Definitely Not Mr. Darcy (14 page)

Chloe's brows furrowed. “But I opened all the doors—”

“My door was locked,” Miss Wells said.

Chloe could see that Imogene was using one of Sebastian's calling cards as a bookmark. A corner of the card was folded down, and that meant he'd come calling for her in person, instead of sending a messenger.

“During
that
time of month, a woman must be confined to her room. There is no other way to manage.”

Chloe tried to do the math. When was she supposed to get her period?! Not anytime soon, she figured. Imogene brought the count up to eight women duking it out for Sebastian. Chloe put her hands on her hips. “Mrs. Crescent, are there any more beautiful single women locked up in this house—perhaps in the attic?”

Fifi, by some gymnastic feat, managed to jump into what was left of Mrs. Crescent's pregnant lap. “You two ladies have common ground,” said Mrs. Crescent. “You both like to paint.”

“I'm so glad to be back,” Imogene said. “My time here at Bridesbridge means so very much to me.”

At that moment the rest of the women and their chaperones spilled into the parlor, chatting and laughing. Chloe looked Mrs. Crescent in the eye, careful to couch this properly for the cameras. “It seems most unfair—eight unattached ladies and only one eligible gentleman.”

Mrs. Crescent patted Fifi. “You may not be aware, Miss Parker, that here in England, and London in particular, many women find themselves without homes, without husbands, and very poor. We're experiencing a great shortage of men at the moment. Some of our men are away in the West Indies seeking their fortunes. Others are at war on the Continent, or in America, many of them getting killed in combat, it's most unfortunate.”

Chloe'd never given much thought to this dark side of the glittering Regency.

Fiona, who had been arranging lemonade and buns on the sideboard, dropped a plate on the floorboards and it shattered. The hum of women chatting stopped, and everyone turned to Fiona, who looked ready to cry.

Chloe popped up to help, but Mrs. Crescent grabbed her by the elbow. In no time several servants appeared to sweep up the china shards, but Fiona had disappeared.

Mrs. Crescent shot Chloe a look, but Chloe went after Fiona just the same, and a camerawoman followed her. Chloe found Fiona in the hall, leaning up against the floral wallpaper.

“Fiona, what is it? You can tell me. You know a secret about me. Whatever your problem is, maybe I can help you. Are they working you too hard? Are you getting enough to eat?”

“It's not that. You can't help.” Fiona hid her hands in her apron.

Chloe leaned forward and gave her a hug. Fiona sobbed on her shoulder like Abigail would after a bad day at school.

“It's my fiancé. He's stationed in the Middle East.”

Chloe hugged Fiona tighter and rubbed her back. Now she understood why Fiona got so emotional anytime the Napoleonic Wars were mentioned.

“I thought this would be a distraction for me until he's back.” Her whole body shook with crying.

“When does he come home?” Chloe asked.

“September.”

Fiona was right, Chloe couldn't help, but she could offer her support and a shoulder to cry on, at the very least.

Fifi tugged at Chloe's hemline. Mrs. Crescent stood at the doorway, hands on her hips. “Miss Parker! Get back into the parlor immediately.”

Fiona wriggled away and dashed down the hall.

Mrs. Crescent and Chloe knew she shouldn't have been caring about, much less hugging, a servant. Chloe decided to help Fiona out as much as possible by doing little things like making her own bed and such. When she stepped into the parlor, the women stopped talking and stared at her, except for Imogene, who smiled.

Grace tapped a bronze telescope in the palm of her hand. She held it up to her eye and extended it toward the window. “Finally. The messenger's here.”

Imogene slid over on the neoclassical bench and patted the empty space for Chloe to sit. When Imogene closed her book and set it on the bench, Chloe picked it up. It was a leather-bound edition of
Sense and Sensibility, Volume I
. At last, a true Austen fan.

“Would you like to read it when I'm done?” Imogene asked.

“I'd love to. For the fourth time.” Chloe smiled.

“It's my third, and I discover something new every time.”

A footman knocked at the door. “Invitation from Dartworth Hall.” He bowed and presented the butler with the now-familiar creamy envelope closed with a red wax seal.

Chloe didn't expect this invitation would be for her either. She watched as the butler cut the envelope open with a bronze letter opener and read the invitation aloud for the cameras:

“‘Dear Mrs. Crescent—'”

Mrs. Crescent winked at Chloe. Fifi wagged his tail.

The butler continued. “‘I would like to invite you and your charge to join me for a brief excursion to see the old castle ruins here on the estate. Perhaps you could be ready to join me in the carriage at half-past ten tomorrow morning? Please apprise my footman of your decision. Yours truly, Mr. Sebastian Wrightman.'”

Mrs. Crescent all but squealed. Chloe had to smile at the prospect of ambling around castle ruins—with Sebastian.

Grace stood with her hands on her hips. “But she hasn't earned twenty-five Accomplishment Points yet. And the castle ruins! Humph!”

The women all turned to look at one another.

Chloe looked at Imogene.

“I'll tell you later,” Imogene whispered.

“Mr. Wrightman is exercising his prerogative to override the Accomplishment Points rule. You may inform Mr. Wrightman,” Mrs. Crescent said to the footman, “that I graciously accept his invitation and my charge and I will be ready.” She pushed herself up from the settee. “Much to do, Miss Parker. We must excuse ourselves—”

“Excuse
me
, Mrs. Crescent,” the butler interrupted. “But there is another envelope here.” The footman handed over another creamy envelope with a red wax seal.

Mrs. Crescent sat down with a huff and Grace stifled a laugh. The butler opened the second envelope, and as he read it aloud, the women sat on the edge of their scroll-armed seats.

