The chaperones stood in a cluster off to the side, shifting their feet and adjusting their assorted headdresses and necklaces. The eligible women had been instructed to stand in a line straight across, arm’s length apart, facing Sebastian.
“I just want everyone to know that this was one of the hardest decisions I’ve had to make.” He looked down at his brass-buckled black shoes, reached for the first invitation, and looked straight ahead, then, after a pause, his eyes darted toward Chloe, then away.
“Miss Kate Harrington.”
Kate stepped forward.
“Miss Kate Harrington, wil you accept this invitation?”
“I wil .” She curtsied, went back to her place, and sniffled.
The blatant sexism that defined this reality show ate away at Chloe as she watched Julia, then Gil ian grateful y “accept” their invitations. But George was right when he said invitations could make or break a Regency woman’s future. It just never hit her until now, this pathetic aspect of being a woman in 1812. She tasted something sour in her mouth, but that could’ve been the tooth powder.
“Lady Grace d’Argent.”
Grace sauntered forward with a smirk on her face.
“Lady Grace d’Argent, wil you accept this invitation?”
“Absolutely.” She curtsied, and slowly walked back to her place.
George stepped in front of the cameras. “Ladies. There is one invitation left.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Mr. Wrightman, proceed.”
Chloe felt nauseous, probably hungry. It couldn’t be that her fantasy Regency world wasn’t al she had cracked it up to be or that it was al crashing down around her. Mrs. Crescent crossed her fingers.
“Miss Chloe Parker.”
Instead of looking at Sebastian, she looked at Mrs. Crescent, whose shoulders slumped in relief—she, who prided herself on her excel ent posture.
“Miss Chloe Parker,” Sebastian said again.
In a muddle of happiness and humiliation, Chloe stepped forward. This was what it felt like to be a woman in Regency England, waiting for men to determine your destiny.
Sebastian smiled. “Miss Parker, wil you accept this invitation?”
The red wax seal looked like candy.
“Yes, I wil .” She hardly knew where the words came from. Glad to be asked, but mortified to accept, she curtsied, and on her way back, she noticed Imogene wipe a tear from her cheek. She, Olive, and Becky didn’t have an invitation. Chloe’s three favorites.
“Ladies,” said George. “Mr. Wrightman has made his decision. You may say your good-byes.”
Grace held her arms out to Imogene, who instead threw herself at Chloe. Abigail had cried like this when she final y understood that Winthrop wouldn’t be living with them anymore. Chloe wrapped her arms around Imogene and realized that even Imogene could use a shower.
“I can’t believe he chose Grace over me,” Imogene whimpered into Chloe’s neck. “I actual y have feelings for him and . . . and I don’t want to go.”
“I know. I’m going to miss you.”
Imogene was the closest thing to a friend Chloe had here, and Sebastian ripped her away. Who else would Chloe talk to? Paint with? Imogene stepped back and squeezed Chloe’s arms. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Good luck.”
“That’s quite enough now.” George linked his arm in Imogene’s, avoiding eye contact with Chloe. “Your carriage is waiting.”
Chloe hugged Becky and Olive. They wished her wel , even though, Olive said, Chloe seemed a mismatch for Sebastian. The audacity! Imogene threw Grace an air kiss. Sebastian said good-bye and thank you to the women. As Imogene walked out the double mahogany doors, her blue satin bow on the back of her gown drooped like a frown.
Sad as Chloe was to see her go, and embarrassed as she was to have participated in the ceremony, she thril ed at the thought of staying on, for the money and the man, and this mix of emotion made her uncomfortable. A torrent of lust and a wave of hope for love overcame her. Her mouth quivered into a smile as Mrs. Crescent congratulated her.
Sebastian turned and smiled at Chloe, but protocol dictated that he escort Grace. He took her arm and they both turned their backs on her. The other women and their chaperones fol owed suit, leaving Chloe in the back of the promenade alone.
George seemed to have vaporized and Henry appeared just as quickly and bowed to Chloe. He held out his arm and offered to escort her. “I’m sorry that Miss Wel s was asked to leave. I know you’l miss her.”
