Definitely Not Mr. Darcy (45 page)

“You stole it.”

Chloe sat up straight, pinning her shoulders against the upholstered black leather seat back.

“The night you gave birth to Jemma. I added it to my stockpile.” She folded her arms over her bodice.

“Dear Lord! What are you stockpiling?”

The carriage passed the hollyhocks where she and Henry had caught butterflies. The pink flowers swayed in the breeze.

“I've been stockpiling things that Grace smuggled onto the show to prove that she planted that condom on me, and that although I bent a few rules, she broke so many of them.”

Mrs. Crescent grabbed Chloe by the arm, the same arm that Sebastian had grabbed only a few nights ago. “Listen, dear, we've been over this a thousand times. You were caught. You have to marry him.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It's what would've been done in 1812.”

As soon as those drop-front pants came down, the deal was sealed for Chloe because she got caught by the footman, who told. Grace didn't get caught by anyone—except Chloe.

The carriage, with its wooden wheels, jostled on the crusty road and seemed to punctuate Mrs. Crescent's words. “Be glad he wants to marry you. Not all Regency girls are so lucky. Anyway, it's just for the telly. You're not really marrying him. By hook or by crook, this is what we wanted. We've won!” She clapped her gloved hands joyfully.

But she stopped when, in a clearing alongside the road, she saw cameras filming a throng of servants gathered around a—gallows? A noose swayed, and a girl appeared to be hanging from it. A girl about Abigail's age. Chloe's gloved hands shook. “What—what's going on?” Waves of horror crashed through her.

“It's a hanging. They're hanging that orphan girl.” Then she whispered, “A mock hanging. It's a dummy, not a girl.”

The dummy twisted on the noose in the sunshine and turned toward Chloe, who cringed. “Ugh. That's horrifying. Why?”

“She stole a loaf of bread.”

Chloe didn't mean why did they hang her, but why stage a mock hanging at all. “But—wait. That little girl was hanged for stealing bread?”

Mrs. Crescent nodded.

“That seems a little medieval to me.”

“It's very Regency. Typical Regency.”

“She's just a schoolgirl.”

“Girls don't go to school, you know that.”

Chloe did know. Girls weren't educated. They couldn't go to Oxford or Cambridge. And ladies couldn't choose to work. They had to marry. Chloe looked down at her white reticule. A mock hanging on her mock wedding day. How appropriate. The shadow of the girl as she twisted toward Chloe stayed with her long after they'd passed it. And even though the execution wasn't real, it rattled Chloe to the core.

Regency life was grim for women, very grim, and this, too, had been one of Austen's messages, just not the one Chloe had wanted to acknowledge.

The carriage came to a jarring halt in front of an old limestone church that looked to have come straight out of a fairy tale. Bay-leaf garlands draped the stone gateway to the churchyard. A round rose window adorned the front of the church. A fuzzy figure stood in the doorway, holding open the door for guests. If she would've just worn the glasses Henry made for her, she could've seen it all clearly.

“Anyhoo, it's a beautiful morning for a wedding,” Mrs. Crescent said for the video cam as she looked out of the carriage window at the blue sky frosted with white clouds.

Chloe slumped back in her seat. “Morning. Who gets married in the morning, anyway?”

Mrs. Crescent frowned. “We do, dear, here in the Regent's England. Have I taught you nothing?”

A footman opened the carriage door to hand her out.

“I won't marry him.” She turned to Mrs. Crescent, who, short of breath, stepped out of the carriage with the footman's help. She had left the baby with the nursemaid and her husband and children, all at Bridesbridge Place, so she could be Chloe's matron of honor. Chloe had one and only one bridesmaid: the breast-feeding Mrs. Crescent. The bride herself? A divorced single mom with a child nobody knew about and a tryst everybody knew all about. It was warped.

Together, bride and matron of honor walked under the bay-leaf garland and into the churchyard. Tombstones, old crumbling tombstones, littered the green grass around the little church. Chloe couldn't do this, no matter how fake the ceremony.

