Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

by Karen Doornebos

  And this little history lesson would’ve been interesting if Chloe weren’t wondering when Sebastian would show up. She pushed the wooden doors back open and Henry dropped his arm, his lantern fal ing to his side.

  He cleared his throat. “Sorry to bore you—”

  “No—no—you’re not boring me. Not at al ! It’s just—”

  “Al ow me to escort you back to Bridesbridge.” He held the doors open for her, then locked them behind her and slipped the keys back in his greatcoat pocket. He untied his horse and walked him over to her. “Let me help you up on the horse.” He bent down and laced his fingers together, offering her a step up. The horse bent his head down, and his mane flopped into his eyes, as if he, too, agreed she should go back.

  But Chloe didn’t step up. “No! I mean—no, thank you.” She curled her fingers around the lantern handle.

  She thought she heard the sound of hooves in the distance. The fire barely glowed now. Henry bent to pick up his lantern and held it up to the dark forest. He heard a horse, too. He mounted his horse and looked down on Chloe. “You’re meeting Sebastian here, aren’t you?”

  A breeze rippled around her. She looked into the orange-and-black embers of the fire. She had to think of Abigail and Wil iam.

  “Why didn’t you tel me?”

  The hooves sounded close now. A lantern bounced behind the trees.

  Henry yanked the reins on his horse, turned him, and looked back over his shoulder, bowing his head, his eyes looking past her, at the ice-house.

  “I bid you farewel .”

  She licked her lips to speak, but his horse spun, its tail swished as if Chloe were a fly that needed brushing away, and the horse carved up clods of mud as he gal oped off. Henry was gone— poof—into the blue moonlit darkness.

  Much as she wanted Henry, she couldn’t have him! She was meant to have Sebastian.

  She pressed her back against the cool wooden ice-house doors and goose bumps raced up and down her arms. In one fel swoop, Sebastian entered her circle of flickering lantern light, dismounted, tied up his horse, approached her fast and sure. He cupped her face in his warm hands, but she turned away.

  “What is it?”

  It was only everything. But she did have something to hang her bonnet on. “It’s Fiona. Is there something going on between you and Fiona?”

  Sebastian laughed. “She’s only a kid. I think she has a little crush on me. I just danced with her. That’s al .”

  “That’s not al .”

  “So I flirt with her a little bit every now and then. I could say the same—or more—about you and Henry.”

  Touché. She didn’t want to blow this chance with him, and a squiggly smile skirted across her lips.

  “I’m so glad you joined me here.” He kissed her, and kept one hand on her neck while another hand expertly reached down—into his pocket for keys.

  His mouth tasted like hard liquor. A flickering of tongue, a clinking of keys, and she practical y fel backward into the ice-house. Her reticule and fan fel to the brick floor.

  He ringed her waist, steadied her, and set her down so gently, so gal antly—on an ice block covered in straw. A chil penetrated her thin silk pelisse and gown and her butt went numb.

  “This is so hot,” Sebastian whispered into her ear as he dug in his pocket for something. “Isn’t this hot?”

  Chloe nodded, feeling rather chil ed. How naive of her to think he would propose. She looked up at the laced brickwork, remembering Henry’s strong fingers laced together. Mostly she remembered the look on his face when he realized she wouldn’t be going back to the bal with him. She winced.

  Sebastian’s fingers glided down her stocking and he slid her gown up to her thighs. And it would’ve been hot if it weren’t so damn cold! His other hand slipped out of his pocket, and in the faint lantern light, Chloe caught a glint of silver, heard a click, and a knife blade flashed dreadful y near her neck.

  She sprang up and catapulted toward the doors. He beat her to them, barricading them with his wide shoulders.

  She froze. She already was frozen, but she froze some more.

  He smiled. “It’s just my penknife.” He held the knife in the palm of his hand and it did look smal , now.

  Chloe stepped back until her calves hit the block of ice. She grabbed her elbows, pul ing her pelisse in around her.

  “Relax.” He spoke and his voice was as soothing as cough drops. “I have a great idea. You’re going to love it.”

  She leaned on the ice block, clenched her fists, and wondered how far this would go. No matter how attractive Sebastian was, and how he held everything she wanted and needed in the palm of his hand, she felt as if she were forcing herself. Danger, too, rippled through the air.

