Definitely Not Mr. Darcy (29 page)

“Hand on the left. Hand on the left.”

Rain dripped down from her fingertips to her elbow as if she were a human gutter. She felt as if she'd been in this very spot five minutes ago. Did she just make a big circle? It occurred to her what a brilliant invention the GPS was, and she determined that as soon as she got home and could afford it, she'd buy one, because she hated being lost and alone. But, as it turned out, she wasn't alone.

She turned and looked right at the cameraman. “All right. How do we get out of here?”

He didn't respond, he just kept filming.

“You don't have to say anything. Just lead the way. I'll follow you.”

He stayed put.

“Ugh!” Exasperated, Chloe threw her arms up.

Thunder rumbled and the hedges seemed to grow taller.
Left hand. Left hand against the hedge,
she reminded herself. Her gloves went translucent on her fingers. Tufts of fog blew through the hedgerows, obscuring the path. She kept bumping into the same dead end over and over. When the rain began to let up, she stopped shivering. Her hair had gone wild and windblown around her shoulders and the bottom of her white gown was brown with mud.

Finally, she saw an opening in the distance. It was the exit! She did it. She'd made it! All by herself. Something moved toward her, ran toward her in the fog. It was Sebastian come to save her, a little too late, unfortunately. She shook off the disappointment, but not the cold and rain.

“Miss Parker! Are you all right?” Sebastian called out.

“I think so, Colonel Brandon,” she replied.

He smiled at the Austen reference and opened his arms to her. Did he forget he couldn't touch her? She was too cold and wet to care about protocol or the camera. He held out his arms to her and she had no resistance left. She buried her head in his wet, white ruffled shirt, taking in his wine-barrel, snufflike aroma. He, too, had been soaked through and his body felt chilled.

“I think we make a pretty cool couple.” She shivered and whispered in his ear, alone with him at last.

Sebastian didn't have an umbrella or a coat to offer her, but in an instant he swooped her up in his arms.

She locked her arms around his strong neck, and he carried her toward Dartworth Hall. Now, where were all the cameras when she needed them?

“You are Colonel Brandon after all,” Chloe said.

Sebastian smiled while his Hessian boots trudged on. He seemed an enigma to her, but the scent of spongy grass filled the air and being in his arms made her feel safe and taken care of.

His dark eyes looked straight ahead at the doors of the hall, his nostrils flared slightly. The rain had stopped, but it had made him slick back his black hair, as if he'd just stepped out of the shower. His cheekbones were so chiseled a girl could go rock-climbing on them. The moment was right out of a movie, until he lost his footing, slipped in the mud, and Chloe slid out of his arms and landed with her feet on the ground.

He caught her, helped her regain her footing, and their hands touched for the first time. “So sorry,” he said, with his incredible English accent.

“I'm not.” She melted faster than a chocolate molten lava cake. “Maybe you're falling for me.”

He laughed and there they were, face-to-face. “I am—falling for you. I've never met anyone like you. You're a rarity.” He moved closer as if to kiss her, and her lips parted. She resisted taking his designer-stubbled jawline in her hands.

His lips were almost pressing against hers and his arms had almost gone around her waist when they heard twigs snap behind them, reminding them that Chloe's cameraman was still there, and now another cameraman had appeared as well.

She stepped back. She couldn't help but notice Sebastian's very revealing breeches, so she tried instead to focus on the wet shirt clinging to his muscled torso—and that was certainly no punishment. Their bodies quivered to be together, and for the first time, Chloe felt for Regency women who weren't allowed to act on any of their impulses, or, if they did, they'd suffer life-altering consequences.

Chloe needed more time with Sebastian, preferably not in a thunderstorm and surrounded by cameras, and perhaps not in the nineteenth century, for that matter. She had to admit that in the modern world, they'd have slept together already! Their relationship would've been so much further along by this point. How could you get to know a man when you were surrounded by chaperones? When you couldn't talk to him, be alone with him—or rip off his ruffled shirt and breeches?! Did Regency women really know who they were marrying? How could they have?

Chloe could learn more in a single weekend away at a beach cottage with him than six or even twelve more weeks of this. And, if she really wanted TMI, she could've done what Emma did with men she's just met, and Google them, check out their Facebook page, follow them on Twitter. Just a few minutes of cyberstalking would've revealed more than she'd learned about Sebastian in two full weeks!

The hedge maze was far off, and however enticing it had once looked, Chloe couldn't be happier than to be free of it.

At that moment a footman came running toward them. “Mr. Wrightman, we need you in the stables. Do you have a moment?”

Sebastian looked at Chloe. So much for their romp in the hedge maze, she couldn't help but think. “Go ahead,” she said. “I'm fine. Is everyone inside? Do you want me to just—head into Dartworth?” It was awkward asking if she should just drop into his sprawling estate or what.

“Yes, I'm sure everyone's gathered in the music room. The competition will be postponed.”

“I'll escort you,” the young footman offered.

Sebastian bowed, she curtsied, and he headed toward the stable.

She tied off the broken lace on her waterlogged boots and noticed that one of her white stockings had gone shocking pink at the ankle. Mrs. Crescent would never approve of pink stockings. It seemed she had cut her ankle on the hedge and blood had turned the stocking pink.

On her way toward Dartworth, she and the footman stepped over a little creek that had swelled up during the storm. She stepped on a wide rock in the middle of the creek to get to the other side and noticed how two streams of water flowed on either side of it. This divergence weakened the streams, until they trickled off into nothingness.

She never imagined she'd fall for two so very different men, brothers no less, so quickly. The money and the winning got washed away, and too often, she forgot all about them. She had to stay focused, follow ridiculous Regency protocol, and not allow her resolve to weaken any more. No more getting lost. She'd set her GPS for Sebastian, and that would be it.