Henry was not only observant, but thoughtful. “Thank you, Mr. Wrightman. I will miss her.”
“Someday, when we have a chance,” he said, “I’d like to show you the library. I think you’d quite like it.”
Chapter 8
F rom Chloe’s vantage point in the back of the promenade, Sebastian looked hot and bulging in his “inexpressibles.” His tight cream-colored breeches were revealed every time his coattails wafted open. With this potent cocktail of sexiness and intel igence that she had only ever seen on screen, she forgot everything else.
She felt compel ed to reconnect with him as she had this morning, or next time around he could kick her off the show with his gold-buckled shoe.
But she was at the end, the very end, of the line of guests walking through the mahogany-paneled hal toward the dining room at Dartworth. It made her jealous that he led the procession, arm in arm with Grace, and then it made her mad that she felt jealous. She was just getting to know him! Why was she crushing on him already? The rest of the party fol owed in order of rank with Chloe, the token poor girl (and come on, she had always thought of herself as decidedly upper middle class despite her current strife) bringing up the end.
Holding her chin high and her spine straight, she walked through the doors with Henry, the cameras al over her. Once she lowered her chin, she found herself standing in front of a long table bedecked in a white tablecloth, and she felt wistful now, on top of everything, because it was Wednesday night, her pizza-and-movie night with Abigail. The grand dining table in front of her stood resplendent with five-pronged candelabra and beeswax candles, silver-rimmed china bowls, and crystal wine goblets at each place setting. Pineapples and shiny red apple pyramids punctuated each end of the table. Fruit! She hadn’t eaten fruit in days, as it was considered bad for a lady’s complexion. Dainty desserts stood on silver epergnes, and five footmen in blue coats and gold waistcoats, al equal y young and handsome, and al of uniform height, stood behind the Chippendale chairs, waiting to serve. And then she remembered pizza gave her heartburn and Abigail was probably having fun with her grandparents or, God forbid, her dad and stepmom-to-be.
“You were perhaps expecting a larger dining room?” Henry asked.
Chloe must’ve been frowning at the thought of Marcia Smith.
Henry smiled. “I do hope you find Dartworth Hal to your liking. You don’t think it too ostentatious?”
“Ostentatious? No. No, not at al .” She tried to remember the last time a man spoke to her using polysyl abic words like ostentatious. “I find it elegant.”
“Al ow me to escort you to your chair,” he said.
Nobody had ever said that to her before. She took his arm. “Thank you.” He was so nice she actual y felt guilty for thinking maybe getting in good with Henry would help her score points with Sebastian.
Henry pul ed out her chair and pushed her in next to him. Sebastian sat on the other end of the table, at the head, with Julia on his left and Grace on his right. He caught Chloe’s attention and then rol ed his eyes when Grace wasn’t looking. Chloe shrugged. Next to Grace and Julia were Gil ian and Kate, then Chloe and Henry, and al the chaperones.
“It appears that American heiresses don’t pul much rank at the dinner table,” Chloe said to Henry.
“Do you seek to improve your rank in this world, Miss Parker?”
“Oh no! I’m mainly here for the white soup.”
Henry smiled. “Ah. You may not care about rank, but you do have expensive tastes.”
Chloe had no idea that white soup was expensive.
“I’m sorry to say you’re in for a disappointment. White soup isn’t on the menu tonight.”
Chloe eyed her empty wineglass. “Not to worry. The wine wil more than make up for it.”
Henry laughed as the footmen poured the claret. Chloe didn’t think it was that funny—she hadn’t had wine in days. Ladies didn’t drink wine on their own unless they were “unwel ,” a stunt Grace had pul ed every night since Chloe arrived.
“I propose—” Sebastian said, raising his glass, looking at Chloe.
Chloe raised her wine goblet, which was no bigger than a bud vase. A proposal already?
“I propose a toast to our new guest at Bridesbridge Court, who comes al the way from America. Miss Chloe Parker.” He lowered his voice.
“Welcome to Dartworth.”
What class. What manners. What—luscious lips. Enthral ed with watching him bring his wineglass to his mouth, she almost forgot to respond.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m thril ed to be here.”
