Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

. . . and your younger sister, Abigail, depend upon your success. Mrs. Crescent, your chaperone, will introduce you to Englishsociety. Best of luck.

The table of contents included chapters on “Archery Rules,” “Bal room Behavior,” “Your Chaperone,” “Dinner Etiquette,” and “Sexual Protocol.”

Hmm. Chloe paged over to that very short chapter:

A lady would never engage in sexual relations with a gentleman until after marriage. So doing would compromise her reputation,her position in society, and her eligibility to marry someone her equal or above. One wrong move and a lady could be ousted fromsociety and plunged into a life of poverty and depravity, doomed to remain an outsider. A lady may be kissed only when she isproperly engaged. Before engagement, a gentleman does not touch a lady, except to hand her into a carriage, dance at a ball, orescort her on a walk in the garden with her chaperone. He may only touch her in extreme circumstances, in emergency, if the ladyfinds herself in trouble.

Chloe looked back, toward the inn, the trailer, and George, but she couldn’t see any of it anymore. And suddenly she felt a mil ion miles from American men, work, TVs, computers, phones—Abigail.

The rule book slid off her lap. She leaned over, struggling to pick it up despite the busk restricting her movements. The cameraman on the ATV

eased back to get a good shot of her boobs, no doubt. She wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders.

The carriage lurched to the top of a hil and stopped. Dust rose from the dry road and Chloe coughed, digging into her reticule for her fan.

The driver turned around, tipping his hat. “There it is, miss.”

Chloe tossed the fan aside, put her hand over the brim of her bonnet, and, awestruck, stood up. Tucked in a val ey off in the distance, rising out of the greenery, was a Queen Anne stone mansion, complete with a four-columned portico and stone urns on al four corners of the roof.

She col apsed back in the carriage seat. “Is—is that his estate? Mr. Wrightman’s?” Chloe asked.

“No, miss.” The driver laughed. “That’l be Bridesbridge Place, that. Where you’l be staying with the ladies.”

Chloe had never imagined she’d be staying in such luxury. She had pictured—a cottage. She fel back farther in her seat and fanned herself, shocked and jet-lagged al at once.

“Mr. Wrightman’s—Dartworth Hal —that’s almost a mile beyond Bridesbridge,” said the driver. “You can’t see it from here.” He snapped the reins and the carriage rol ed ahead.

The sky widened above her as the trees thinned out. The air smel ed of fresh rain and cowbel s clanged in the distance. Pastures dotted with sheep and cows yielded to glistening grasses, as pastoral as a John Constable painting. The dirt road became pea gravel as the carriage approached the ocher-colored gates of Bridesbridge Place.

“Bliss,” she whispered to herself.

A shot rang out. The carriage lurched forward, then toppled to one side. Chloe screamed, the cameraman fumbled. The horses snorted and kicked as she, the cameraman, and the driver stumbled from the lopsided carriage onto the soft, spongy grass.

“Excuse me,” said a sexy female English voice from behind the carriage. Through blinding light and dizziness, Chloe made out a tal woman dressed in an ankle-length red walking dress and red turban, wielding a clunky pistol. The cameraman, despite a bloody nose, continued filming, and the cameraman on the ATV joined the fray.

The sexy woman spoke, looking briefly at Chloe and then past her, at the camera. “Seems I’ve nicked your carriage wheel with my target practicing.”

The wooden wheel lay on the ground, broken in half, spokes blown off.

The woman cocked the pistol against her hip.

Chloe checked herself for blood. Her legs shook. She straightened her bonnet.

“I’m Lady Grace—of the d’Argent family. And you must be the American girl.” Grace switched the pistol to her left hand and held out her right to Chloe.

Chloe didn’t shake. “You could’ve kil ed us!” Not to mention the fact that Grace should be wearing a bonnet.