“Who dreams of getting married in a white bonnet trimmed with white lace, anyway? I want a tiara, a veil—an engagement ring, for God's sake.” She stuck out her left hand. No ring. Regency couples rarely marked their engagement with a ring, and certainly, this debacle allowed no time for a ring.

A camera swung toward her as her white shoes navigated the cobblestone path to the church door. An older man in knee breeches and a black coat with tails cut a familiar figure at the door. He took off his black top hat, bowed to Chloe, and opened the church door.

Chloe practically tripped over a loose cobblestone. She gripped her nosegay of pink rosebuds tightly. It was her dad.

She stopped. “Dad?!”

“I believe that would be ‘Father,'” he corrected with a smile. “You look beautiful, Princess.” He held out his arms. He came forward, the church door closed behind him, and they hugged as if she were five years old all over again.

“Oh my gosh! How's Abigail? Does she miss me? Is she here?!”

Chloe pulled away. He smelled of too much Ralph Lauren aftershave.

“Of course she misses you. But no, she's not here. She's at Ned's. She's happy to be with her cousins. She's fine. We came for you. Our little princess.”

Chloe sighed. Happy as she was to see him, she wanted to see Abigail more than anyone back home.

He held her hands. “Someone has to give you away. Right?”

Her mother appeared at the door in an appropriate mother-of-the-bride beige silk gown, a color Chloe knew her mom would never willingly wear, topped off with a poke bonnet. The churchyard, tombstones and all, spun around her. She was getting married. All over again. Her parents were mother and father of the bride. All over again. A dummy girl was swinging from a noose. She shuddered.

Her mother gave her a Chanel-lipstick kiss. How they still managed to afford their little luxuries on their reduced income was beyond Chloe. How did they afford to fly over here? “Darling. You look as if you've seen a ghost. And wow. You've lost weight! But really, we're so proud of you, sweetheart.”

“You are?” Chloe linked arms with her dad for support. Did they realize why she was getting married?

Her mother crinkled her nose. “I'm afraid you do need a shower.”

Funny, but Henry had installed a primitive shower at Bridesbridge just yesterday and she'd used it today. But it was hardly a shower, more like a cold sprinkle of water from a bucket for a total of one minute.

Chloe's mom waved her hand in front of her face. “Have you been drinking, Chloe?”

Chloe breathed through her nose.

Her mother leaned in and whispered, “Your betrothed paid for our plane tickets. He's quite the gentleman. He deserves better than to have his bride inebriated at the wedding ceremony.”

Mrs. Crescent made her way up to the church. She cleared her throat. “Ahem. I'm Mrs. Crescent.” She held out her hand and Chloe's father kissed it.

Mrs. Crescent blushed, because, of course, this behavior would've been de rigueur back in the eighteenth century, but in the nineteenth, kissing a woman's hand meant much more. But how was he to know?

Chloe's mother noodled between her husband and Mrs. Crescent, even though there was plenty of room on the landing. “So pleased to meet you. I'm Mrs. Parker.” She extended her hand. “My grandmother was a titled English lady, you know.”

Heat rose from Chloe's chin to her forehead.

Mrs. Crescent seemed unimpressed.

“Perhaps your family knew her. Lady Blackwell?” Mrs. Parker waited a moment. “Lady Anne Blackwell?”

Mrs. Crescent checked her chatelaine for the time. “No. I'm afraid I don't know the family.”

Chloe's mom tossed her head, but when you have a poke bonnet over your hairdo, such gestures lose their effect. “Well. Our little Chloe is quite the celebrity back in Chicago.”

“I am?” Chloe opened her silver vinaigrette and took a whiff. She was feeling faint.

Chloe's mom directed the entire conversation to Mrs. Crescent. “Everybody's been following the blog, the twittering—”

Chloe stomped her calfskin pump on the church step, but it didn't make a sound. It just hurt. “Blog! Twitter! I knew it! Who's been blogging?”

“Why, your betrothed, dear—”

“He's not my betrothed!” She popped out her hip and crossed her arms, while her mom, suddenly aware of the camera, oozed like a jelly donut.

