“Fifi! My Fifi!” yel ed Mrs. Crescent, cradling her bel y and waddling over. “He’l get hopelessly lost in there!”
Chloe tossed aside her parasol, hiked up her gown, and sprang into the maze.
“Cameras! Get on this!” George whistled with his fingers, and the cameras rol ed behind her. “That girl’s golden,” she heard him say. “Wherever she goes, drama fol ows.”
Grace laughed and George’s ATV spun off.
Fifi growled somewhere within the maze, but Chloe couldn’t see him. She ran toward the spot from where the growling seemed to be coming.
Her walking boots were so thin she could feel the gravel under the soles of her feet.
“Fifi! Fifi! Come here!” Her bonnet fel to her shoulders. Her white shawl snagged on a yew branch.
“Miss Parker! Miss Parker!” Mrs. Crescent cal ed from outside the hedge maze. “Save my baby Fifi! Hurry! Before he gets hurt! Oh, Mr.
Wrightman—thank goodness you’re here!”
Sebastian? Great. He was supposed to be chasing her through the maze, and here she was chasing a droopy-eyed pug. She heard more growling and shuffling.
“Fifi! Fifi!” Chloe found herself bumping into dead end after dead end as larger and larger raindrops began to fal faster and faster.
“Yip! Yip!” Fifi yelped, and Chloe spun, sprinted, took a sharp turn in the hedge, and barreled right into—Mr. Wrightman—the younger, the penniless.
“I’ve been meaning to run into you,” he quipped, offering her a hand to steady her. “But not quite like this.”
That sounded like something she would say, or did say, to Sebastian.
The rain was fal ing even harder now.
“Listen, I’l get the dog. You head back,” Henry said.
“Yip! Yip!” Fifi yelped again, and Henry marched off.
But Chloe couldn’t leave Fifi. She clambered behind with a broken shoelace and her flimsy boots soaked through. Deep into the maze, she final y caught up to Henry and watched him throw his jacket on a tangle of pug and weasel and somehow magical y extract the dog from the pile. He tucked Fifi under his arm like a footbal while ribbons of blood and mud trickled down the dog’s back. Fifi was yipping and crying.
Chloe felt as if the seams of her corset were showing through her white dress. Her gown clung to her legs, revealing her garters at midthigh.
Henry’s eyes roamed from her face to her neck, her breasts, her legs—then he turned to head back. “Fol ow me for the way out,” he said in the pouring rain as he led the way. “If you lose sight of me, keep your left hand on the hedge. I’ve got to hurry and get the dog cleaned and bandaged before infection sets in. He’s covered in mud.”
Henry didn’t know her lace was broken. As she fol owed him, her cameraman fol owed her, rain running down her face, over her lip, and into her mouth, tasting sweet and salty at the same time. The sky flashed lightning.
In a matter of moments she lost sight of Henry and could no longer hear his boots crunching in the gravel. She placed her wet glove on the hedge to her left. Fog was rol ing in among the hedgerows, and al at once the vivid green hedges seemed grayer, tal er, woodier. What kind of mother would let herself get lost in a hedge maze in the middle of nowhere in England, during a thunderstorm?
“Hand on the left. Hand on the left.”
Rain dripped down from her fingertips to her elbow as if she were a human gutter. She felt as if she’d been in this very spot five minutes ago. Did she just make a big circle? It occurred to her what a bril iant invention the GPS was, and she determined that as soon as she got home and could afford it, she’d buy one, because she hated being lost and alone. But, as it turned out, she wasn’t alone.
She turned and looked right at the cameraman. “Al right. How do we get out of here?”
He didn’t respond, he just kept filming.
“You don’t have to say anything. Just lead the way. I’l fol ow you.”
He stayed put.
“Ugh!” Exasperated, Chloe threw her arms up.
Thunder rumbled and the hedges seemed to grow tal er. Left hand. Left hand against the hedge, she reminded herself. Her gloves went translucent on her fingers. Tufts of fog blew through the hedgerows, obscuring the path. She kept bumping into the same dead end over and over.
When the rain began to let up, she stopped shivering. Her hair had gone wild and windblown around her shoulders and the bottom of her white gown was brown with mud.
