Definitely Not Mr. Darcy (11 page)

Fiona smiled and pinned up stray strands of Chloe's hair. She didn't bring the brandy.

But Fiona could provide answers, Chloe thought. “Fiona, I saw a man from the window—dressed in gentleman's clothes—with dark hair and a white horse. Do you know who he is?” She knew better than to ask about him by name, as that would indicate she'd met him inappropriately.

Fiona pulled a thin yellow ribbon from the dressing-table drawer. “That would be Mr. Wrightman.”

“No, it wasn't Mr. Wrightman. It was someone else. With dark hair. Tall?”

Fiona cracked a smile. “Oh, it
is
confusing. There are two Mr. Wrightmans. They're brothers.” She wove the ribbon through Chloe's hair.

“Brothers?” Chloe slid her tiara out of her reticule. The tiara was broken. Cut in half! Chloe gasped. It must've happened when the carriage tipped over.

Fiona examined the tiara. “I'm so sorry, miss. You'll need a good silversmith to fix it. Mr. Henry Wrightman does a right good job of fixing things.”

Chloe tried to piece it together, to see if anything was missing. In eight years it would be Abigail's. “I can't have someone around here fix it.” She put it down gently on the vanity. It looked like a broken heart.

“Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, miss, I can have it sent to Mr. Henry Wrightman. He's quite talented in that way.”

“Henry. Is he the one who—who almost bled me with leeches?”

Fiona nodded her head yes. “Yes, but—”

“If he's one of the brothers, then who's the other one?”

Fiona continued to braid the ribbon through Chloe's hair. “Sebastian, but you haven't met him yet, miss. He's dark-haired, and rides a white horse. He stands to inherit the estate, as the eldest of the two. Mr. Henry Wrightman, the blond, with glasses? He must marry money, as he's the younger brother and will inherit very little.”

Chloe shot up, half the ribbon dangling down her back, and snatched both halves of the tiara in hand. Fabulous. Not only had her crown broken, but she switched up the brothers and totally insulted Sebastian, the man whom she needed to propose to her in less than three weeks. Worse, she couldn't e-mail or call him to apologize and she couldn't write him a letter either, because a couple had to be engaged to do that.

She stomped toward the drawing room and a footman opened the double doors for her. For a moment she lost some of her huff. She wasn't used to footmen opening doors for her.

And the drawing room, with its two-story ceiling, scrolled-arm Grecian couches, and window treatments more elaborate than the train of a wedding dress, helped her remember her heiressness, as did the cameraman behind the pianoforte.

Mrs. Crescent, who was playing whist with another woman in a white cap at the game table near the fireplace, homed right in on Chloe's dangling ribbon and broken tiara. “Where have you been, dear? You cannot go ambling about outdoors without my consent.”

Just as Chloe gathered the composure to speak without yelling, a bell rang. Mrs. Crescent and her cardplaying companion stood and hurried toward the double doors. Everybody knew what it meant except her.

“That's the dressing bell,” Mrs. Crescent said. “Time to get dressed for the evening.”

She'd just
gotten
dressed. Fifi wagged his tail at her.

Chloe sidestepped away from the pugly thing, setting her halved tiara on the game table next to the queen of hearts. “Excuse me, Mrs. Crescent. My diamond tiara broke in the carriage ‘accident,' and oh, by the way, why didn't you tell me that Henry's the wrong Mr. Wrightman? That Sebastian's the right Mr. Wrightman?” Fifi rubbed up against her leg and she gently pushed him away with her foot.

Mrs. Crescent stood to tuck the dangling ribbon into Chloe's hair. “My dear, I thought you knew Henry was the younger brother.”

It turned out that Mrs. Crescent was very forgetful. She thought she'd told Chloe there were two Wrightman brothers while she was giving her the tour of Bridesbridge.

 

 

W
inthrop would forget to tell her things, too, after Abigail was born. He'd forget to tell her little things like “I'm working late tonight” and big things like “I canceled our vacation because something came up at work.” After that big argument, he suggested she check her e-mail more than once a week and he began sending her e-mails about the big, the little, and everything in between. Chloe agreed. She didn't realize that he'd never call her from work anymore, he'd just e-mail. Or CC or forward her own e-mails. Which would've been fine during work hours, but since he was a workaholic, she'd get an eight o'clock e-mail instead of an eight o'clock phone call. When he was on the road and Abigail was older, he would send Abby e-mails, too. He was in Hong Kong on business for a week and that was when Chloe forgot. She forgot what his voice sounded like.

 

 

O
f course Henry's not
the
Mr. Wrightman. You're not ready to meet
him
yet,” Mrs. Crescent said to Chloe.

If she only knew.

“You need to be groomed to meet a man of his caliber.” She stood back and eyed Chloe from head to toe. “We'll need to smooth off the rough edges.”

Chloe folded her arms and smirked. She was so thrilled that Sebastian was the real Mr. Wrightman, not even that remark could bring her down.

“Still, Fifi and I are so glad to see you so passionate about Mr. Sebastian Wrightman. That means you'll want to win!”

“Oh, I want to win, all right.”

“Wonderful! We'll start by learning how to mend a pen for five Accomplishment Points.”

“But Mr. Darcy prefers to mend his own pen.”

“Mr. Wrightman, however, may not. One must be prepared.”

A
fter the pen-mending lesson that involved a goose quill, a penknife, and considerable patience, Chloe, from sheer exhaustion, had conked out, missed dinner, and slept right through to the next morning. Still, she earned the five Accomplishment Points for the task. When she woke, she found Henry's handkerchief crumpled under the quilt next to her, and she chucked it into the drawer of her washstand.

