Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

by Karen Doornebos

  For a moment she felt transported to another place and time and she breathed in the perfume of the rose. How thoughtful of him. But she couldn’t kiss or hug him, so instead, she looked at him as if she had just finished kissing him.

  He raised his hands as if to take her in his arms, but let them fal and cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, we real y must get back, or Mrs. Crescent wil give me a chiding.”

  “You’re right.” Chloe pressed her paper and paints to her chest.

  Sebastian beamed. “I’m glad you like the gift. But, listen. Feel free to come to me, to talk to me if Lady Grace ever crosses the line with you. I’m not sure how much longer I can tolerate her.” He guided them toward the carriage. “I so look forward to seeing you again tonight. It’s refreshing to have someone with intel igence and wit to talk to. And you wil get a laugh when you see who I have to sit next to al night. If only I could sit next to you!”

  And with that, they were at the carriage, where Mrs. Crescent checked the time on her chatelaine. Chloe looked back at the ruins, wondering what had just happened. She hadn’t learned a thing about the castle, but she did learn something about Sebastian. He was thoughtful, playful, sexy, attracted to her, and, most importantly, he saw right through Grace. He wasn’t swayed by her good looks, and that pointed to his intel igence. It gave them common ground to be in cahoots against her, too. Sebastian didn’t seem as reserved around Chloe as he did with the others; she had gotten him to loosen his starched cravat, and that was exactly what she had intended to do. He had given her a meaningful gift, yes, but in just a short window of time he had given her something more, much more, and that was the hope that she could desire, and perhaps even love, once again.

  F iona washed Chloe’s hair in a washbowl with a sticky mix of rum, eggs, and rose water. Chloe cringed every time her maid poured a pitcher of cold water over her head to rinse her hair. To help get through the ordeal, she thought of Kate, who had accidental y eaten a nut in one of the luncheon dishes, broken out in hives, and had to spend the day with her face covered in a paste of melted lard and crushed brimstone that Henry had whipped up. Brimstone, as in sulfur.

  Fiona set out a paper-thin chemise and new stays for Chloe. The stays seemed more like lingerie and Chloe’s breasts showed through the sheer fabric. Mrs. Crescent burst in with Fifi. She set down a fresh washbowl, plunged her hands in, and proceeded to press her hands against Chloe’s thinly covered boobs.

  “Aggggh!” The camerawoman had filmed Chloe’s chest and she tumbled back into her dressing table, spil ing the mashed strawberries meant to be her blush. “What are you doing?!”

  “What every other right-minded chaperone does to attract the men to her charge. I’m dampening your stays. Now hold stil .”

  Chloe shuddered. It was the nineteenth-century equivalent of a wet T-shirt contest.

  Fiona pushed the mashed strawberries back into the china bowl.

  Mrs. Crescent shook her wet hands at Chloe, sprinkling lavender water on her corset. “When a lady has such assets as yours, Miss Parker, she must take advantage. Many a Regency girl does this.”

  “What about the impeccable Miss Gately? Did she dampen her stays?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Crescent said.

  “Wel , a lot of good it did her.”

  “She wasn’t asked to leave. There was a family emergency. Surely I told you that?”

  She had. Lightning struck outside and rain pummeled against the single-pane windows and Fiona lit the candles. She had laced Chloe’s hair with a string of beads, stained Chloe’s cheeks with strawberries, and used candle soot as eyeliner to fabulous effect.

  Mrs. Crescent clasped her hands. “Mr. Wrightman couldn’t take his eyes off you this morning, and I intend ful wel to keep it that way. I’ve never seen him so animated. And he’s never given any of the other girls a gift.”

  Chloe’s creamy silk, and now slightly wet, gown clung to her breasts as she descended the staircase. Grace, who sat in the foyer on a cushioned bench as if it were her throne, glared at her, a result of her dampened stays, no doubt.

  Fiona guided her to a bench next to Imogene. “With the rain, miss, we’l need to strap on your pattens.” She strapped what looked like rol er skates without wheels to Chloe’s evening slippers.

  Imogene explained. “We wouldn’t want to get our slippers caked in mud.” She clunked around on the black and white hal tiles, lifting her powder-blue gown to her ankles.

