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

by Kate O'Keeffe

  “There will be no autotune microphones, no six-piece bands, no backing vocals,” she replies tersely. “Just you, your voice, and the piano, if you can play it. And Miss Kennedy and Miss Emma? I suggest you put your efforts into your performance rather than into asking questions in order to entertain your fellow contestants.” She shoots us a look that states very clearly that she’s in charge and we need to stay in our place.

  Have I mentioned already how much I love being here?

  Undeterred, Mrs. Watson continues. “Singing is the cornerstone of every young lady’s accomplishments in Regency society. The men of the day would fully expect to be entertained by ladies of their acquaintance at soirées.”

  “I bet they would,” I mumble under my breath to Kennedy.

  “Now, you have two hours in which to practice, after which you will return and perform for Mr. Darcy. Go and find a quiet spot. We will meet back here at six.”

  When no one moves, she adds, “What are you waiting for? Go!”

  As she turns and leaves with a swoosh of her long skirt, the room erupts into chatter around us.

  “What were you thinking of performing with an electric guitar and a harmonica?” I ask Kennedy as we make our way from the room.

  “Tom Petty. I thought that was pretty appropriate for 1813 England.”

  “Refugee?” I ask, naming one of his hit songs.

  “Obviously.”

  “Tom Petty totally screams Regency parlor music to me.”

  “You get it.” She grins at me before she adds, “I cannot believe we’ve got to do this. I mean, can any of us even sing?”

  “I bet Sebastian doesn’t care whether we can sing, anyway.”

  “I’m not sure many people list ‘parlor singing’ on their online dating profile.”

  I snort with laughter. “As if being paraded around in these clothes isn’t undignified enough.”

  “I like wearing these clothes,” says someone behind us.

  We look back to see Phoebe. Of course.

  “Don’t you think it makes this all feel like we’ve stepped back in time by two hundred years?” she asks.

  Kennedy cocks an eyebrow. “Sure, if in 1813 people were being incessantly filmed for all of America to see.”

  “And don’t forget that we are all competing for one man’s attentions,” I add.

  “You two are so negative,” Phoebe replies with a shake of her head. “Why not let yourselves enjoy this amazing experience?”

  “You’re right, Phoebe. I’ll drop Tom Petty and go for some heavy rock instead,” Kennedy says.

  “Much more appropriate,” I agree.

  “You two,” Phoebe gently scolds with a shake of her head.

  We walk through the double doors and out onto the patio. The hot Texan sun is beating down, and in our layers and restrictive stays we don’t want to get anywhere near that, so the three of us find some shade on the grass below a tree and flop down.

  “Who knows what they’re going to perform?” Phoebe asks.

  “I bet you already do,” I say without a trace of malice. With her positive approach to all this Regency insanity, she probably worked out her song before Mrs. Watson had even finished bossing us around.

  Her face lights up in excitement, just as I thought it would. “I’m going to sing Loving You.”

  “Loving You?”

  “It’s a classic. It was sung by Minnie Riperton back in the ’70s. Big hit. My mom used to sing it to me when I was little and it always made me smile.”

  “Wait. Is that the really high one?” I’ve got a vague memory of the song.

  Phoebe gives an enthusiastic nod. If it’s the one I’m thinking of, that is one super high song. I hope she can actually sing, or we’re all in for an eardrum splitting experience.

  “What about you, Emma?”

  “Nothing, if I have my way. Me and singing are not well acquainted. Well, other than in my car. I do my best work there.”

  “What do you sing in your car?” Kennedy asks.

  “Rihanna, Katy, Beyoncé, Taylor. Maybe a touch of Miley, if I’m in a crappy mood.” I raise my hands in the air. “I know, I’m a total pop diva wannabe, but I’ve made my peace with it, so you should too.”

  “I think they’re great choices, Emma,” Phoebe says. “Not exactly Regency, but that doesn’t matter.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not going to sing any of them.”

