Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

by Karen Doornebos

  “Tel Mr. Wrightman what happened in the forest this morning with Henry, Miss Parker!” she said.

  “Nothing happened, as you al wel know.” There was no proof—of anything.

  Grace laughed. “Perhaps Miss Parker has designs on your younger brother,” she said to Sebastian. “Perhaps she means to use the item found in her reticule after al .”

  Heat rose to Chloe’s cheeks as an inevitable image surfaced in her mind’s eye, of herself and Henry writhing together naked. She raged at Grace. “You’re absolutely wrong, Lady Grace. I have no intention of the kind with Henry!”

  Mrs. Crescent buried her head in her hands. Fifi whimpered.

  Sebastian’s brows came together. He glared at Chloe and Henry.

  Sebastian oozed testosterone, and Chloe realized that he could probably beat the crap out of Henry should he wish to.

  Henry paced the floor. “I think Miss Parker has made it quite clear that she has no designs on me whatsoever.”

  Chloe leaned against the tea table. She felt light-headed.

  Sebastian crossed the room and glowered into the fireplace. If she didn’t convince him that the condom had been planted in her reticule and that she felt no attraction to Henry, she’d be sent home knowing she hadn’t given it her best shot. She fol owed Sebastian. “What I did for Henry during the foxhunt, I would’ve done for anyone here, including you, Grace.”

  Fifi barked in agreement. Mrs. Crescent rubbed her bel y.

  Henry buttoned his coat.

  The cameras surrounded Chloe and Sebastian. The glow of the fire made his tanned face look even darker. Chloe plopped down in the settee near him, but springs hadn’t been invented in 1812, and it didn’t give, hurting her butt, already tender from the morning’s horse ride. She was losing him, she saw it in his smoky eyes. Him, the man who had chosen her from so many thousands of other women, who had given her the gift of paints and paper, a poem even. Wel , the closest thing to a poem any man had ever written for her. She gulped. “I hope you’l give me a chance. Get to know me a bit more.”

  Sebastian’s eyes went glassy. “I believe I have gotten to know you more.” He stared into the fire. He seemed to have made his decision.

  “But you don’t understand. If this is about Henry, you have to realize, I talk to him mainly to find out more about you. To get to know you better.

  He’s a doorway to you.” This was, of course, only partly true, and Chloe knew it.

  “Speaking of doorways . . . if you wil excuse me.” Henry bowed and left before the ladies even had a moment to curtsy.

  Chloe felt the emptiness he left behind.

  “Time for the Invitation Ceremony,” the butler announced.

  Chloe stepped back toward the door, her bare shoulders cold.

  The butler opened the doors. “Ladies.”

  Chloe had failed to get through to Sebastian. She hadn’t gotten a chance to eat any of the delicious confections she’d made either. The bul et pudding had gone untouched, a symbol of the fiasco this supposedly festive occasion had turned into. And to top it off, she’d lost Henry.

  The butler tapped the condom in his pocket. “After you, Miss Parker.”

  She was the last member of the party to leave. She needed a drink, and not just a lame two-hundred-year-old lemony-watery punch with a splash of champagne. What she needed was a massive modern martini.

  N o drinks and only a few minutes later, Gil ian, Chloe, Julia,

  Kate, and Grace stood poised in front of the pianoforte, al Kate, and Grace stood poised in front of the pianoforte, al cleaned up and smoothed over. While the cameras rol ed, Sebastian paced on the far side of the room, and everyone tried to ignore the three cream-colored invitations on a silver tray.

  In Chloe’s imagination, Sebastian would see her innocence on al fronts, fling two invitations into the fireplace, waltz right up to her, and present her with the remaining envelope. “It’s you,” he would declare. “It’s always been you. Take this invitation. Take me! ” He would sweep her up off her feet and—But that wasn’t going to happen. Not by a long shot.

  Instead Sebastian cleared his throat. “Let me begin by saying . . .” He paused for the camera and lifted one of the invitations. “This was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever had to make.” He shifted from one side to the other in his Hessian boots. “You are al very attractive women, with equal y—interesting personalities.” He looked right at Chloe.

  Zing. Chloe felt that one. Interesting was never good in guy language, whether Regency or contemporary. She also became acutely aware of her pungent body odor. That was what no showers, horseback riding, and sweating bul ets at tea-party debacles did to a girl.