  The pattens took Chloe some getting used to as they elevated her four inches off the ground.

  Even Grace the fashionista couldn’t pul these things off. She frowned at them under her gold lamé gown as her maidservant draped her shoulders in a fur capelet.

  “I quite like your headdress,” Mrs. Crescent said to Grace. “You look very exotic.”

  Grace toyed with her gold-and-pearl necklace. “Why, thank you.”

  “Your pelisse,” Fiona said to Chloe. Chloe slid her arms into an ankle-length slate-colored satin coat, tight fitting on the top.

  The great doors opened and a footman stepped in, rain dripping from his trifold hat. “Carriage is here for the first group.”

  Becky, Gil ian, Olive, Julia, and Kate descended the stairway to get fitted with their pattens. Becky, bil ed as an heiress from Africa, looked radiant in a white silk gown and white headdress. Her dark complexion didn’t need any makeup, and out of al the women, she looked the best.

  “You al look gorgeous,” Chloe said. “Especial y you, Miss Harrington. Al the hives are gone.”

  Kate smiled. “I know. It was worth breathing in the smel of rotten eggs al day. I wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for Mr. Henry Wrightman.”

  Chloe tried to arrange it so that she didn’t sit near Grace in the chaise-and-four, but with the rain pelting down and the teetering on her pattens, when al was settled, Grace sat right next to her and Mrs. Crescent across from her. Imogene sat at the far end of the carriage next to Mrs.

  Hatterbee.

  The women’s wet gowns and stockings stuck to the leather seats and the windows of the carriage steamed up.

  “I’m sure we al have dampened stays now,” Chloe whispered to Mrs. Crescent, who motioned her to be quiet. She pointed to a mike hooked up inside of the carriage.

  The rain cascaded on the roof of the carriage, lightning flashed, a rumble of thunder jolted Chloe, and for a moment she missed her car. At least when you were in a car, with the rubber tires, lightning wouldn’t strike you. She felt for the poor driver and footman outside, getting soaked through.

  After the carriage got stuck in the muddied road and the footman managed to get the wheels moving again, Mrs. Crescent wiped the condensation off the window with her glove. “Can you see it, in al this rain, Miss Parker? From the vantage point of this hil , Dartworth Hal is quite remarkable.”

  Chloe looked out the window, squinting, and she couldn’t take her eyes off it. Even in the rain and lightning, the edifice, of Anglo-Italianate design, two-story windows, and a massive neoclassical triangular pediment atop three-storey ionic columns shone. It wasn’t ornate, but classic and strong.

  It had to be at least two or three city blocks end to end. A lake curved along the west end of it, and if it were sunny, the estate would be reflected in the water. She could almost hear the French horns resounding in her head. Like some sort of drug, or at least the feeling of euphoria she got while watching the 1995 BBC version of Pride and Prejudice for the umpteenth time, the vision of Dartworth in the distance washed over her, putting a new gloss on everything.

  “It’s Pemberley,” Chloe mumbled.

  Grace laughed and the spel almost broke. “It’s as big as Pemberley—I should say as grand as Chatsworth or Lyme Park. Better yet, a real, live man owns it.”

  The man that could choose from any one of eight beautiful, and a few intel igent, young women.

  Just as quickly as the vision of Dartworth appeared, it disappeared in the condensation that soon re-formed over the window a
s the carriage descended into the val ey.

  Grace crossed her legs, one of her pattens knocking against Chloe. “I’m curious, Miss Parker. Do you fancy Mr. Wrightman any better now that you’ve seen his vast estate? Or did you like him before you knew how much he was worth?”

  Chloe took some satisfaction in noticing that Grace’s elderberry eyebrow makeup had smeared. “I liked him from the moment I knew he enjoys architecture, bird-watching, and reading. How he’s looking for true love. I just didn’t realize—”

  “You didn’t realize just how much you fancied him until now.”

  Chloe squirmed in her seat. “I’m not like that.”

  “Of course not. None of us are like that,” Grace said. “If you enjoy reading and bird-watching, I should introduce you to the hermit on Dartworth grounds. He’s very attractive. Very brainy. About your age. Fortyish, I should say. And an artist, too. Into nature. You would adore him. He just so happens to live in a hut he fashioned from scrap wood himself. The hermitage.”

