Neither Mrs. Crescent nor the cameras could fit into the curricle, so she and Sebastian were filmed from an ATV shadowing them alongside the road.
Unfortunately, Sebastian had a toothache, and as he drove the horses, he sucked on cloves to help with the pain, because aspirin hadn’t been invented yet. Chloe broached subjects she knew interested him from the bio she’d read: architecture, poetry, painting, astronomy, even bird-watching, but he just rubbed his jaw in reponse. He was clearly in a lot of pain. But the last thing she wanted him to think about was a toothache.
She had to distract him, but how, without breaking the rules?
They passed the grotto in silence. She wanted to know his favorite movie, his favorite restaurant, where he liked to travel, his hopes, his dreams, even his fears, his failings. She wanted to learn everything about him, but al efforts seemed so forced, and he was consumed with pain. What a far cry it was from yesterday’s pole dance at her window, when Sebastian had eyes only for her.
The pressure mounted. The time would go quickly. Certainly Lady Grace was sexier than she, and Julia, no doubt, had youth and exuberance on her side. This cal ed for drastic measures, something Emma, her employee, not Jane Austen’s Emma, might concoct.
She thought about tossing the ladylike approach out the carriage window and throwing herself around him and his double-breasted riding coat, which stretched tautly across his chest. She imagined untying his cravat, tearing off his shirt, and crushing her breasts up against him like a common trol op. Instead she demurely tucked a stray hair under her bonnet. “Mr. Wrightman,” she said, “I wanted to let you know that your cat has caught the mouse.”
“It has?” He shifted on the carriage seat and raised an eyebrow at her. He took his hand off his jaw. The horses shook their manes and their nostrils flared.
“Absolutely.”
“That was certainly quick.”
“Wel , your cat has great instincts.”
He almost dropped the reins as they clipped along past the deer park. “Thank you.”
She became acutely aware that she didn’t have so much as a thong on. He was so close, so—hot. These sudden urges made her uncomfortable. It went against everything she believed to lust after a man she’d met just a couple of weeks ago, but then another image of her and Sebastian flashed through her mind. They were parked behind the stables in the back of the carriage and the hemline of her gown was up to her ribboned Empire waist. She was raking her fingers through his thick, dark, tumbling hair as his hands cupped her breasts—
“Are you—enjoying your time here at Bridesbridge, Miss Parker? Is it everything you hoped it would be?”
“Yes, I’m having a fabulous time, and it’s beyond what I had hoped. But what about you? Are you getting closer to making your final decision?”
“Yes, every day. It hasn’t been easy—but it has led me here, to this point, with you. You’re so different from the others.”
She’d heard this before, and it was beginning to sound a little stilted. “You keep saying that, Mr. Wrightman. But what, I wonder, does it mean?”
He looked pained again, so she lightened up. “Good different, I hope?”
“Yes. Good different.”
“It’s hard to tel —sometimes—exactly how you feel,” she ventured.
“I don’t real y like al the attention I’m getting as the host of this thing. With the chaperones, so many people I don’t know wel , it’s hard to relax and be myself.”
That must be why his behavior seemed at times so contradictory. This reality show was putting strange pressures on al of them. But her mind kept turning to his skintight breeches tucked neatly into his shapely riding boots. “I feel for you,” she said.
She’d like to feel him, period, she thought. She could hardly contain her physical attraction to this man, and from the way he looked at her when they were alone, it seemed as if he felt the same way. They had chemistry al right—on steroids. The force of the attraction, she reasoned, was probably made al the more powerful by the restrictions of Regency etiquette. She couldn’t touch him, kiss him, or even hold his hand until he asked for her hand—in marriage. A flash of her untying his breeches came into her head. She would take hold of him with her leather-gloved hand and he would throb with need—
“I hope you’l like the afternoon I’ve planned for us.”
“I’m sure I wil .” He could be so thoughtful at times, so considerate of her feelings and her pleasure.
He slowed the horses to a trot and they stopped at the Grecian temple. Chloe began to feel another urge rising up in her. It was the simple urge to pee. It happened to her every time she was out in the middle of nature, it seemed.