  Sebastian looked down at the invitation in his hand, his long, thick eyelashes practical y brushing against his aristocratic cheekbones. The room was completely stil , the flames of the fire providing the only semblance of movement, and it was so quiet you could hear a nineteenth-century needle drop. He looked up. “Lady Grace.”

  Voom. One video cam swung to shoot Grace sauntering up to Sebastian while another recorded the expressions on the other girls’ faces.

  Chloe clenched her gloved fists. In the corner of the room, her sewing box sat unlatched, the fireplace screen she had only just started seeming to mock her. She would leave so much unfinished here if she had to go now. It wasn’t just about the money anymore, she realized that. She was wil ing to gamble it al —her business, her precious time with Abigail, and even her friendship with Henry—for this, for Sebastian, and al the possibility of him. His quiet dignity, his perseverance throughout this process, his romantic gestures with riddles and silhouettes and packages wrapped in gold in a castle keep.

  “Lady Grace, wil you accept this invitation?” Sebastian asked in an almost singsong voice.

  “Of course.” Grace slid the invitation from his hand, eyed him up and down, then curtsied.

  He bowed and watched her butt as she walked back.

  Chloe cringed. She blocked out any thoughts of Sebastian and Grace hooking up; the possibility made her nauseous.

  Grace took her spot next to Chloe, pressing the invitation to her chest.

  “Miss Tripp.”

  Of course he chose Julia, Chloe thought. Who wouldn’t? Lithe, enthusiastic Julia deserved to stay on. Plus, she didn’t have a scandal, real or imagined, attached to her name. Chloe looked straight at Sebastian now and rose on tiptoe in her satin slippers, on the edge of the carpet, on the edge of everything.

  The butler lunged in front of Sebastian. “Ladies, before Mr. Wrightman presents the final invitation, it has been determined that, for hosting the hunt tea, Miss Parker wil gain only ten of the fifteen Accomplishment Points, due to unladylike behavior. The reticule inspection adds five points to everyone’s score except hers. Nevertheless, Miss Parker currently leads with a score of forty points, Miss Tripp with thirty-five, and the rest of the women are tied at thirty points each. Consider careful y, Mr. Wrightman, the behavior you’ve witnessed tonight. I can assure you that the ratings online indicate that Miss Tripp is the favored contestant, and in choosing her to stay on, you have chosen wisely.”

  The butler turned toward the women. “Mr. Wrightman wil now present the final invitation. Two of you wil be sent home tonight. Mr. Wrightman, if you please.”

  Chloe, Gil ian, and Kate took a step forward together. Chloe could feel the beads of sweat running down her back and in the sour taste that fil ed her mouth, even though she’d brushed with her swine’s-hair toothbrush and chalky powder less than an hour ago.

  “Miss Harrington . . .” Sebastian said.

  Kate practical y skipped up to him. Chloe’s neck went limp and her chin hit her chest. Of course it was Kate, who, despite her al ergies, seemed rather sweet. Chloe had blown it. As recently as a few days ago, she might not have cared so much, but at the moment she felt completely devastated.

  “. . . and Miss Potts.”

  Chloe was confused. There was only one invit
ation.

  Sebastian took Kate’s and Gil ian’s hands in his own. “You both are wonderful, amazing women, and you wil find someone who deserves you.

  But I’m afraid I must ask you to take your leave of Bridesbridge Place.”

  Chloe lifted her chin. On their way back to their spots, Gil ian sneered at Chloe and Kate looked dumbfounded.

  Sebastian picked up the last invitation from the silver salver. “Miss Parker . . .” He extended the invitation toward her.

  Chloe’s shoulders slumped with relief. He got it, she realized. He got her. Maybe he even believed her story about the condom, and about her lack of feelings for Henry. She stumbled, but didn’t fal on the edge of the carpet. Behind her, as she padded toward Sebastian, she could hear Kate blowing her nose.

  Sebastian looked down on her with a half smile. “Miss Parker, wil you accept this invitation to stay on?”