  “He sounds perfectly charming. I’d love to meet him.”

  Mrs. Crescent snapped open her fan. “The hermit is here for our amusement only, Lady Grace. He is not suited to marry a lady’s companion—

  much less Miss Parker.”

  “Marriage? I’m never getting married ag—” She almost said “again.” Grace raised an eyebrow at her. “Just why are you here, Lady Grace?”

  Chloe asked, sliding closer to the window. “Maybe it’s the footmen. They always seem wil ing to do anything you ask.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And I do mean anything.”

  “So many footmen.” Grace smiled. “So little time.”

  Imogene cut in. “I do hope we’l have time to read poetry again tonight. That was so wonderful when we did that a couple of weeks ago.”

  It took them more than five minutes just to climb the staircase at Dartworth in the pattens, in the rain. The stone stairs and landings reminded Chloe of entering a museum.

  “Welcome, ladies.” The Dartworth butler ushered them in from a marble foyer the size of the entire first floor of Chloe’s brownstone, to a three-story domed hal . The rooms emanated melting beeswax. With al these candelabra and chandeliers, the candles alone must’ve cost a fortune. Blue sky, sun rays, and white clouds adorned the dome ceiling overhead. This beat any McMansion Chloe had ever been in. Grace, Imogene, and the rest of the women seemed unfazed, but they had been here before.

  A maid came and whisked away Grace’s wet fur capelet, guiding her to a sofa by the hal fireplace to unstrap her pattens. The white ostrich feather in her headdress drooped. More maids appeared, taking everyone’s wet outerwear and helping the women with their pattens. Chloe admired the massive oil painting above the fireplace, wondering if it was a scene from Dartworth grounds. The foyer and hal struck her as elegant and rich, but not overdone.

  She stood under a life-sized portrait of a man and boy that hung across from the fireplace. Judging by the man’s ponytailed white wig and the boy’s trifold hat, the portrait had been done in the late 1700s. The boy’s dark eyes mesmerized her.

  Imogene joined her. “Isn’t he adorable? He’s the Wrightmans’ great-et-cetera-grandfather. One of the maids told me he was wel known in this part of the country for being very generous and upstanding.”

  Chloe sucked in her bottom lip, because this wasn’t just a game, just a chance for her to win money and flirt around. Sebastian came from a long line of aristocratic ancestors, a heritage that seemed to have little to do with a letterpress printer from Chicago.

  Lightning flashed in the semicircular fanlight window above the great doors in the foyer.

  “The gentlemen await your arrival in the south parlor,” the butler announced.

  This time, Chloe al owed Grace to lead the procession along with one of the cameramen. A camerawoman stayed in back of the group, filming Chloe. The butler guided them through the hal , past a library so vast that Chloe had to stop and stare.

  It was a bibliophile’s dream. Floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases loaded with leather-bound books covered al wal s. A wooden globe in a stand, an antiquated drafting table, and a book stand that held an open birding book with color il ustrations stood at various spots around the room.

  On the walnut secretary, a stick of red sealing wax and a quil knife anchored a pile of paper, and a quil held upright in a silver stand attached to the inkwel made it seem as if Mr. Wrightman had only just written to someone. A book of Cowper’s poems lay open. Could it be possible that by seeing a man’s office, or in this case, his library, you could fal for the man himself?

  The firelight flickered on the gold lettering of the hardbound books, and in an instant, Chloe remembered the law library, in col ege, when she was dating a law student. She hadn’t thought about him in years. Decades, even. They had been flirting and studying al night when he chal enged her to look something up, and there, in the back of the stacks, he closed the book in her hands, slipped it back in the bookcase nearest her hip, and pressed himself against her, opening her mouth with his. Her back pressed up against the bookcase as he slid her skirt up slowly to her waist and a thril zigzagged through her. Maybe it was the excitement of doing something il icit. Maybe it was the books. She remembered unzipping his jeans

  —

  “You real y are such a bluestocking, aren’t you?” Grace asked.

  “Oh yes, al I ever think about are books.”

  What had stirred to life within her?