  Sebastian edged in next to her and massaged her neck with one hand. She had to admit, it felt good. He chipped off a piece of ice with the knife in his other hand. He flung the knife to the door, where it stuck like a dart.

  “Bul ’s-eye!” He looked at her with smiling dark eyes and she could see the little boy in him. Playful, but playing with things he shouldn’t have been, like knives.

  “Now, where were we?” He turned her face toward him with a brush of his finger along her cheek. The piece of ice dripped in his hand.

  What was she so afraid of?

  He traced her jawline down to her neck with the ice. He licked his lower lip, glided the ice along the crescent moons of her breasts, which peered out from her bodice. Her nipples hardened and she began to grow warm.

  He kissed away the melted ice in her cleavage. He slipped off her pelisse. Puh-lease. He was smooth, she had to grant him that.

  She melted. She combed his tussled hair with her fingers. With every lick of his lips, her breath grew shorter, shal ower.

  He was adept at unbuttoning her gown, unlacing her stays.

  She untied his cravat, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and feverishly untied his breeches.

  The drop-front pants took her by surprise. She didn’t realize Regency men didn’t wear underwear.

  She was horizontal on the ice block. Drip, drip, drip . . . the melting ice trickled down a drain somewhere in the darkness.

  Her shoulder blades stung from the ice. She propped herself up on her elbows.

  “Wait a minute.” She pressed her hands into his muslin shirt and felt the throbbing of his heart, or at least the bulging of his pecs.

  “I have protection,” he said.

  “I hope it’s not made of sheep’s gut.”

  He looked confused. Very confused.

  “You knew Regency condoms were made out of sheep gut or fish membrane, didn’t you?”

  He shook his head. “No. I real y don’t care—” He slid her gown higher up.

  The bricks. The straw. The ice! What kind of a sadist would’ve picked a place like this for a tryst, anyway?

  “This just isn’t right. I can’t do this. A Regency lady would never find herself in this position.” She looked him straight in the eye.

  His hands gave up on her back laces and he looked hurt. “What position?”

  “The horizontal one.” She pul ed herself up to sitting and straightened her stays. “In an ice-house. Like a common trol op.”

  He tenderly leaned over and devoured her with a kiss that could make a trol op forget everything—almost everything.

  He whispered just under her earlobe. “You’re so excited you’ve got gooseflesh.”

  “They’re goose bumps. And I’ve got them because I’m freezing. Now stop!” She pressed her hands against his shoulders and stood up. The laced brickwork closed in on her. It smel ed like dank dog. “This is not how it’s supposed to go.” She picked up the lantern.

  He yanked his shirt down over his rapidly shrinking shaft. Stil , he managed to look somehow manly in his long white shirt, bare legs, and riding boots. “How what’s supposed to go?”

  “You. This. Everything.” She thrust her arm up at the arched brick ceiling and paced the cold brick floo
r in her boots. She felt her torn gown bil ow behind her; the lantern swung and tossed light randomly around the dark brick like broken glass.

  “Wait!” he said just as she aimed for the doors.

  He was down on bended bare knee, his shirt, and everything else—dangling. He stretched out a hand toward her.

  She stopped, set the lantern down, took his hand, and put her other hand on her hip. “This better be good.”

  He kissed her hand as if it were about to disappear forever and looked up at her.

  Something as warm as oil burning in a lantern came over her.

  “Miss Parker, wil you marry me?”

  “What?” She laughed and one of the ice-house doors swung open with a breeze, sending in a pool of moonlight.

  “Don’t laugh.”

  She bit her lip.

  He pul ed her closer, taking both of her hands. “I do believe I’ve fal en in love with you. I don’t know why I haven’t asked you sooner. Wil you marry me? It’l be the perfect ending. The perfect television ending to our real-life beginning.”

  A white gown, flashbulbs flashing, and a carriage festooned with white flowers paraded around in her brain. Did the Regency Anglican church al ow divorced mothers to wear white?

  He pul ed her closer, leaned his head in toward her hips, and wrapped his arms around the smal of her back. “You don’t have to answer right away. Just let me know you’l think about it.”