Maybe today she could get with the program, the one with Mr. Sebastian Wrightman as the star. She and all the women sat at the table in the robin's-egg-blue breakfast room dressed in their morning gowns. Chloe looked around and determined that she was the oldest, the Anne Elliot of the crowd.

“Ladies . . .” The butler discreetly interrupted the chatter.

The women had been talking about “Mr. Wrightman,” Sebastian, of course. Nobody spoke of Henry. Each girl had some glowing thing or another to say about Sebastian, and they all tried to read between the lines of his actions and discern his feelings for them. From what Chloe had gathered since her arrival, and coupled with the bio she had read back in Chicago, she began to piece together his character.

She knew the type. He was upper-crust, intelligent, and reserved. Proper, but probably a softy underneath, and perhaps in need of a bit of reform, like Mr. Darcy himself. Clearly, he hadn't met the right woman yet, and he might be a tough one to crack, but a fun, smart American woman like herself was up to the task. She couldn't wait to meet him officially and figure him out for herself.

“We have an exciting day lined up for you at Bridesbridge Place,” the butler continued. One camera focused on him while another filmed the women.

Chloe had to smirk at the staginess of this butler-as-host thing. She pushed her cold beef and dry toast around on her plate. The women had been quick and used up what little butter there was while she was still getting her food at the sideboard. Butter proved scarce, as the kitchen maids had to milk the cows and churn it by hand, and Chloe felt for them and all of the staff. But, just like Fiona, most of the staff went home at night. They were, for the most part, Mrs. Crescent told Chloe, aspiring actors, and they couldn't compete for Mr. Wrightman or the prize money, but they got to sleep in their own comfortable beds at night, enjoy the pleasures of plumbing, and eat a decent breakfast.

Chloe made a mental note to come down earlier in the mornings and score some butter. Writing those letters to Abigail and the woman she now knew was Sebastian's and Henry's mother with quill had taken longer than she anticipated and the ink stained her fingers. Of course, she'd left her soap behind at the pond, and she only had room-temperature water to wash with.

Julia, who sat next to her at the table, was bouncing her knee up and down. She seemed an unlikely girl to dress in a gown, though the cap sleeves did show off her biceps. Even her hollow cheeks had muscles that were visible when she chewed.

Grace yawned. “I certainly hope we won't be painting another landscape—outside, of all places.”

Chloe held back a laugh.

The butler cleared his throat. “In preparation for the upcoming archery tournament and the ball, you will be split into two groups to facilitate rotation between the dance mistress and the archery range. One group will consist of three women, and the other group will have four. Your chaperones will join you. But, to graduate from one activity to the next, you must meet certain prerequisites. If you start with archery, you must shoot three bull's-eyes in a row to progress to dancing. If you start with dancing, you must successfully complete a dance selected by our dance mistress.”

Chloe thrilled at the thought of archery and Regency dancing all in one day, for so many reasons, including getting to wear two other gowns in addition to the day dress she had on. Maybe at some point during all this, she'd get to officially meet Sebastian. She didn't even care to drink any more watery tea she was so anxious.

“You'll love them both,” Julia said to her.

“Love both of what?” Chloe asked.

Grace dropped her knife on her plate with a din.

“Dancing and archery. They're both really great exercise.”

The butler smiled for the cameras. “And—I have a letter from Mr. Wrightman.” He paused so the cameras could pan the table for the women's reactions. Chloe might not have had butter for her bread, but the drama was spread on pretty thick, that was for sure.

The butler lifted a creamy envelope from a silver salver and broke the red wax seal with a dramatic flourish. Chloe was, however, suitably impressed with the envelope and picked it up to examine it after he set it on the table. It too had been sealed with a red wax
W
, now broken in half. Fingering the seal, she wondered who might be behind details like this.

Inside her writing desk she had discovered historically correct drawing paper, charcoal, and paints. Did George think of it? Someone on the production crew? Set design? She found the attention to such details enchanting and figured it would have to be a woman or a gay guy. Unless Sebastian himself was responsible. After all, he made the effort to work out as if he were living in the nineteenth century.

“Most likely the invitation will be for you,” Julia said to Chloe. “You're the newest girl, and he probably wants to get to know you.”

Chloe raised her eyebrows . . . and her hopes.

The butler unfolded the letter. “Dear—Lady Grace.” He stopped for a moment while the tableful of women did their Regency best not to react too emotionally one way or the other, but a general sigh was audible. Chloe hadn't prepared herself for the sting of rejection, but then again, Sebastian hadn't even really met her yet.

“Oh,” Julia said.

Kate sneezed.

Grace dabbed the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin, drawing attention to her Botoxy smile. Grace, though very attractive, was definitely not twenty-one. Still, she didn't look like she was facing the big four-O yet either.

The butler continued. “‘Would you, Lady Grace, be inclined to accompany me on a horseback outing this afternoon? Please leave word with my footman. I will be at Bridesbridge at three o'clock to collect you if you are so kind as to accept. Sincerely, Mr. Wrightman.'”

When it was put that way, so eloquently, on paper, Chloe felt a twinge of—jealousy. And not just because of the prize money.

The other women whispered among themselves.

“Tell the footman I accept, of course,” Grace said.

The butler folded the letter before he spoke. “Aside from her ladyship's obvious charms, winning this invitation may have something to do with her high number of Accomplishment Points.” He looked down at Chloe. “And Mr. Wrightman's choice may have been influenced by some . . . peccadilloes of others in the party.”

Chloe remained stoic.

Gillian stood and put a hand on her hip. “I have two hundred and ten Accomplishment Points. I'm sure I'm due for another outing with Mr. Wrightman, too.”