Final y, she saw an opening in the distance. It was the exit! She did it. She’d made it! Al by herself. Something moved toward her, ran toward her in the fog. It was Sebastian come to save her, a little too late, unfortunately. She shook off the disappointment, but not the cold and rain.
“Miss Parker! Are you al right?” Sebastian cal ed out.
“I think so, Colonel Brandon,” she replied.
He smiled at the Austen reference and opened his arms to her. Did he forget he couldn’t touch her? She was too cold and wet to care about protocol or the camera. He held out his arms to her and she had no resistance left. She buried her head in his wet, white ruffled shirt, taking in his wine-barrel, snufflike aroma. He, too, had been soaked through and his body felt chil ed.
“I think we make a pretty cool couple.” She shivered and whispered in his ear, alone with him at last.
Sebastian didn’t have an umbrel a or a coat to offer her, but in an instant he swooped her up in his arms.
She locked her arms around his strong neck, and he carried her toward Dartworth Hal . Now, where were al the cameras when she needed them?
“You are Colonel Brandon after al ,” Chloe said.
Sebastian smiled while his Hessian boots trudged on. He seemed an enigma to her, but the scent of spongy grass fil ed the air and being in his arms made her feel safe and taken care of.
His dark eyes looked straight ahead at the doors of the hal , his nostrils flared slightly. The rain had stopped, but it had made him slick back his black hair, as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. His cheekbones were so chiseled a girl could go rock-climbing on them. The moment was right out of a movie, until he lost his footing, slipped in the mud, and Chloe slid out of his arms and landed with her feet on the ground.
He caught her, helped her regain her footing, and their hands touched for the first time. “So sorry,” he said, with his incredible English accent.
“I’m not.” She melted faster than a chocolate molten lava cake. “Maybe you’re fal ing for me.”
He laughed and there they were, face-to-face. “I am—fal ing for you. I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re a rarity.” He moved closer as if to kiss her, and her lips parted. She resisted taking his designer-stubbled jawline in her hands.
His lips were almost pressing against hers and his arms had almost gone around her waist when they heard twigs snap behind them, reminding them that Chloe’s cameraman was stil there, and now another cameraman had appeared as wel .
She stepped back. She couldn’t help but notice Sebastian’s very revealing breeches, so she tried instead to focus on the wet shirt clinging to his muscled torso—and that was certainly no punishment. Their bodies quivered to be together, and for the first time, Chloe felt for Regency women who weren’t al owed to act on any of their impulses, or, if they did, they’d suffer life-altering consequences.
Chloe needed more time with Sebastian, preferably not in a thunderstorm and surrounded by cameras, and perhaps not in the nineteenth century, for that matter. She had to admit that in the modern world, they’d have slept together already! Their relationship would’ve been so much further along by this point. How could you get to know a man when you were surrounded by chaperones? When you couldn’t talk to him, be alone with him—or rip off his ruffled shirt and breeches?! Did Regency women real y know who they were marrying? How could they have?
Chloe could learn more in a single weekend away at a beach cottage with him than six or even twelve more weeks of this. And, if she real y wanted TMI, sh
e could’ve done what Emma did with men she’s just met, and Google them, check out their Facebook page, fol ow them on Twitter.
Just a few minutes of cyberstalking would’ve revealed more than she’d learned about Sebastian in two ful weeks!
The hedge maze was far off, and however enticing it had once looked, Chloe couldn’t be happier than to be free of it.
At that moment a footman came running toward them. “Mr. Wrightman, we need you in the stables. Do you have a moment?”
Sebastian looked at Chloe. So much for their romp in the hedge maze, she couldn’t help but think. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m fine. Is everyone inside? Do you want me to just—head into Dartworth?” It was awkward asking if she should just drop into his sprawling estate or what.
“Yes, I’m sure everyone’s gathered in the music room. The competition wil be postponed.”
“I’l escort you,” the young footman offered.
Sebastian bowed, she curtsied, and he headed toward the stable.
She tied off the broken lace on her waterlogged boots and noticed that one of her white stockings had gone shocking pink at the ankle. Mrs.
