Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

Chloe had imagined running along the narrow, pebbled paths between the high hedges, dropping red rose petals behind her, Sebastian at her heels. They would meet in the pagoda in the center to kiss, his lips final y touching hers, her fingers final y grazing his squared-off sideburns, nothing but green al around and blue sky above—

The butler interrupted her reverie. “This morning the three of you wil be competing for fifteen Accomplishment Points. Mr. Wrightman wil be sitting in the pagoda in the middle of the maze. You wil al be sent off into the maze at the same time, and the woman to reach Mr. Wrightman first wins the points and time alone with him until the other ladies catch up.”

Chloe almost groaned out loud. This, of al the competitions so far, seemed the most demeaning. She crossed her arms and kicked the dust with her walking boots.

Just then, out of nowhere, George came zipping up in an ATV. George!? Was he here to send her packing?

Janey was sitting next to him, sipping coffee from a white cardboard cup.

Chloe had given up drinking coffee here in England. Regency coffee tasted horrid, and the weak tea proved only marginal y better.

George swung his blue-jeaned legs out of the cart and pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. A Bluetooth was stuck on his ear. Chloe couldn’t stand those things; Winthrop used to wear his al the time.

“Girls.” He made guns with his fingers and aimed at Chloe and Grace. “A word?” He whipped off his Bluetooth and raked his hair. The air around him hinted of shampoo and toothpaste. His hair must’ve been loaded with product. How else could it have smel ed of shampoo and looked so much like bed head?

“Over here.” When he grabbed them by the elbows, their parasols tipped to the sides. Regency men didn’t cal women “girls” and they didn’t yank women around by the elbows. After weeks of Sebastian’s and Henry’s gentlemanly behavior, even Grace seemed shocked at such treatment. In addition to bowing, Sebastian and Henry always stood when a lady entered the room, and a lady could get used to such things.

George led them, faster than their calfskin boots could carry them, toward the topiary arch at the entrance of the hedge maze. Overhead, clouds were rol ing in.

“No cameras,” George barked at two of the crew, and they backed off.

Moments later, Sebastian and Henry arrived and tied their horses to a tree.

Grace’s chaperone looked intent with concern and Mrs. Crescent sent Fifi on to be with Chloe.

“Listen, ladies,” George began ominously, “I can be the king of grouchy Brit reality-show judges, you know.”

Grace folded her arms just under the hem of her spencer jacket, which so nicely accentuated her boobs and tiny waist. “I don’t see what I have to do with al this.”

Chloe stooped down to pick up Fifi’s leash.

George flashed a frown and pointed his iPhone at Chloe. “Official y, Miss Parker, you’re on probation. You haven’t gotten caught on camera, and your antics are great for ratings, and those are just two reasons why I’m not getting rid of you here and now.” He paced around the soft grass, checking his phone.

Chloe picked up Fifi, who began pushing at her arm as if he wanted her to rub his neck, or what would be his neck if he had one.

“Suffice it to say that both of you are here, for the moment—with warning. Mr. Wrightman wants you both here because somehow he can picture you both as wife material, although I can’t say I agree with his judgment. Then again he doesn’t know everything I know, although I am tempted to tel him. Condoms appearing in reticules, shagging every footman in sight, going out after curfew—these are serious infractions.” He keyed something into his phone.

Chloe tipped her wel -coiffed head, which, at the moment, was covered in the unfortunate poke bonnet. “Did you know that the condom was planted on me?”

“We have no proof the condom was planted on you, Miss Parker, and unless you can produce proof, the jury’s stil out on that one.” George’s phone rang and they were saved by the bel .

It’d been a while since Chloe heard a phone ring and it actual y sounded pleasant. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t cringe at the sound.

She watched George as he talked on the phone to someone far away, to people other than this smal crowd, and she marveled at it, as if she real y were from 1812. She felt a sudden urge to snatch the phone from him and cal Abigail, just to hear her voice.

Chloe watched George slide the phone into his back pocket. She just wanted to hold it, real y. Okay—she wanted to check her e-mail! Surf the Web! Buy toilet paper online! My God, what was happening to her? She clutched Fifi.

“Now, Miss Parker, we’re on National Trust property at Bridesbridge Place—the key word being trust, okay? Respect it. The clothing, the grounds. Mr. Wrightman would be none too pleased if any damage befel his ancestral home or belongings.”