  “We have an eight-course dinner and a gorgeous man awaiting us, but you’re gushing over the library.”

  “You’re right. Nothing interesting ever happens in a library.”

  Imogene laughed.

  “Come along, dear,” Mrs. Crescent said.

  Chloe shook off the memories. It was like seeing a cut from a movie you had watched but forgotten al about.

  “Look at this solarium,” Mrs. Crescent said. It soared to two stories high with palm trees, singing canaries in wooden cages, and unpainted wicker furniture, but Chloe couldn’t blot the library from her brain. They reached another domed hal . The butler stood in front of twin mahogany-paneled doors, each flanked by a footman, and the camerawoman came closer to Chloe.

  “Ladies, take a moment,” said the butler. “As soon as we pass through these doors, we wil be in the crimson drawing room. A carriage awaits outside. Five of you wil be offered invitations to dinner. Three of you wil not be invited. Those three wil be asked to leave Bridesbridge.

  For once, Chloe didn’t have a wisecracking thought in her swirling brain. She didn’t want to go—and not just because of the money either.

  Beyond just lusting for Sebastian, she actual y wanted—no, needed to be with him, to talk with him and learn more about him.

  The footmen opened the mahogany doors. “Ladies.” It was George, dressed in a butler’s coat, his auburn hair coiffed to Regency perfection, with a curl tumbling down his forehead and into his eye. He was a player. Why hadn’t Chloe seen it? She leaned in toward him, hoping for a message from home, but there wasn’t one. The footmen shut the mahogany doors behind George.

  “Before we enter the hal , I’d like to take a moment to review everyone’s Accomplishment Points.” He pul ed a black leather-bound book from his pocket. “Lady Grace d’Argent leads with three hundred and ninety points. Miss Julia Tripp, three hundred and eighty points. Miss Gil ian Potts, three hundred and eighty points. Miss Becky Carver, three hundred and sixty-five points. Miss Olive Silverton, three hundred and sixty points. Miss Imogene Wel s, three hundred and thirty points. Miss Kate Harrington, three hundred and twenty-five points. And Miss Chloe Parker . . . fifteen points.”

  Mrs. Crescent patted Chloe’s arm. Grace lifted her chin in the air.

  The butler continued. “But it’s only fair, considering we have a new guest, to even the playing field, especial y as our guest has been a lady about the entire situation and not raised a complaint. As of tonight, everyone wil start over with zero points
.”

  The women, except for Imogene, gasped and stepped away from Chloe, as if this were her fault. Grace narrowed her eyes at Chloe, and al of them, Grace in particular, because she was in the lead, had real reason to hate her now.

  “And in terms of popularity, according to our online audience ratings system, there is one woman who far outranks the rest at the moment.”

  The women al looked around at one another, except for Grace, who nodded and smiled at her chaperone.

  “Miss Chloe Parker wins the week’s audience popularity contest by tenfold,” George said.

  Chloe had never been superpopular before. But here, in England, in 1812, apparently they liked her, except for her fel ow contestants.

  “Now. The Invitation Ceremony. May I point out to you again the importance of the invitation in this era. Entire seasons, entire destinies are made or broken by invitations. If you are lucky enough to get invited to the right bal s, the right dinners, you may meet the husband you are destined to be with. Without the invitations, you could become a spinster. Invitations are everything. Good luck,” George said. He gave a nod and the footmen swung open the doors to a room swathed in crimson and lined with velvet curtains and velvet-stuffed chairs.

  Sebastian stood next to a footman holding a silver salver stacked with five creamy envelopes, al with red W seals, no doubt. He stepped forward in his starched cravat, tailored black cutaway coat, off-white breeches, and stockings that showed off the muscles of his calves. He bowed, his dark eyes flitting from girl to girl. Chloe’s white-gloved hands shook as if she’d had a round or two of triple-espresso lattes without the latte. Maybe what Grace said in the carriage was true. Maybe al that mattered to her was the money. But there was more to it than that. Mrs. Crescent nudged Chloe until she curtsied.

  “Welcome to Dartworth Hal . So pleased to see you, Miss Parker.”

  Heat rose up her neck and into her cheeks. “Pleased to see you,” she said, and curtsied again. She was more pleased than he could know.