Crescent would never approve of pink stockings. It seemed she had cut her ankle on the hedge and blood had turned the stocking pink.
On her way toward Dartworth, she and the footman stepped over a little creek that had swel ed up during the storm. She stepped on a wide rock in the middle of the creek to get to the other side and noticed how two streams of water flowed on either side of it. This divergence weakened the streams, until they trickled off into nothingness.
She never imagined she’d fal for two so very different men, brothers no less, so quickly. The money and the winning got washed away, and too often, she forgot al about them. She had to stay focused, fol ow ridiculous Regency protocol, and not al ow her resolve to weaken any more. No more getting lost. She’d set her GPS for Sebastian, and that would be it.
Chapter 14
W el , wel , look what the pug dragged in,” Grace said. She cast a crisp silhouette against the floor-to-ceiling windows in the music room at Dartworth.
The windows in this room offered the best view of the hedge maze. Julia and her chaperone were playing cards in front of the fire. Mrs. Crescent had dozed off on a Grecian sofa.
Chloe clenched her fists. It took al of her wil power not to rail against Grace.
Chloe had to remind herself of how her feelings for Sebastian had been growing steadily stronger. She forced herself to think, too, of the money, of how it would save her business and might even save her from having to sacrifice Abigail to Winthrop every summer.
At that moment Fifi appeared, trotting in from the hal way, his rib cage wrapped in linen bandages. The yel ow room dripped with white flowered molding like frosting on a wedding cake, while rainwater dripped from Chloe’s hemline to the floor. The fireplace crackled and the shadows danced on the gold-leaf harp in the corner. She wiped her face with her wet shawl and the white fabric turned gray with grime.
Grace, in her shimmering gold silk gown, circled Chloe like a lioness assessing her prey. “It’s not about how shocking you look, Miss Parker.”
Her voice rose up to the domed ceiling. “It’s about how hopelessly blind you are to the fact that you just don’t belong here.”
A cameraman angled in and Chloe imagined balancing a book on her head, chin up, just like Mrs. Crescent had taught her.
“Fifi! Miss Parker!” Mrs. Crescent hoisted herself out of the chaise. “Thank God you’re both al right.” She bent to pat Fifi delicately on the head.
“Whatever did you do with poor Mr. Wrightman, anyway?” Grace asked as she floated back to her window.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Chloe muttered. She clenched the sage silk draperies.
Abruptly, Grace came slithering up from behind, startling Chloe with a click of a bronze telescope, which she promptly extended to its ful length and aimed toward the maze.
Mrs. Crescent, with one hand on her bel y, took Chloe by the arm and whispered, “We must go, dear, before Mr. Wrightman sees you in such a state!”
“He has already seen me—aaaachooo—” she sneezed. “Excuse me.” She covered her mouth a little too late. There was enough dirt on her hands to confuse her with the gardener . . . or one of her al edged groundskeeper ancestors.
Lady Grace raised an eyebrow.
Chloe lowered her voice to a whisper as she spoke to Mrs. Crescent. “I just need more time. Things are—heating up.”
“Then let’s keep the teapot boiling,” Mrs. Crescent whispered back. “Let’s get tidied up.” She took a deep breath and lifted Fifi as if he were a swaddled newborn. “Jones!” she cal ed out.
In a blue liveried uniform, one of the footmen scurried over to Mrs. Crescent and bowed.
“Ready one of Mr. Wrightman’s carriages, if you please. Miss Parker and I must return to Bridesbridge. Immediately.”
“I won’t go unless Lady Grace, Julia, and the chaperones come with us,” Chloe said.
“I’m certainly not leaving.” Grace stifled a fake cough. “Humph. Al that muck.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Mr. Wrightman invited us to stay until the rain subsides. I wasn’t aware of his inviting you, Miss Parker, or am I mistaken?”
Chloe felt a draft coming from behind. “We didn’t spend much time—talking.”
Grace snapped the telescope closed and picked up a book from a large table draped in an Oriental rug, thumping it with her long, slender fingers.
A housemaid, on her hands and knees at Chloe’s walking boots, was wiping up the wet trail of mud and grass she’d left behind her on the wooden floor. Without thinking, Chloe stooped to the floor. “Let me help you.” She took a rag from the bucket.