Her mom smoothed down her gown, smiled, and spoke right to the lens. “We're so excited she's marrying a landed English gentleman. Imagine.” She clapped her gloved hands together. “An English gentleman choosing an American—”

“Imagine,” Chloe interrupted, swinging the camera toward her. “I haven't had a toilet for three weeks and he's been tweeting—” She whipped the nosegay against the church door, but at that moment the door opened, and the curate ended up with a bunch of flowers in his face.

“Oh! Excuse me, sir, uh, Father—I apologize.”

When her dad bent to pick up the nosegay, her mom rushed to the curate, apologizing in a hushed voice.

Her dad put his arm around her and nodded his head toward the video cam as he whispered, “The cameras, Chloe. They're filming. Think about your reputation. Abigail. Our family. The family's reputation. Previews of the show are all over the Internet in order to promote it. In a month it'll be on international TV. We came here thinking this is what you wanted.”

“I thought it was what I wanted,” Chloe said. She turned her back to the church and the camera. “England. Manners. A gentleman. Eighteen-twelve. The most romantic time in history.” Not to mention the money. But the past few days, while she struggled to prepare for this sham of a wedding, had given her time to think about the money and she realized that she had the power within herself to turn her business around. She'd taken copious notes with her quill, planning just how to go about it. She looked down at her white pumps on the gray stone.

The church bell tolled out the time. One, two, three—Her dad talked louder now, and the bells drowned out his voice. The boom boy jockeyed around them with the mike.

“Let's just have some fun with this, okay? Your mother and I came all this way.”

Chloe sucked on her strawberry-stained lower lip.

“It's just a game. For TV. This isn't real. Pretend you're an actress. A movie star. Think of all the buzz this show will generate about you. You can do anything you want after this. I was against this when you found out it was a reality show, but it's very tasteful.”

Chloe smiled. “It's just like I wrote to you. Not a hot tub in sight.”

Seven, eight, nine gongs. She looked up into a lime tree. She knew about lime trees now, because of Henry. A bird bounced among the branches. The bell rang ten, and the last gong echoed. The ceremony was supposed to begin at ten. She opened her white silk reticule and pulled out the glasses Henry made, hooking the silver over her ears.

Her mom scurried over and took Chloe's gloved hand in hers. “If you're disappointed about the wedding party itself, angel, well, so was I. Really. I mean who wants to settle for a wedding breakfast for eleven people instead of a steak dinner for four hundred with a live orchestra? When I found out there won't even be a wedding cake, I . . .”

Her mother kept talking, but Chloe focused on the bird. It was a green finch.

Her mother patted her back. “. . . but I guess that's how they did it in 1812. Sad, really. When you two really do marry, you'll have a real wedding. I'll see to that. Let's go, dear. It's time. Do take off those glasses. Since when do you need glasses? They look so—horsey.”

Chloe kept the glasses on. Her dad stuck the nosegay in her right hand and linked his arm in her left. Just as they stepped over the threshold of the church door, she heard a finch call out.

The church felt twenty degrees cooler and smelled—like churches smell everywhere, all over the world. Vaulted ceilings and carved stone moldings added to the chill. Candles flickered in the drafts. With his perfect profile, Sebastian stood at the altar, waiting.

For a fake wedding, it sure felt real. She leaned on her dad. Henry wore a bottle-green cutaway coat and practically paced in his pew.

She wanted to wrap her arms around him, or at least catch his eye. But he was the only one not looking at her, the bride, as she made her way to the altar. Even Grace glared and drummed her gloved fingers on the scrolled pew railing in front of her. Immediately after the wedding, Grace would be sent home. She had lost the competition. But of course, filming her watch the wedding made fabulous drama, so she had to stay.

For a minute it did seem like a movie and not like the real thing. Chloe felt like she was looking down on herself getting married—again. The first time around, sixteen years ago, it seemed exactly the same. Movielike. Unreal. An out-of-body experience in a white dress. Back then, of course, the white dress was appropriate. As a thirty-nine-year-old divorcée with an eight-year-old stateside, not to mention her ice-house moment, it seemed downright scandalous.

Sebastian, the cad, in a tight black cutaway coat, white breeches, and black shoes, looked the part he was playing. Chloe could tell he didn't like the glasses. He kept squinting and clearing his throat as the curate spoke.