  “I do.” Chloe took the envelope. The heft of the handmade paper in her hand felt good and right. “I—I mean I wil !” She laughed. He crinkled his nose, and remembering both her bad breath and nineteenth-century protocol, she fumbled a curtsy as she breathed out of her nose. He bowed. As much as she wanted to talk to Sebastian, to stay with him, she forced herself to turn and walk back to her spot. It was enough to know that he trusted her. Now that the trust was there, they could build on it—spires into the sky.

  “Ladies,” said the butler. “Mr. Wrightman has made his decision. You may say your good-byes.”

  This time, the good-byes were not as difficult for Chloe. Imogene had been her closest friend here, and she was gone. Gil ian and Kate, by comparison, were easy to let go.

  “Miss Potts, Miss Harrington, your carriage is waiting,” said the butler.

  Sebastian turned to Chloe, Grace, and Julia. “Good night, ladies. I look forward to our next encounter.” With that, he escorted Gil ian and Kate out the door.

  Outside the sash windows, the afternoon sun was fading fast and maids began to scurry around inside to light the candles while footmen lit the torches outside. Grace sat down at the pianoforte and pounded out an English reel. A maid set a candelabrum on the piano and lit it.

  Mrs. Crescent waddled over to Chloe, fanning herself from face to pregnant bel y. The white ruffles of her cap wagged right along with Fifi’s tail. “I don’t know how you managed it.” She squeezed Chloe’s hand.

  She’d managed it by sacrificing Henry, and already she began concocting ways to rectify that situation. He, and his good opinion of her, meant more to her than she had thought, and it made the victory bittersweet.

  The carriage pul ed away from the house, lumbering toward the road.

  “Whatever could be wrong?” Mrs. Crescent asked.

  “I’m missing—a friend,” Chloe said.

  “Miss Wel s? She was never your friend,” Mrs. Crescent whispered.

  That wasn’t who she’d been thinking of. Wait a minute. “She wasn’t?”

  Mrs. Crescent shook her head. “We’re not here to make friends. Nobody’s here to make friends. Nobody here is your friend! It’s not about friendship; we’re here to win. And we’re on our way. Wel done! Let’s go. We have needlework to do.” She nodded toward the hal .

  “But it’s Sunday—bath day, right? I’ve been looking forward to a bath!”

  Mrs. Crescent shook her head. “No, dear, due to the foxhunt, bath day has been postponed.”

  “Postponed? Until when?! How much longer can a girl wait?” Chloe was beside herself.

  “Waiting, dear,” Mrs. Crescent declared, “is the name of the game.”

  Chapter 11

  C hloe took a candelabrum into the dark hal , stopping by a painting of roses to wait for Mrs. Crescent and Fifi. The candlelight seemed to il uminate the thorns in the painting more than it did the roses, and Chloe felt a chil come over her.

  The cameras weren’t fol owing them, so as soon as Mrs. Crescent and Fifi caught up to her, Chloe spoke quickly. “I was terribly rude and unladylike to Henry. I need to set things straight.” She blew out a candle with her breath. A wisp of smoke curled between them.

  “My dear Miss Parker, you won this round. Lord knows how, but you won it. With the new Accomplishment Points you’ve gained, you’ve earned another outing with Mr. Wrightman. You’re leading the way with forty points. There’s no need to talk to Henry.”

  “But Henry’s an important al y. He could influence Sebastian against me. It’s a delicate situation.”

  A footman sped by while she was speaking, his livery coat askew, cravat untied. He yanked on his drawer strings with one hand, sported a candlestick in the other, and then dropped his cravat in a wicker laundry basket at the top of the servant stairs.

  Mrs. Crescent cleared her throat. “You must wait, like a lady, for Sebastian to make the next move. And forget about Henry. Put the notion of visiting out of your head, or you’l get us both booted out of here.”

  Candle wax dripped onto Chloe’s thumb. “Ow!”

  The footman returned to plunk his hat into the basket.

  “That’s it!” Chloe snapped her fingers. “What about—having a footman deliver a message?”

  Mrs. Crescent stooped over to pick up Fifi and sighed on her way up the stairs. The candle flames in the candelabrum bent with her exhale and almost went out. “You know you can’t write a letter to a man unless you’re engaged.”

  “There wouldn’t be a letter. I’d just have a footman deliver a verbal message. We have to—push the envelope. You know how Grace is. We have to bend the rules, not break them. You want us to win, right?”