  “Whether you like it or not, you’ve got to, babe,” Kennedy points out helpfully, “or you’ll miss out on a chance to have dinner with Sebastian. And you never know what could happen over a bottle of wine at a romantic candle lit dinner for two with the luscious Mr. Darcy.” She waggles her brows at me suggestively.

  “Dinner with Sebastian, huh?” I tap my chin in the internationally recognized sign for thinking. “Somehow, I think I could sacrifice that to hold on to what dignity I’ve got left.”

  Although I don’t want it to, my mind goes to the way he looked at me in his room last night, and I know I’m not telling the whole truth. Despite the fact he’s the total opposite of the kind of guy I go for, dinner with Sebastian might be ... nice. Maybe more than nice.

  Wow. I so need to get out of here.

  “I’m going to try my best. I’d be more than happy to win that dinner,” Kennedy says.

  “Me, too,” Phoebe adds as her face flushes Santa-suit red. “What? He’s hot.”

  “He is hot,” Kennedy agrees. “A little pompous maybe, but the guy’s got the goods, that’s for sure. And that sexy accent of his?”

  “Yeah, okay,” I admit, “I agree about the accent. But it makes him even more stuffy, don’t you think?”

  “I think it makes him even more attractive,” Phoebe says. She hops up to her feet. How she does it in her floor-length petticoats is a feat of major dexterity. “Okay, girls. I’m going to go practice my song. And Emma? You’ve got to sing, so choose something good. You’ll just have to pretend you’re in your car.”

  “How about I bust out All the Single Ladies, Regency style?” I say with zero intention of doing so.

  Kennedy bats me lightly on the arm as she too gets up to leave. “Hey, that’s my jam, girl.”

  I rub my arm theatrically. “Okay, you can have it. No need to beat me up over it.”

  She flashes me a gorgeous smile before she and Phoebe make their way to quiet corners of the garden to practice. I reposition myself up against the large, old tree, rearrange my petticoats that were rising scandalously high, as Mrs. Watson would no doubt inform me in that friendly way of hers, and lean back. I take a deep breath of the warm, fresh air. I can hear contestants around me practicing different songs to varying degrees of proficiency. It’s weirdly relaxing, kind of like listening to the squawks of unharmonious tropical birds.

  I’m not going to practice anything. Besides the fact my singing voice sounds like a chimpanzee with a sinus infection, there’s absolutely no point. Winning today’s little game of humiliation will only take a dinner date away from one of the other contestants. And anyway, wouldn’t it look weird if I won, went to dinner, and then got booted off the show at the next card ceremony?

  It’s all about the optics, people.

  As I take another deep breath, my eyelids grow heavy. After my deal-making with Sebastian last night, I didn’t get nearly enough sleep. I could catch a few z’s now and no one would be any the wiser ...

  “Sleeping on the job, are we?”

  Oops. I must have dozed off in the heat. I open my eyes a crack to see Sebastian peering down at me. Dressed as Mr. Darcy once more, he looks achingly handsome, and his presence quickly wakes me up.

  I sit up straighter, smile, and try not to look at the camera hovering nearby. “Sebastian. How long have you been standing here?”

  “Long enough to see a little line of drool make its way down your chin.”

  I wipe at my chin. It’s perfectly dry. I snap my eyes to his. “You’re messing with me.”

  He shrugs.
“Perhaps I am. You did look very angelic, though.”

  “I am angelic, don’t you know?”

  His lips quirk. “I must have missed that part of your personality.” He gestures at the ground beside me. “May I?”

  Despite the insult, I nod. The cameras are on us, after all.

  He sits down next to me. “I’ve come to check how the practice is coming along, but it looked to me like you were catching up on some sleep, instead. Late night last night, was it?”

  I shoot him a look. Having not left his room until the small hours, he knows exactly how late my night was. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “That’s good to hear. We don’t want you missing out on your sleep, now. Do we?”

  “Err, no,” I reply uncertainly.

  What is he playing at?

  He tucks a finger inside his cravat and pulls. It shifts about a fifth of an inch. “Is it always this hot in Texas?”

  “Yes. Well, other than when we get a shock of cold from the north in winter. Then we Houstonians all stay home and wonder what happened to our seventy-five degrees.”