When he offered his hand to help her out of the carriage, she cast an eye toward the weathered green dome of the Grecian temple on the hil .
Behind the temple’s fluted columns, a picnic blanket had been laid out and sprinkled with red rose petals.
She reveled in the beauty of the scene. She never wanted to forget it. But one of the horses chose that moment to make a loud farting noise and a wave of the most disgusting-smel ing air rose up around them. Just at the wrong moment, Sebastian whisked his hand away to cover his nose with his arm. “Arrgh,” he muttered, wincing.
Chloe made a move to lean on his hand that suddenly wasn’t there and stumbled out of the carriage. Meanwhile, the horse lifted its tail and dumped on the road. The pile stank and steamed. Both Sebastian and Chloe gagged.
Such were the hazards of driving by horse.
Sebastian escorted her toward the temple. Heavy clouds began to gather in the sky. Chloe needed to go to the bathroom, but didn’t want to leave.
A basket overflowing with dainty sandwiches, buns, and grapes anchored a corner of the picnic blanket. Grapes! And not a mutton leg, cow’s tongue, or pig’s head in sight. A stack of reproduction first-edition Wil iam Cowper and Wordsworth poetry books and a box of charcoal sticks and sketchbooks weighed down another corner.
“Wel , what do you think of what Mr. Wrightman has arranged for you here?” Mrs. Crescent asked. She clasped her hands in obvious satisfaction.
“It’s perfect,” Chloe said, trying not to think about her bladder.
“Lemonade?” Mrs. Crescent asked as she held up a corked bottle.
Chloe leaned in to whisper to her. “I need to dash off to the ladies’ room.”
“You do? How unfortunate. Wel , one never thinks of such a thing out here on a picnic. You’l have to go in the woods—or walk over to Dartworth Hal . And remember, ladies don’t run, even to the ladies’ room.”
“If you wil excuse me, Mr. Wrightman. I need to use the—facilities.” Under her breath she said to him, “Or lack thereof.”
He bowed. “Of course. I recommend Henry’s lab.”
Henry had a lab? As in science lab?
“See it right there?” Sebastian pointed to a little brick building that stood beneath a clump of trees. “It’s a lot closer than Dartworth. And he happens to have one of those newfangled water closets al the way in the back of the building. Don’t be long. I’l be waiting for you.” He popped a grape in his mouth and plopped down on the picnic blanket. “Ugh, my tooth.” He started rubbing his jaw again.
Chloe knocked on the door of the lab, but nobody answered. When she opened the door, light from floor-to-ceiling windows spil ed into the room, shining on a neatly organized wal ful of books. A large telescope on a tripod stood in a window. Wooden plank tables had centerpieces of test tubes in wooden racks, a primitive stethoscope, a camera obscura, and pieces of what looked like a gas lamp. A journal stood open on one of the tables, and next to it a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Everything, every single thing, piqued her curiosity.
It was like a snapshot of the inner workings of Henry’s mind. If only she could get such a glimpse inside Sebastian’s. She spotted the initials WC
on a door in the back and stepped onto what seemed like a back porch. There it was, a sort of wooden toi
let, the first toilet she had sat on in almost two weeks. Who knew that the sight of a toilet could make her so happy?
Chloe was straddling the primitive-looking toilet bowl, hoisting her gown, when suddenly she heard boots clomping on the floorboards in the lab.
“Mr. Wrightman?” She searched for the toilet paper. There wasn’t a basket of rags anywhere either. When someone pushed the door open, she put her hand up to stop the door from opening ful y. “I’m in here!”
Whoever it was pul ed the door shut again. “Miss Parker?”
It was Henry.
“So sorry. I had no idea you were in there!”
“It’s al right, Henry. But—do you have any . . . toilet paper?” she squeaked.
Chloe heard him scrambling, and what sounded like a tin of something fel to the floor. A moment later he handed her a bucket of rags.
Chloe used one of them. Now . . . Another nineteenth-century conundrum. What to do with it? None of this was in her rule book. She couldn’t exactly flush it down whatever this thing was. She pul ed the handle, but it didn’t flush.