  “It’s not proper.”

  Chloe knew Mrs. Crescent was right and she leaned against the cold wal . Her right to talk, to communicate, had been stripped away, and she stood helpless, imprisoned in a glorified prom gown. She was a modern woman after al , used to her freedoms of movement and expression. This was exasperating!

  At that moment Grace, lips pursed and armed with her own candelabrum, swooshed by the two of them with al the attitude of a model in a Victoria’s Secret commercial. She tugged at her bodice and smoothed her gown. “You’re such a good girl with your chaperone,” she sneered in Chloe’s ear. Her berry-stained lips were smudged. Chloe’s candelabrum went out completely as Grace turned the corner. Two cameramen trailed Grace’s flowing gown.

  “At least I won’t get gonorrhea or—pregnant!” Chloe coundn’t keep herself from muttering.

  Mrs. Crescent shushed her.

  Grace was, by Chloe’s standards, a strumpet, and she had no doubt that the girl had just added another notch to her cal ing-card case by dal ying with yet another footman.

  But maybe Grace was right, after al , and Chloe was being too good. Despite Mrs. Crescent’s advice, she knew she had to be proactive, aggressive. Grace had planted a condom in her reticule and gotten away with it, for God’s sake! At the very least, she had to protect—herself.

  With their candelabra snuffed out, Chloe and Mrs. Crescent had no choice but to feel their way through the hal , back to the drawing room. The fire in the fireplace and the candelabra in the room were flickering on the ornate gold frames of the paintings. Mrs. Crescent opened the walnut sewing cabinet, pul ing out Chloe’s floss and needles.

  “Needlework? Haven’t I endured enough punishment for one day?” Chloe asked.

  Grace was sleeping with the footmen, and here she was, doing her needlework!

  She fingered the irregular, loose stitches in her embroidery. Miss Gately’s fireplace screen stood finished in the corner, a testament to her accomplishments. Uniformly stitched peonies blossomed on a red background, while the robins in Chloe’s embroidery looked more like rats. But then again, she had just started to learn this craft, and she was here and Miss Gately—wasn’t. Grace, though, was stil here, too, and so was Julia.

  The butler brought the tea things in and Chloe wondered what he had done with that condom anyway.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Crescent said, “I’l pour.” As soon as he l
eft, Mrs. Crescent shot Chloe a serious look. “We made the cut. You deserve a cup of tea for al your efforts.” She handed Chloe a teacup ful of plain, room-temperature water.

  “You forgot to run the tea leaves through it.”

  “No, I didn’t, dear. Just try it before the cameras find us.” Chloe sipped and practical y spit the liquid al over her embroidery. “Vodka?” she cried.

  “Vodka! Where in the world did you get it?”

  “Ah, the benefits of doing one’s needlework.” Mrs. Crescent gestured toward a vodka bottle in the recesses of the locked sewing cabinet. She shut the cabinet door and col apsed on the double settee.

  Chloe thought of adding a twist of lemon from her deodorant supply, then slammed the vodka and helped herself to two more, al just before a cameraman arrived on the scene. “Cheers, Mrs. Crescent. Here’s to you. And needlework.” She hadn’t eaten anything al day, and the booze went right to her head.

  Mrs. Crescent shook a finger at her. “You must drink your tea like a civilized lady. Slowly. And that’s al the ‘tea’ you’re getting—tonight.”

  Chloe tried to nurse her vodka as best she could. “Mrs. Crescent, is there a garden somewhere around here with something in it that casts shadows and light?”

  Mrs. Crescent locked the sewing cabinet with a key she kept in her reticule. “I daresay I regret giving you that tea.”

  Chloe sipped from the teacup. “Or, perhaps there is a clock somewhere in this house with a garden painted on it?”

  Mrs. Crescent shook her head and rubbed her bel y. “Oh, dear.”

  The vodka warmed Chloe, raising her spirits and her confidence, and loosening her Regency restraint. She knew she needed to take action.

  The clock in the hal struck eleven, the women’s curfew. Only the men could be out and about at this hour. As Chloe looked out the window, a star-fil ed sky seemed to beckon to her. The vodka had dul ed her rational side just enough for her to fol ow her impulses.