Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

The lemon deodorant failed as a bead of sweat dribbled down her side. She was so thril ed to have won the audition that she real y didn’t take the time to read every single word in that giant stack of paperwork they’d sent, and couldn’t afford to pay a lawyer to go through it with her. Had she once again donned her rose-colored glasses and seen only what she wanted to see in the contract? Legalese, math, science—these were not her forte; she was much more of a big-picture person.

“You are aware, for example, that you agreed we could film you twenty-four/seven upon arrival, and that anything you do is fair game not only for the final program but for any social networking site, Twitter, or blog entry, or any streaming video on the website and any YouTube video we produce?”

Chloe sucked on her lower lip to keep herself from saying anything a lady might regret, but her stomach churned. She’d signed up for a rock-bottom reality show in period costume and she would’ve been better off in Vegas sunbathing topless, guzzling pink martinis, and gambling her last dol ar in hopes of winning it big.

“Your antics, such as storming my trailer, wil be posted on YouTube,” George said. “We’re going for heaving bosoms and bulging breeches here, not ladies lunching.”

Chloe buried her head in her hands.

“Throw in an eligible, handsome, and rich bachelor for good measure.”

“What do you mean ‘an’ eligible bachelor? There’s only one? I thought this was a dating show.”

“It is! There are two bachelors, real y, one infinitely wealthier than the other, so he is more desirable, natural y—”

“And how many women are there?”

“Several.”

Chloe couldn’t take it anymore. “Jane Austen would be horrified. This is a mockery of everything women have accomplished in the past two centuries!”

“Some people find true love on these kinds of shows, and I think Jane Austen would approve of that. Besides, during the Regency, women outnumbered men because so many men had died in the Napoleonic Wars or were on active duty. Many others were out in the East Indies, trying to make their fortune.”

He folded his arms. “Do you realize how many women were competing for the same country squire? It would be historical y inaccurate to arrange a party of, let’s say, ten men and ten women. Surely a stickler for historical detail such as yourself can’t argue that point.”

He handed her a piece of paper. “Here’s Mr. Wrightman’s bio. I’m sure they e-mailed this to you in Chicago. Did you read it? He’s our most eligible bachelor.”

She’d read it more than once. Now it made sense that they only sent one man’s biography instead of the entire cast or an array of bios of other possible suitors. It would be her and a gaggle of other women pitted against one another to snare the wealthy Mr. Wrightman.

At least he looked good on paper. If Chloe could believe the bio, the Oxford-educated Jane Austen fan valued honesty, was ready to start a family, but also loved to travel. She and he seemed compatible in every way, but her hopes had been crushed before.

“Yes, I read it.” She turned her back on the TVs, handed George the bio without even looking at it, and paced the floor. The camera fol owed.

A gangly girl dressed in black sauntered out of a room in the back of the trailer to the Miele espresso maker.

George checked his iPhone again. “Chin up, Miss Parker. You’re an American heiress come to summer here in the English countryside. I ful y expect you to take on that role.”

Did he say “heiress”?

“Heiresses don’t need to win a man.” She walked back over to him.

He handed her a thick black hand-bound book with Miss Parker’s Rulebook embossed in gold script on the cover. “Tel Janey what kind of coffee you take.”

“Double espresso skinny latte, please. If you can’t, then just a regular—”

George interrupted. “An heiress would not concern herself with whether the hired help can or can’t do her bidding. It’s not her problem.” He final y set his iPhone aside, picked up a remote, and aimed it at the three TV screens. “You’re going to love doing this show. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Check it out. Here’s what’s going on throughout the estate.”

A young woman in a bonnet fed chickens on one screen, on another a cook chopped herbs. And, on screen three, a dark-haired guy paused near a copper bathtub, untying his cravat while light from a window behind the tub gave him a silhouette quality. A butler removed his waistcoat and pul ed the loose linen shirt over his head. The guy’s shoulder blades popped. Was that him? The Mr. Wrightman she was supposed to win over?

She pretended to fan herself. “Be stil , my beating heart. Oh, George, is that my future husband?”