  “Seventy-five in winter? That’s warmer than a summer’s day where I’m from.” He collects a twig from the ground and toys with it in his hands.

  “Maybe you should lose the jacket,” I suggest, then realize how flirty that may sound. “You know, to keep cool,” I add, so there’s no confusion that I’m simply trying to help his internal temperature regulate.

  Which is all I’m trying to do, of course.

  “Now, why didn’t I think of that?” he says with a glint in his eye. He leans in closer to me, and I can’t help but breathe in his heady scent. “You are so wise, Brady Bunch,” he says quietly.

  Right on cue, those tingles kick back to life, and I’ve got to remind myself that I’m here under duress—and not for him.

  I try not to watch as he stands back up and unbuttons his double-breasted jacket. I try. Really, I do. But I fail. Miserably. Please don’t judge me. Mr. Darcy is taking off his jacket right in front of me. Only the superhuman could manage to avert their eyes, and I’d put money on the fact they’d sneak a peek, anyway.

  His jacket off, he folds it neatly over his arm and then places it on the ground. As he sits back down, I try not to notice the way his cream shirt falls from broad shoulders, tucked into a slim waist.

  Yup, you got it: another fail.

  Why does this guy have to be so darn hot? Doesn’t he know it’s distracting me from disliking him?

  “Now, Emma. What will you be delighting me with this afternoon?”

  I shoot him a look. Is that a flirty lilt to the way he said “delighting?” “Oh, I won’t be delighting anyone, I can tell you that right now.”

  “Are you certain? I, for one, find you quite delightful.” His eyes are trained on mine in some kind of challenge.

  Yup. Definitely flirty.

  “I—” I begin, only to stop. I’m not sure what to say. What is this guy playing at, coming over to sit next to me, smelling all yummy, taking off his jacket, and looking the way he does right now? He’s not playing fair, that’s what it is.

  But there’s a small part of me that doesn’t want him to stop.

  “Thank you.”

  His smile stretches across his face and his eyes linger on mine. “Whatever it is you decide to perform this afternoon, I must tell you, some of the contestants have hidden singing talents. The competition will be stiff.”

  A lot like you.

  I don’t say it. It’s just his way. He’s upper class and British. The guy never stood a chance.

  “I can say with confidence right now, I won’t win any singing competitions. Not today, not any day.”

  “That’s a shame. I rather enjoyed our conversation last night. Dinner won’t be the same without you.”

  Seriously, dude! What are you playing at?

  “Now, before I forget, I have something for you.”

  “You do?”

  He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I responded to that very sweet letter you wrote for me.”

  I search his face for a clue as to what he’s doing. “You did?”

  “I thought if Mr. Darcy received a letter from a lady, he would certainly reply. It would be considered ill-mannered not to.”

  I take the paper from him and turn it over in my hand. “Okay.”

  “Enjoy reading it,” he says with a fresh twinkle in his eye. “I need to do my rounds with the other contestants. I’ll see you in the living room for the performances.” He stands back up and collects his jacket from the ground. I watch as he walks across the grass toward another contestant, followed by the cameramen. In his tight breeches, long boots, and white shirt, most of the contestants stop their practicing and simply gaze at him. He really is quite something to look at.

  I slump back against the tree and exhale. Well, that was confusing with a capital “C.”

  I check there are no cameras on me and then open the folded piece of paper and read his letter. It’s one line.

  I’m sorry to see you go, Brady Bunch.

  I fold it back up again and slip it down my top. (No pockets, remember?)

  I chew on my lip, a bunch of emotions springing around inside of me like bouncy balls on a caffeine high.

  Sebastian is sending me home. This is what I’ve been waiting for. I’m going home to my regular life, my regular clothes, normal people, and no more reality TV. Well, not on this side of the cameras, anyway. Penny is still borderline obsessed.

  I want to go home. I don’t want to be here. I’m not interested in Sebastian. When I leave, I’ll never see him again, and never seeing him again will be ... what? Great? What I want?