A portrait of some eighteenth-century Wrightman women above the fireplace seemed to be looking down their English noses at Chloe, their silver gowns glistening, their faces and hair powdered white, each of them forcing an ever-so-slight painted smile.
Mrs. Crescent yanked Chloe up and the rag went splat on the floor. “A lady doesn’t—that’s servant work.” She bobbed her head toward the camera. “Against the rules,” she whispered.
“But I’m responsible for this—” Heat rose up Chloe’s neck, her head throbbed, and she wiped her dirty hand on the back of her gown, leaving fingerprints.
Grace laughed, covering her pouty mouth with her glove. “I’m glad to see that she at least knows her place. She should’ve been cast as a scul ery maid.”
Scul ery maid happened to be the lowest ranking of the maid hierarchy. Chloe knew this now, after working in Cook’s kitchen.
“Carriage is ready,” Jones announced.
Mrs. Crescent tucked Fifi under her arm.
“The storm’s passed!” Henry announced as he trounced in with his medical bag. Chloe noticed that something salty was dripping into her mouth and realized that her nose was running. She knew better than to wipe it with her cap sleeve. Before she could do anything, however, Henry pul ed a handkerchief with HW embroidered on it out of his pocket and, without a word, wiped her runny nose then put the thing right back into his pocket.
Just like her grandpa used to do when she was little.
“Thank you.” Her eyes fol owed him even as she stepped away from him.
“Ugh,” Lady Grace groaned, tossing a book that she hadn’t even cracked onto the table. She plopped down at the pianoforte and shuffled the sheet music like cards.
“Miss Parker, whatever happened to your leg?” Henry asked.
Mrs. Crescent gasped. “I had no idea! Dear Lord!”
Grace pounded on the pianoforte, sending Beethoven resounding throughout the room.
“I’m fine. It’s just a little cut.” Grace was banging the pianoforte so loud that Chloe had to practical y yel . She wanted as little interaction with Henry as possible, so she looked into the fire in the fireplace and fidgeted with her gown.
“May I take a look at the cut?”
Gr
ace moved on to Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.”
Chloe decided that she had to stop giving Henry mixed messages. “I said I’m fine, Mr. Wrightman!”
Fifi whimpered.
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” Mrs. Crescent singsonged forlornly.
Henry persisted. “I recommend you bathe and replace the bandage in the next twenty-four hours. I also recommend a dram or two of spirits.”
That got her to smile, although she had sworn off that sewing-cabinet vodka . . . and off Henry as wel .
“And, of course, I’l need to check on your progress tomorrow.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Just then Sebastian walked in to see Henry and Chloe together—again.
This was exactly what she didn’t want to happen! She turned to Sebastian. “And thank you, Mr. Wrightman, for rescuing me in the hedge maze.”
Sebastian merely nodded.
Henry had ruined her progress with Sebastian again!
Grace and Julia chose that moment to swoop in on Sebastian, each vying for his attention, each beautiful, glittering, and—dry.
Chloe decided that Mrs. Crescent was right, she looked a mess and was in no state to compete with Grace and Julia, certainly not physical y, and maybe not mental y either! She should listen to her chaperone more often, real y.
“Wel , Mrs. Crescent and I must go.” Chloe curtsied, the men bowed, and she shuffled toward the foyer, Mrs. Crescent fol owing.
In the marble-tiled foyer, Chloe caught a glimpse of herself in a ful -length gold-leaf mirror, and thought she looked more like a madwoman locked in the attic than an Elizabeth Bennet who had just muddied her petticoats running al the way to Netherfield. Regardless, petticoats were hopelessly out of fashion in 1812. She pul ed a twig out of her tangled hair.
What had made her think she was worthy of an Oxford-educated aristocratic hottie anyway? She used to think she belonged here in England, and now, it seemed, Grace might be right. She didn’t belong here, or anywhere else.
She hesitated before stepping into the carriage, a hard-topped black chaise with a gold W emblazoned on the door. The four black horses tossed their manes and stamped their hooves.
Definitely Not Mr. Darcy Page 21