ended up with Miss Bennet? The viewers would die for it.”

  “Perhaps, if my surname really were Darcy.”

  “What is your last name?”

  “Huntington-Ross.”

  Oh, yeah. That so fits.

  “Of course it is.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

  “It means your name is perfectly suited to you, that’s all.”

  “What’s your surname?”

  “Brady. As in Bunch.”

  “The Brady Bunch? That show about the blended family from the sixties?” He arches an eyebrow. “How old are you, exactly?”

  “Don’t you need to get back to your adoring women?”

  “I do.”

  I pull the door open and turn around to face him. “Thanks, Seb. I’ll look forward to being dumped by you at the next card ceremony.”

  “You’re welcome, Brady Bunch,” he replies with a smile.

  Brady Bunch? That definitely sounded a little flirty.

  “And it’s Sebastian.”

  I pat him on his lapel. “Whatever you say, Mr. Darcy.”

  Chapter 12

  As if being stuck for another round in this place isn’t torture enough, the production crew have crafted a new and wonderful way in which to humiliate the contestants on national television. It’s a singing competition.

  Yup, you heard it right, people. We all get to sing for Mr. Darcy.

  How perfectly terrific.

  Jessie, the contestant who tried to give Sebastian a vial of her blood, was sent home last night, just as Sebastian had told me she would be. I can’t say I blame him. She was definitely a little unhinged, even if she did take my spot.

  So, now our numbers have dwindled to ten, and I’m forced to endure at least another few days here until Sebastian delivers on his promise.

  But before the singing contest, we all have to be interviewed once more. Unlike some of the other girls, I do not relish my time on camera. I’ve got to watch what I say and walk the line between coming across as though I’m into Sebastian, but not delusional. I don’t want to seem like I’m totally into him for him to then dump me at the next card ceremony.

  “Tell us about you and Sebastian,” Cindy asks once I’m settled in the usual spot in my Regency finery (bloomers included, but don’t get me started on that again).

  “Oh, we’re good. We had a chat about things and he’s been very nice to me.”

  “Do you mean the conversation you had when you handed him a note telling him that you loved him and invited him to your room?”

  Dang it! Of course they had to bring that up.

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Oh? How was it exactly? I’m sure our viewers would love to know, and please start your statement with ‘I gave Sebastian a note because.’”

  I’ve got to think, and fast. “I gave Sebastian a note because I wasn’t sure we would get the chance to spend much time together. All the note said was that I was looking forward to getting to know him.”

  “But he said you invited him to your room.”

  “He was kidding about that. One thing I can tell you about this Mr. Darcy: he’s a kidder.”

  “So, you’re telling me that you didn’t invite him to your room.”

  I reply firmly, “I did not invite Sebastian to my room.” I feel like President Clinton declaring he didn’t have an affair with Monica Lewinsky. Only in my case, it’s the truth.

  “Did your note tell him you loved him?”

  “It said I liked him. That’s all. He just made that part up.”

  “Why?”

  “For fun.”

  “Was that fun?”

  “Sure. It was hilarious.”

  “You seemed quite annoyed at the time.”

  “I guess I didn’t get the joke.”

  “But you do now?”

  “I do now.”

  Cindy takes a long, hard look at me, and I squirm in my seat.

  “Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?” I say weakly.

  “There is, actually,” she replies and my heart sinks. “I guess the viewers would probably want to know why you told him you liked him in a note, like the type of note you might pass a boy in middle school, when you’d already said you hoped Kennedy would win his heart.”

  Double dang it! Why does this woman need to be so astute?

  I word my response carefully. “Kennedy would be a good match for Sebastian, and so would I. We would both be good matches for him.”

  I hold my smile in place for what feels like a year before she says, “What about Phoebe? Do you like her?”

  “Who wouldn’t? Phoebe’s sweet and kind and all things wonderful.”

  “Is that a note of sarcasm I detect in your voice, Emma?”

  “What? No. Phoebe’s great.”

  “But a little too sweet, right? Between you and me, I wonder whether she’s for real, she’s so nice.”

  I chortle. She’s right. Phoebe is super sweet, but Cindy’s not going to catch me out quite so easily. “I disagree. Phoebe is lovely and totally genuine. She’s totally here for the right reasons.”

  I cringe a little inside.

  “Awesome,” Cindy replies with a shovel-load of sarcasm.

  “Are we done here?”

  She waves me off with her hand. “Sure. Go.”

  I make my way back to the l
iving room where Mrs. Watson is loving every moment as she dishes out the rules on what is and is not acceptable for today’s super fun task in front of the ever-present cameras.

  Lucky for us they’ve served up some drinks, presumably to give us all Dutch courage. Or make for better TV, more like.

  Mrs. Watson is holding court with her usual sunny disposition that lights up the room. “It goes without saying that dancing, clapping, or anything considered too modern will attract an instant elimination from today’s competition. That will mean you won’t be in contention for dinner tonight with Mr. Darcy.”

  Yippee. We are literally singing for our supper.

  “If you play the piano, you may perform your song accompanied. Ladies often played the piano to an audience at Regency soirées. If you don’t play, you will need to sing unaccompanied.”

  Sitting beside me, Kennedy is looking about as thrilled about this new development as I am. She puts her hand in the air as though we’re back in school, which is what this feels like. You know, if we were in school in the nineteenth century. “Mrs. Watson?”

  “Miss Kennedy.”

  “Just so we’re clear, you’re saying there’s no electric guitar allowed?”

  I work hard at stifling a giggle.

  Mrs. Watson shakes her head. “No electric guitar.”

  “Harmonica?” Kennedy inquires.

  By now I’m sure I’m bright red with my efforts to stop my laughter from bursting out. I’m deeply thankful I swallowed that last sip or the woman in front of me would be wearing a healthy smattering of Eau de Chardonnay by now.

  “No harmonica, either.”

  “What about the bongos?” I ask, getting into the swing of things. “I’m feeling like I could channel my inner Matthew McConaughey for this thing.”

  Some of the contestants laugh. Mrs. Watson does not.

  Marni sticks her hand up in the air.

  Mrs. Watson glares at her. “Is this a serious question, Miss Marni, or are you going to be facetious as well?”

  “It’s a serious question, I promise,” Marni says in a serious tone. “What about an autotune mic? I don’t know about you all, but I could really do with one of those.”

  There’s a murmur of agreement among the contestants. Mrs. Watson is not swayed. She twists her face with annoyance. With her weird shower cap on top of her head she looks like Smurfette in a bad mood. Only she’s not blue. Clearly.