  “I wil . Think about it.” She thought about Abigail, the money, her business, Wil iam.

  His knee must’ve been frozen.

  He kissed her hip bone, moving slowly across her pelvis, where she felt the warmth of his lips through her crepe-thin gown to the other hip bone, and a tingling like she hadn’t felt in years sparked al over her. She lifted off his shirt and laid it on the ice block where he flopped down. He pul ed her on top of him.

  “Say yes,” he murmured as his fingers worked the buttons on the back of her gown. “Say yes.”

  She closed her eyes. She’d gone from something close to a governess to a temptress in a moment’s time, and he’d taken her there. “Yes.” She closed her eyes and kissed him with hungry lips and tongue. “Yes!”

  And she would’ve said yes again, but he ripped her bodice open and a lantern appeared at the ice-house doors.

  She almost fel off him. What if it was Henry?!

  “Excuse me, sir—Mr. Wrightman!” Thank God it was just Sebastian’s footman who shone the lantern on them. Sebastian palmed her breasts to cover them as the lantern light swung away.

  “Oh—so sorry—ehm—sir.”

  “That wil be al , Smith. Thank you.”

  Henry cal ed al his servants “Mr.” or “Miss” and then their surname.

  “It’s Mrs. Crescent, sir.” Mr. Smith turned around and spoke toward the forest.

  Chloe tucked her breasts back into her torn bodice, buttoned up her pelisse, and swung her leg off Sebastian for the dismount.

  “She’s having her baby, sir,” Mr. Smith said.

  Chloe turned toward the footman. The shadow of his ponytail and wig appeared in the moonlight at the door.

  Sebastian propped himself up on his elbow and grabbed Chloe with his other hand just as she moved toward the doors. “This is of no concern to me. Now be gone.”

  “Yes, sir.” The footman bowed his head and closed the ice-house doors.

  “Mr. Smith! Wait!” Chloe smoothed down her pelisse and tossed Sebastian’s breeches over his midsection. “Is it true? Is she real y having the baby right now?” She tugged a boot on.

  “Yes.” Mr. Smith looked away, into the moonlight, confused about the question. “Of course. I heard her myself from downstairs. She sounds in terrible pain.”

  Chloe lunged toward the door, but Sebastian grabbed her arm and snapped her back.

  “Ouch!” Her arm smarted.

  Chapter 20

  B e gone, Smith!” Sebastian sat up on the ice block and yanked his breeches on with one hand and clamped Chloe’s arm with the other.

  He sneered. “How the devil did he know we were here anyway?”

  Chloe turned toward the laced brickwork around the ice-house doors, and tried to wriggle her arm free.

  She had total y messed up everything. Her fan splayed across the brick floor. Her yel ow-tasseled reticule, flung near an ice block on the other side of the lantern, sat in a pool of melting ice. The outline of Henry’s glasses showed through the silk.

  She couldn’t see much beyond Sebastian’s lantern, but heard Mr. Smith’s horse gal op off. His lantern bounced away like Tinker Bel disappearing into the night.

  Sebastian final y released her arm, combed his hand through his disheveled hair, and took up the lantern. “I didn’t want the hired help to know you’ve been alone with me. You understand, right? I didn’t want to compromise your reputation. You’d get booted off the show. Or we’d be forced to marry. But then you had to—talk to him.” He threw his arms up in the air, Italian style.

  “Right.” Chloe tightened her pelisse around her like a second skin. Hypothermia set in. “I need to go.” She shivered uncontrol ably and picked up her fan and her soaked reticule.

  A real gentleman would’ve never strong-armed a lady. Then again a real lady would’ve never found herself in an ice house at midnight with Sebastian the bodice ripper. What was she thinking? He only had one proposal in mind, and that didn’t involve any kind of church ceremony. Is that al he wanted from her? Sex? Is that why he always seemed to say exactly what she wanted to hear?

  She stepped into the moonlight. The sudden brightness made her squint. With a clink of the keys, Sebastian locked the ice-house doors behind them. “I’l escort you back.”

  He was hot, he was cold. He could be decent. He could be an ass. But he wasn’t the one.

  “Did you real y mean it when you said you had fal en in love with me?” Chloe asked.