“‘Dear Ladies of Bridesbridge Place, you are all cordially invited to dinner at Dartworth Hall tomorrow evening. My carriage will arrive at four o'clock. I very much look forward to the pleasure of your company. Sincerely, Mr. Wrightman.'”

Chloe didn't quite know how to take this news. It seemed to almost cancel out her morning excursion with him.

Which may have been why the edge of Grace's mouth curled into a smile. “You may tell Mr. Wrightman that I accept,” Grace said.

“Surely we all accept, don't we?” Mrs. Crescent looked at the women and their chaperones. Everyone nodded.

As the women fell into discussion, Grace put the telescope on the side table next to Chloe and leaned over. “Prepare yourself for the Invitation Ceremony before dinner tomorrow,” she whispered.

“What?”

“It happens before every formal dinner at Dartworth. Fourteen women have been sent home already. He's very cutthroat. He only keeps a woman here if he can envision her as his future wife. Unless your outing with him goes extremely well, he'll send you right back to the hole you crawled out of.”

T
he gall of that woman,” Chloe whispered to Mrs. Crescent as they took a turn in the rose garden with Chloe's cameraman in front of them.

Mrs. Crescent snapped her fingers. “Gall! That reminds me. We can get ahead on a task right now—your task for day after tomorrow is to make your own ink.”

“And the connection to gall is—?” Chloe did her best to navigate her chaperone's thought patterns, but there didn't seem to be a pattern she could discern yet.

“Galls. Oak apples?”

Chloe was truly lost now.

“You know the globular growths underneath oak leaves? You'd do well to spend this time collecting them, as they contain gallic acid, the tannins needed for the ink recipe. There's a ladder, should you need it, but you might be able to find them on the ground over there.” She pointed to a cluster of trees just beyond the formal gardens. “I'm afraid I must get out of this heat and put my feet up. Please, Miss Parker, don't go beyond the oak trees. Gather five or six galls and report back to me, without any tarrying. I shan't expect you to be long!”

Chloe nodded, happy to get ahead in a task, to break away from Grace for a while, and thrilled to be making her own ink! The cameraman followed her as she bounded, in her day gown and half boots, toward the trees.

She found a few oak branches on the ground, but only discovered four galls. Propping the wooden ladder against a sturdy tree trunk, she climbed up in her flimsy-soled boots. When she looked down at the cameraman, she saw he'd set his video cam down and was talking on his cell in the kitchen garden!

As she reached for the galls she'd spotted, she realized that, already, she was thinking less and less frequently about the prize money, and worse, didn't think as often about Abigail. What was happening to her? Her head swirled with thoughts of an excursion with Sebastian.

Then, as if she'd conjured him, he appeared on horseback, riding toward her, or more accurately, toward Bridesbridge Place. From her vantage point on the ladder, she had a bird's-eye view of him, in his dark hat, broad-shouldered black cutaway coat, and ruffled cravat, breeches, and riding boots.

He did look the part of a Jane Austen hero on horseback. The pounding of the hooves seemed to move the earth beneath her and she steadied herself on the ladder, wondering whether she should climb down or just stay here and Watch. Him. Ride. His. Horse.

Before she knew it, he reared up his horse right below her, because the horse would've crushed the video cam otherwise.

The horse neighed, and she froze as Sebastian looked around for the cameraman and then spotted her on the ladder.

He tipped his hat and, gentleman that he was, made no comment about her so obviously ogling him from her perch.

Chloe realized this was probably not the most flattering of ways to be seen—with her butt hovering above him, but she found herself unable to move. The galls slipped out of her hand and tumbled to the ground.

He dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby tree. “I see your cameraman has disappeared, and I've outrun mine for the moment.”

He picked up the galls from the ground and stared at them in his hand. “Whatever are you picking here, Miss Parker?”

A real gentleman obviously didn't have to make his own ink.

Looking at him from above, she couldn't help but notice a bulge in his buckskin breeches, and a thought rang through her head:
Balls
. Where was all this coming from?! Why couldn't she just focus on winning money? Luckily, she didn't say it. “Galls. For making ink.”

He offered his hand to help her down.

She hesitated.

“The cameramen aren't here, it's quite all right. I know we haven't been formally introduced, but please, let's take this opportunity. I want to know everything about you—everything.”

She took his gloved hand, and when she stepped onto the ground, he didn't let go. He just looked at her, taking her in.

He had a woodsy aroma about him, but that could've been the trees they were standing under.

Heat radiated between their hands, although it was summer, and they were both wearing gloves.

“You came all this way, from America, and you're like a breath of fresh air. I so look forward to getting to know you. I debated for a long while over what we should do on our outing tomorrow. We both love art, and for a while I thought perhaps showing you the galleries at Dartworth Hall would be best, but you'll enjoy the castle ruins on a gorgeous summer day more, I'm sure.”

He still held on to her hand and Chloe wanted to hold on to this image of him, in the dappled late-afternoon light, so intently focused on her. She looked over both her shoulder and his, afraid a cameraman would capture them.

“You're right to be on the lookout, Miss Parker, because even though your cameraman appears to be gone, mine will be here any second, the scoundrel.” He made a slight bow. “Until tomorrow. If I could've managed our excursion any sooner, I would have. I just want you to know that.”

Normally so talkative and quick, Chloe found herself unable to say anything. But then again, she wasn't to speak to him until formally introduced.

He stepped closer, and the woodsy aroma turned out to be him after all.

“You have a beautiful face.” His dark eyes moved toward her heaving bosom, set off in her square-cut neckline. “Your profile intrigues me. I should like to capture your silhouette.”