Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

“The books may be worth a fortune, but I never planned on sel ing them. I don’t think you wil either.”

He looked at her with so much passion in his eyes that she—she swooned—and had to lean against the writing desk. “Henry. You have to stop.”

“I must warn you that this goes against al the rules, but some things are better expressed without words.” He gently but firmly nudged her against the bookshelves, the section labeled FANTASY, and he trapped her there with his arms. Their bodies crushed together as he kissed her deftly and deliciously. He stopped for a moment, and desire ricocheted through her.

“You real y are quite accomplished, Miss Parker,” he said. “Very talented.”

He rendered her speechless. He cupped her cheek in his hand. “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know how ardently I admire you.”

The room spun a little around her, but the light-headedness could’ve been due to a lack of oxygen. She hadn’t been kissed like that in a long time.

Why was he doing this to her? Was this another test?

He checked his watch fob, which happened to be dangerously near his bulging breeches. “The minuet wil be starting soon.”

Chloe’s mouth dropped open a little. He didn’t want anything more than a kiss? Surely she did. But “Miss Parker” did not. Miss Parker had already gone too far.

“Perhaps, sometime, when there isn’t a grand bal going on, you would like to accompany me back to the library?”

Chloe looked around at the candles, the flowers, the books, drinking it al in. Al of it was slipping away already, like a good dream you only remember pieces of when you wake.

“You don’t have to answer. I’ve read it al on your face.”

She buzzed into the bal room on Henry’s arm. She felt as if she’d drunk a couple of glasses of wine. People approached Henry with smiles and swarmed around him. The height of the room, the gilded ceiling, the candlelight, orchestra, and gowns intoxicated Chloe even more than she already was. Cook made her way toward them.

Henry pul ed out chairs for the two women. He motioned a flourish with his hand for them to sit. “Ladies, if you please?”

“I’m much obliged. Thank you, sir.” Chloe sat, her vision of the evening torn asunder. She was bedazzled and bewildered al at once.

Henry said something about supper at midnight, lemonade, tea, coffee, and even wine, which, God knows she would’ve given her last soap bal for a glass of. She half expected to see Colin Firth or Hugh Grant mingling in the crowd. Chloe caught a sudden whiff of beeswax and a drop of something from above fel into the crook of her arm just above her glove. It hardened into a warm white circle. She rubbed it off with her gloved finger.

Henry pointed to the ceiling. “Wax from the candles.”

She squinted up at a gold chandelier hanging high above her like an oversized halo. The ceiling itself was painted in a skyscape of white clouds, sunshine beams, and golden-haired cherubs.

“The candles melt quickly in al this heat. It takes an army of servants just to keep the place lit. Which reminds me. Mr. Smith?” He signaled a servant. “Please snuff out the candles in the library. Thank you.”

The candles that hung above her had already melted to half their height. She wasn’t ready for al this to melt away. She didn’t want the candles in the library to be snuffed.

Her eyes wel ed up with tears. At least she wasn’t wearing any mascara, but the candle-soot eyeliner might smudge. She dabbed the corners of her eyes with her glove.

Henry, of course, offered her a handkerchief. He always had a handkerchief. It was so old-fashioned.

An older woman, doused in Chanel perfume and draped in layer upon layer of silk, broke into their little threesome. “Mr. Wrightman—” She spoke to Henry, but looked down at Chloe, then deliberately turned so that her butt was in Chloe’s face.

Cook squeezed Chloe’s hand.

The woman hooked her arm in Henry’s. “I simply must introduce you to my niece who’s in from London. She’s a doctor, just like you. You wil absolutely adore her.”

Who were these people? And why were they mixing with the unwashed from the reality show?

Henry bowed. As the woman led him away, he looked back at Chloe over his shoulder. “Save two dances for me.”

“Of course.” Chloe bowed her head, and when she lifted it, Henry and his companion had already disappeared into the crowd. Poof. It felt as if someone had doused the lights. Her eyes scanned the room for him.

“So.” Cook tapped her on the knee with her fan. “Mrs. Crescent tel s me you’re real y taken with Sebastian—I mean Mr. Wrightman.”

Chloe opened her mouth to speak and looked at Cook, her familiar face, her smile as warm as plum pudding, and she realized she didn’t even know her name.

“Here you’ve cooked every meal I’ve eaten since I got here—and I don’t even know your name.”

Cook crossed her legs under her glistening gown. “It’s Lady Anne Wrightman.”

Chloe opened up her feathered fan. “Your real name.”