  “I think so. But this has al been very difficult for me—”

  That was al Chloe needed to hear. George must’ve written up Sebastian’s bio, because the man described as Sebastian Wrightman was not this Sebastian Wrightman. She’d thought this whole thing was real, and that’s where she had gone wrong. She was channeling Mr. Darcy when she should’ve been paying more attention to what was right in front of her.

  He helped her up onto his horse. In silence, he led the horse toward Bridesbridge Place. She looked up at the moon as the horse loped beneath her. She had just narrowly escaped, and she had the ful moon to thank for inducing Mrs. Crescent’s baby.

  When the moon was ful in England, was it ful at home, too? Chloe wondered. Abigail loved the ful moon. Chloe used to be Abigail’s moon, orbiting around her day and night, year after year, never faltering. Now? Now she didn’t think she could ever fal happily back into that eternal el iptical path without feeling alone and cold. Stil , the moon cal ed her home like a force stronger than gravity.

  On their way to Bridesbridge, they passed the castle ruins. In the moonlight, Chloe could see how the castle had been pummeled by cannonbal s.

  She could see the holes in the wal s so clearly now. Why hadn’t she seen them before?

  Stil , she had to win the money. Otherwise it wouldn’t have been worth it to leave Abigail.

  What was going to happen now that they got caught with Sebastian’s breeches down?

  At the bottom of the stairs at Bridesbridge Place, she buttoned her pelisse up to her neck. A candelabrum dripped on the griffin-footed table near the banister. A sudden howl from Mrs. Crescent rang out, and it echoed throughout the foyer. Waves of fear and memory crashed through Chloe.

  She’d never forget that peppermint-green birthing room, the thirst, the pain, the joy of childbirth. Slowly, she slunk up the steps, candelabrum dripping in the one hand, reticule and fan drooping in the other.

  How could Mrs. Crescent have a baby here? Without electricity? Without phones? Without relaxation music? And—why?

  It was almost as crazy as thinking you
could find true love on a TV show.

  The closer Chloe got to Mrs. Crescent’s room, the more intense the breathing sound became. Chloe had to change her gown. What did a lady wear to a birthing room, anyway? She tiptoed past Mrs. Crescent’s half-opened door.

  “Miss Parker!” Nothing escaped Mrs. Crescent, even when she was giving birth. “Come here immediately! Owww! ”

  Henry’s low voice, like water over river rocks, calmed and comforted Mrs. Crescent . . . and Chloe. She inched the door open. Mrs. Crescent groaned in pain. Chloe couldn’t bear to look at the birthing bed—just yet. Instead she focused on their shadows, larger than life on the blue wal .

  Henry’s shadow, Mrs. Crescent’s shadow, and—the camerawoman’s shadow al flickered in the candlelight like a pantomime play. Would this surreal night never end? And did this, too, need to be filmed?

  Mrs. Crescent’s shadow rocked back and forth, her knees up, her hair down and scraggly. Chloe squeezed her eyes shut and buried her nose in the silky sleeve of her pelisse. She might need her vinaigrette. She set the candelabrum on the dressing table.

  Henry’s shadow reached out and massaged Mrs. Crescent’s back. “Push. Gentle now. We’re almost there. One, two, three. Right. Stop pushing.

  Breathe. Excel ent.”

  His shadow turned toward Chloe and bent to check his pocket watch. “How kind of the lady to pul herself away from her diversions to help us.”

  “It was hardly a diversion. It was enlightening. And I would’ve been better off here.” Chloe stil couldn’t look at either of them. She curled her upper lip and talked to Henry’s shadow on the wal . Mrs. Crescent grumbled in pain.

  Nothing else might have been real, but this was. Chloe pul ed off her gloves, rol ed up her sleeves, and looked down at her hands.

  “Scrub up, Miss Parker!” Henry nodded toward a washbowl across the room.

  Henry wore a bil owing shirt with the sleeves rol ed up and the col ar open. A slight tension pul ed the shirt across his broad chest and she could see the curve of his muscles. With his cutaway coat off, his tight drop-front breeches revealed a body more enticing than Sebastian’s, if that was even possible. But she was done with men in ruffled shirts and breeches, wasn’t she?