W
ell, well, look what the pug dragged in,” Grace said. She cast a crisp silhouette against the floor-to-ceiling windows in the music room at Dartworth.

The windows in this room offered the best view of the hedge maze. Julia and her chaperone were playing cards in front of the fire. Mrs. Crescent had dozed off on a Grecian sofa.

Chloe clenched her fists. It took all of her willpower not to rail against Grace.

Chloe had to remind herself of how her feelings for Sebastian had been growing steadily stronger. She forced herself to think, too, of the money, of how it would save her business and might even save her from having to sacrifice Abigail to Winthrop every summer.

At that moment Fifi appeared, trotting in from the hallway, his rib cage wrapped in linen bandages. The yellow room dripped with white flowered molding like frosting on a wedding cake, while rainwater dripped from Chloe's hemline to the floor. The fireplace crackled and the shadows danced on the gold-leaf harp in the corner. She wiped her face with her wet shawl and the white fabric turned gray with grime.

Grace, in her shimmering gold silk gown, circled Chloe like a lioness assessing her prey. “It's not about how shocking you look, Miss Parker.” Her voice rose up to the domed ceiling. “It's about how hopelessly blind you are to the fact that you just don't belong here.”

A cameraman angled in and Chloe imagined balancing a book on her head, chin up, just like Mrs. Crescent had taught her.

“Fifi! Miss Parker!” Mrs. Crescent hoisted herself out of the chaise. “Thank God you're both all right.” She bent to pat Fifi delicately on the head.

“Whatever did you do with poor Mr. Wrightman, anyway?” Grace asked as she floated back to her window.

“Wouldn't you like to know,” Chloe muttered. She clenched the sage silk draperies.

Abruptly, Grace came slithering up from behind, startling Chloe with a click of a bronze telescope, which she promptly extended to its full length and aimed toward the maze.

Mrs. Crescent, with one hand on her belly, took Chloe by the arm and whispered, “We must go, dear, before Mr. Wrightman sees you in such a state!”

“He has already seen me—aaaachooo—” she sneezed. “Excuse me.” She covered her mouth a little too late. There was enough dirt on her hands to confuse her with the gardener . . . or one of her alledged groundskeeper ancestors.

Lady Grace raised an eyebrow.

Chloe lowered her voice to a whisper as she spoke to Mrs. Crescent. “I just need more time. Things are—heating up.”

“Then let's keep the teapot boiling,” Mrs. Crescent whispered back. “Let's get tidied up.” She took a deep breath and lifted Fifi as if he were a swaddled newborn. “Jones!” she called out.

In a blue liveried uniform, one of the footmen scurried over to Mrs. Crescent and bowed.

“Ready one of Mr. Wrightman's carriages, if you please. Miss Parker and I must return to Bridesbridge. Immediately.”

“I won't go unless Lady Grace, Julia, and the chaperones come with us,” Chloe said.

“I'm certainly not leaving.” Grace stifled a fake cough. “Humph. All that muck.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Mr. Wrightman invited us to stay until the rain subsides. I wasn't aware of his inviting
you
, Miss Parker, or am I mistaken?”

Chloe felt a draft coming from behind. “We didn't spend much time—talking.”

Grace snapped the telescope closed and picked up a book from a large table draped in an Oriental rug, thumping it with her long, slender fingers.

A housemaid, on her hands and knees at Chloe's walking boots, was wiping up the wet trail of mud and grass she'd left behind her on the wooden floor. Without thinking, Chloe stooped to the floor. “Let me help you.” She took a rag from the bucket.

A portrait of some eighteenth-century Wrightman women above the fireplace seemed to be looking down their English noses at Chloe, their silver gowns glistening, their faces and hair powdered white, each of them forcing an ever-so-slight painted smile.

Mrs. Crescent yanked Chloe up and the rag went
splat
on the floor. “A lady doesn't—that's servant work.” She bobbed her head toward the camera. “Against the rules,” she whispered.

“But I'm responsible for this—” Heat rose up Chloe's neck, her head throbbed, and she wiped her dirty hand on the back of her gown, leaving fingerprints.

Grace laughed, covering her pouty mouth with her glove. “I'm glad to see that she at least knows her place. She should've been cast as a scullery maid.”

Scullery maid happened to be the lowest ranking of the maid hierarchy. Chloe knew this now, after working in Cook's kitchen.

“Carriage is ready,” Jones announced.

Mrs. Crescent tucked Fifi under her arm.

“The storm's passed!” Henry announced as he trounced in with his medical bag. Chloe noticed that something salty was dripping into her mouth and realized that her nose was running. She knew better than to wipe it with her cap sleeve. Before she could do anything, however, Henry pulled a handkerchief with
HW
embroidered on it out of his pocket and, without a word, wiped her runny nose then put the thing right back into his pocket. Just like her grandpa used to do when she was little.

“Thank you.” Her eyes followed him even as she stepped away from him.

“Ugh,” Lady Grace groaned, tossing a book that she hadn't even cracked onto the table. She plopped down at the pianoforte and shuffled the sheet music like cards.

“Miss Parker, whatever happened to your leg?” Henry asked.

Mrs. Crescent gasped. “I had no idea! Dear Lord!”

Grace pounded on the pianoforte, sending Beethoven resounding throughout the room.

“I'm fine. It's just a little cut.” Grace was banging the pianoforte so loud that Chloe had to practically yell. She wanted as little interaction with Henry as possible, so she looked into the fire in the fireplace and fidgeted with her gown.