“May you find what you’re looking for,” Henry said.
Grace looked at Sebastian from behind her wineglass. “I’ve found what I’m looking for.”
Thank goodness for the wine, because Chloe needed a drink. And with just a hint of oak and fruity notes, it went down smoothly. Henry looked at Chloe’s empty wineglass, and almost as quickly, he emptied his.
The footman offered soup from a china tureen, and Chloe accepted two ladlefuls before she realized it was fish soup or bouil abaisse. No matter what kind of spin you put on it, she didn’t like fish soup and neither did her stomach. She also didn’t like the fact that she wasn’t al owed to talk to the footmen and servants, that she had to forget they were real people. Even worse, the servants had actual y faded into the background for her over the past couple days, and she, too, was beginning to treat them like the furniture, except for Fiona, whom she did her best to coddle. She stared at the cut-up fish flesh floating in the broth, stirring with her soup spoon. It didn’t matter. She hadn’t been hungry since the outing with Sebastian this morning.
Kate, who sat next to Chloe, scratched her bare arms. Under her caplet sleeves Chloe detected another outbreak of hives.
“Miss Harrington,” Chloe asked Kate, “have you tried Gowland’s Lotion? I’ve heard it’s quite good.”
Kate didn’t get the obscure reference to the lotion mentioned in Jane Austen’s Persuasion.
“Sir Walter highly recommends it,” Henry said, completing the reference.
Henry—a Jane Austen fan? Just like his brother, as it had said in Sebastian’s bio? Chloe did a double take. But then she remembered that it had been Henry who made the wet-shirt comment at the pond.
Kate tapped Chloe on the hand, her eyes already puffy. “Do you think there are any shel fish in this soup? I mustn’t eat shel fish, or I’l blow up like a hot-air bal oon.”
“I can assure you there are no shel fish,” Henry said. “Miss Parker. I hear you explored the old castle ruins today. Did you know it was built around the year 1130? Additions were made to it in the thirteenth century. Did you notice the herringbone pattern of stonework on the outer wal s?”
“No. I’m afraid I didn’t notice—that.”
“It’s too bad my brother didn’t point it out to you. It’s very rare to find that pattern of brickwork in a twelfth-century wal .”
Sebastian had pointed—other things out to her.
Stil , for a fleeting moment Chloe felt as if she had missed out on something. She could always go back to the ruins, couldn’t she? “I did notice, though, that the archer holes were square and not narrow slits. That was unexpected.”
Henry nodded in agreement and started to say something about how the castle was destroyed by cannonbal s during the English Civil War, but Chloe turned away from him to make eye contact with Sebastian. She caught Grace’s eye instead.
Everyone was talking with the person sitting next to them, and over the din of conversation, Grace raised her voice above them al . “This bouil abaisse is simply ecstasy. What a joy to have a French cook. I do so love French food and fashion. I would love to go to Paris again, wouldn’t you, Miss Parker?”
This was some kind of trap. Grace must’ve known Chloe had never been to Paris. She’d been to Martha’s Vineyard, Lake Tahoe, the Hamptons, but never Europe. Chloe opened her mouth and then shut it, like a fish. “I’m quite happy to be here,” she said.
Mrs. Crescent nodded in approval from across the table.
Henry saved her butt. “Surely the Americans find France to be no place for a lady at the moment.”
Grace sipped a spoonful of soup.
“Thank you for that,” Chloe said to Henry.
“Thank Napoleon,” he said, watching her play with her soup. “You’re doing a wonderful job of not eating your bouil abaisse. Do you not like it? I can have Mr. Hil take it away and bring you something else. Mr. Hil ? Mr. Hil —”
It was the first time she heard anyone refer to a servant with such respect. Everyone else just cal ed the servants by their last names, without a
“Mr.” or “Miss” attached. “The soup is fine, real y. Thank you.” Chloe strained to keep eye contact with Sebastian even as she kept conversation going with Henry. She had to wonder why Henry was here, although she suspected he was supposed to help his brother scout out the women, and his latest assignment was to get the dish on her. It was obvious. So she thought she’d have some fun with it. It teetered on the edge of impropriety, but it didn’t strike her as against the rules.