“Just bring them out here, Miss Parker. I’l take care of everything.”
Chloe’s head pounded with embarrassment. She creaked the door open.
He held out a cloth sack to her.
Without looking at him, she stuffed the rag in the bucket and he took it outside to a tin trash container.
She fol owed him. What a gentleman to deal with al this! “Um, to make matters worse, the water-closet thingamajig wouldn’t flush.”
“I know! I’ve been working on it every spare minute, and stil haven’t perfected that part of it yet. Here’s a washbowl for your hands.” He guided her toward an outdoor washbasin and handed her a large bal of what she recognized as very good soap. He wasn’t wearing a riding jacket, his waistcoat was unbuttoned, his cravat untied, and his shirt, a pul over white muslin with a long V neck, hung open. His hair was disheveled.
“Thank you for helping out a damsel in distress.” He had a delicious scent about him, an aroma of oil paints and turpentine, something only an arty girl would know and love.
“You’re welcome. I hope you’l excuse my appearance,” he said as he raked his fingers through his hair. “I just came from doing some painting in the field.”
“Hmm,” she said out loud. “I—I mean, hmm, your lab looks interesting.” She peeked back into the building. “But I have to get back to my chaperone and your brother.”
“Of course.”
“Speaking of which, do you have something other than cloves for a toothache? Your brother’s in a lot of pain.”
He eyebal ed a row of bottles from the doorway.
“He keeps rubbing his jaw.”
Henry stepped into the lab, then returned with a tiny bottle in his hand, containing a scant amount of liquid. “Two drops of this, mixed with a non-alcoholic drink, should help. But no more than two drops. It’s laudanum, and it’s powerful.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wrightman. I’m much obliged!” She took a few steps backward, turned toward the hil , and squirreled the laudanum in her reticule.
“Why don’t we have a water closet like that at Bridesbridge?”
“The Bramah water closet? Chiefly because I haven’t figured out how to make it flush yet. As soon as it’s ready, I’l have one instal ed at Bridesbridge. It’s taken me this long to work it out. Along with the shower.”
“Did you say ‘shower’?” She stopped.
“I didn’t realize that the subject of plumbing would cause you so much excitement. Have a wonderful time with Sebastian.” He bowed.
Chloe curtsied.
She must’ve lost almost twenty minutes of her time with Sebastian by now. The breeze picked up, and then, BANG! A gun went off in the field behind her. She froze, her ears ringing and her heart pounding with shock. Turning and squinting, she caught sight of Grace, who was within shouting distance. She was practicing with her revolver and target. Damn her! Chloe stomped toward her, then stopped. Wait. That was exactly what Grace wanted her to do, to waste her alone time with Sebastian arguing with her about gunshots. Chloe spun around and made a dash for the Grecian temple, where Sebastian had dozed off and Mrs. Crescent was munching contentedly on a cucumber sandwich while reading a book.
“A lady never runs, Miss Parker. How many times do I have to remind you?” Mrs. Crescent said. “Sandwich?” Fifi wagged his tail as he chomped on a miniature mince pie.
“No, thank you.” Chloe was too discombobulated to eat.
Just then, Sebastian, who was lying on the picnic blanket, propped himself up with his elbows. His jaw looked a little swol en. “Final y. You’re back. I missed you.” He stared at her without flinching.
It was as if she could dive into his eyes and float. She flashed him a smile. How was it he always knew what to say and do to make her feel like—
wel —a hundred thousand dol ars?
She wanted to tel him about the laudanum, but that would bring up the impropriety of her having been with Henry unchaperoned. Hoping he’d forget about his toothache so they could get on with this date already, she decided to just spike Sebastian’s lemonade with the stuff and be done with it. This proved easy enough to do. Sebastian had closed his eyes to sunbathe and Mrs. Crescent was deep into her book.
Chloe turned her back to the cameras. The size of the “drops” she was supposed to add to the lemonade, however, was clearly open to interpretation. She slipped two rather smal ish ones into his drink, not wanting to give him too much. Then she read a Cowper poem to him aloud, the verse punctuated by gunshots, until he finished his lemonade.