  I let out a heavy breath.

  Part of me wants to go. No question.

  And the other part? That’s the part of me I’m keeping hidden from everyone, the part of me that’s changing in an unexpected and alarming way.

  It might be small, but it’s the part of me that wants him to ask me to stay.

  Chapter 13

  The moment of reckoning has arrived. Well, for everyone else, that is. I’m choosing to sit this one out. No one needs to be subjected to my singing, and it’s not like I’ve got a shot at winning.

  And anyway, what are they going to do about it? Send me home?

  We’re sitting back in the living room in rows facing a makeshift stage. This time we’re joined by Mrs. Watson, Sebastian, and Johnathan.

  I catch Sebastian’s eye and shoot him a conspiratorial smile. He knows I’m not going to perform. He lifts his lips a fraction and nods his head in response.

  Johnathan stands up to address our group. “We are so looking forward to hearing you sing this afternoon, ladies. As you know, the winner will be chosen by Mr. Darcy, and she will be invited to dine with him at a romantic, candlelit dinner for two.”

  There’s a throb of excitement among the contestants.

  “You should definitely pick me,” Hayley calls out, and Sebastian shoots her his stiff smile.

  “We’ll just have to wait and see, Hayley,” Johnathan replies. “We have an order for the performances. It was decided when Sebastian pulled names out of a hat earlier today.” He holds up the top hat Sebastian wore that first evening of Regency dress-ups. “Literally.” He collects a piece of paper from his pocket and brandishes it in the air.

  I look around the room at the eager faces. Is it just me or is this super demeaning? A bunch of women literally performing to gain one man’s attention. I know, it’s the way of these dating shows—Penny always loves this part—but when you’re involved in one it feels ... wrong.

  Johnathan looks up from his list. “Your wish is a reality, Hayley. I’d like to invite you up to perform first.”

  Hayley doesn’t need to be asked twice. She leaps out of her seat with a squeal of delight and rushes over to the stage.

  At least someone’s enjoying this.

  “I’m going to sin
g one of my favorite songs of all time,” Hayley says. “I think you’re all going to love it.”

  Well, you’ve got to admire her confidence.

  She bursts into that famous song from the kids’ movie, Frozen, telling us she needs to let something go. To my surprise, she’s actually quite a decent singer. Not that I didn’t think she could sing. I figured she was more about the fake tan, the fake boobs, and the highly competitive edge driving her to win at all costs. But then again, perhaps I’ve judged her too harshly? Perhaps she’s more than a caricature of a mean girl?

  When she finishes her song, she curtsies to the audience, throws me a triumphant look, and mouths, “suck it.”

  Yeah, I think I’ll stick with my initial judgement.

  She turns her attention to Sebastian and beams at him. “I hope you liked it, Mr. Darcy,” she coos, all sweet and bashful as she looks at him through her lashes.

  “That was wonderful. Thank you, Hayley,” he says.

  Satisfied, she sits back down with her cronies, who pat her on the back and tell her how amazing she is.

  “Surprisingly good,” I mumble to Kennedy.

  “Meow,” she replies.

  “I’m not being catty. She’s horrible to me.”

  “Only because she sees you as a threat, Emma. You should take it as a compliment.”

  I harrumph. “Some compliment.”

  “Emma,” Johnathan says, snapping my attention away from Kennedy. “We would love to hear your performance. Please, take to the stage.”

  I wave my hand in the air. “Oh, I’m going to sit this one out, if it’s all the same to you. But thanks for asking.”

  His eyes shift to a crew member and back to me. “All the contestants need to perform, I’m afraid.”

  “As much as I may want to perform—and believe me I do so, so much—I’m afraid I’m no singer. I told Sebastian that already and he seemed cool with it. Believe me, I’m doing all of you a big favor here.”

  “She doesn’t want to have to follow my performance. Do you, Emma?” Hayley says with the fakest sweet smile ever.

  “I can well understand that,” Johnathan replies, “but the rules are the rules. Aren’t they, Mrs. Watson?” He’s looking for back-up now.