“Are you secretly engaged, Mr. Wrightman? Or otherwise spoken for?” Chloe asked.
Henry sputtered into his soup. “No. No, I’m not engaged, and have no prospects at the moment.”
“Real y?” Chloe was surprised. He seemed like the settled type. He didn’t sport a wedding ring, or she might think he was married already.
“I’m taking a bit of a sabbatical from al that.”
“By throwing yourself into a gaggle of eligible women in the middle of the countryside for six weeks?”
“Point wel taken, Miss Parker. But you no doubt realize I’m here to help my brother find a suitable wife. He is ready to marry and settle down.”
“And you, I take it, are not.”
“I’m younger.”
Not by much, Chloe thought. Maybe a year or two.
“My brother doesn’t want to waste his time with anyone he can’t envision as the love of his life. I’m here to help him in any way I can.”
“A great sacrifice on your part.”
“It is.”
She turned to Sebastian. Once or twice he ogled down the table at her, steam rising from his soup bowl.
Sebastian wasn’t very good in groups, Chloe decided. Shy. Darcylike. Stil , she suspected that he wanted to talk to her; he kept looking at her.
But she had to admit, he was looking at the other girls, too, and she didn’t like that. He was so gorgeous that his eyes gave her a rush every time she caught them. Made her hyperaware of everything. By the time the footmen cleared the soup bowls, Chloe determined he might wel be her Mr.
Darcy. When would she get him alone again? How would she possibly get to know him better? She conjured an image of them dancing, turning hand in hand, eyes locked in on each other—
“Partridge or fish, Miss Parker?” Henry asked.
A footman held a silver platter loaded with roasted birds and fish with the heads stil on toward Chloe. A row of dead fish eyes gaped up at her and her stomach churned. She looked at the footman. “Are there any potatoes?” There were always boiled potatoes.
“I’ve been living on potatoes,” she said to Henry.
“Suckling pig and cow tongue doesn’t appeal?” Henry asked. More than anything, the nineteenth-century presentation, where everything came with the head or the feet stil attached, didn’t work for Chloe. She had already lost some weight. She twitched her nose.
The footman nodded. “Just one moment.”
She imagined the footmen and maids must have their own fun and their own pairing-off. She hoped so, anyway. It looked like she would, despite the abundance of food, leave the table without eating much, as was so often the case after a meal here in Regency England.
“I can manage almost anything, but not game birds,” Henry said. His plate had a few fish on it.
“I can’t eat them either,” Chloe said.
“Does it have to do with your passion for birds, Miss Parker?”
How did he know about that? Chloe changed the subject to one of his interests—the frog hatchery. “And no doubt you avoid frog legs.”
Henry smiled. “You’re right.”
“Tel me. Which one of the women are you currently recommending to your brother?”
Henry took a slug of his wine. “You are quite forward, Miss Parker.”
“I’m just curious.” She could see this line of conversation made him a little nervous, but a little intrigued, too. And she wanted to intrigue him—in order to intrigue Sebastian.
“I haven’t recommended anyone yet. I have merely helped him discern some of the ladies’ characters.”
“And what have you discerned about my character?”
Henry refolded his napkin. “It’s a little too early to judge. Although I have my theories.” He smirked.
Chloe raised her eyebrows. Now she was intrigued. Unfortunately, during al this jabbering with Henry, Grace had managed to snare Sebastian into a conversation about hunting. “Oh yes. Last fal was my best season ever,” she heard Sebastian say to Grace. He had picked two partridges clean and stacked the bones alongside a pile of fish bones on his plate.
Grace nodded with enthusiasm, her feather nodding with her.
Chloe watched Sebastian, who now seemed so animated, making hand gestures as he talked; he even smiled. The footman offered Chloe a platter of boiled potatoes and carrots, and with a pair of silver tongs, she plucked them from the platter, transferring them careful y to her plate.
Sebastian laughed. “I must’ve bagged fourteen grouse! Looking forward to the season. Grouse hunting in August. Partridges in September.
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