Plucking a blade of grass to use as a bookmark, she asked him, “What did you think of that poem?”
He rubbed his jaw, contemplating his response. “I must confess. I was paying more attention to you than to the poem. I couldn’t take my eyes off you, and I guess my mind started wandering.”
Chloe looked at Mrs. Crescent, who winked and stuffed a Bath bun into her mouth. Off in the distance, she saw Henry walk out of the lab, mount his horse, and gal op off toward Dartworth. A cool breeze fluttered the corners of the picnic blanket.
Chloe picked up a sketchbook and charcoal sticks. She wanted to sketch Sebastian—his tousled black hair, his dark eyes and chin with that perfect little cleft in the middle. But a lady would never be so bold. She worked on a beech tree in the distance instead.
“Mr. Wrightman,” Mrs. Crescent said as she handed Sebastian a second sketchbook. “I’d like to see you do a portrait of Miss Parker. I know one of your pastimes is sketching.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Sebastian sat up, placed the sketchbook down in his lap, took a sidelong glance at Chloe, and immediately put his hand on his jaw. “Ugh. This tooth is kil ing me.” He rubbed his jaw again. “And these cloves aren’t helping.” He tossed them over his shoulder.
Chloe hoped the laudanum would kick in soon.
Mrs. Crescent took a sandwich from the basket and looked up at the darkening sky.
BAM! BAM! Two shots in a row got Sebastian’s attention, and he put down his blank sketchbook to stand and make sure everything was al right in Graceland. And of course it was.
“I truly don’t know how you tolerate her, Miss Parker.” He sat back down. “Is she always like this?”
She smiled, because a lady would never articulate what was swirling around in her brain after a comment like that. She had to bite her lip to keep herself from saying exactly what she thought of her competitor.
He began rubbing his jaw again.
Chloe closed her sketchbook. “Mr. Wrightman, I do believe I’l go for a turn around the hil ,” she said.
“May I escort you?” He stood and straightened his cravat.
“Please do,” Chloe said. She disappeared behind a fluted column and stepped into a grassy patch that was covered with orange and red poppies.
BAM! Another gunshot rang out.
The cameraman fol owed them, but Mrs. Crescent star
ted talking to the camera, apparently with the goal of furthering Chloe’s cause of getting Sebastian alone. The cameraman stayed with the chaperone for quite a while.
A ring-necked pheasant landed on a rock in front of them. Chloe stopped to watch it.
“What a beauty,” Sebastian said as he eyed the bird.
A wave of warmth came over her.
“I can’t wait until hunting season!” What? He pretended to hold a gun and shot at the bird.
The pheasant flew away.
“Excuse me?” Chloe’s hands shook, along with, for a moment, her resolution. She thought he was an ornithologist!
“I’m kidding, real y. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
It was, no doubt, the laudanum, and that was, without a doubt, al Chloe’s fault.
When they reached the grotto, she looked back toward the Grecian temple, but she couldn’t real y see it that wel . It was fuzzy. She did need glasses! But it couldn’t have been that far away. She wasn’t al owed to be out of Mrs. Crescent’s line of sight, although she was the most forgiving of chaperones when it came to anything to do with Sebastian. The breeze felt cooler now, and almost damp.
“Let’s give the cameraman the slip,” Sebastian said as he took her hand and led her into a thicket of trees, then through an opening in a huge hol ow oak tree. He jumped down a giant hole and landed just under the tree roots. “Fol ow me down the rabbit hole, here.” He held out his arms.
“That’s not a rabbit hole,” Chloe said as she peered down at him.
He laughed. “Of course it isn’t. It’s a secret entryway to the grotto. Come on.” He held his arms out and she slid down into them. The red poppies she had picked scattered at their feet.
For a moment they stood there, pressed up against each other in the grotto, listening to the water from the reflecting pond lap against the rocks.
He slid the bonnet off her head and his hand traced her spine, then moved down to her thighs. His touch sent tingles up and down her.
Definitely Not Mr. Darcy Page 25