Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

“You gave my Fifi and me a most dreadful scare, Miss Parker,” said a gorgeous, probably eight-months-along pregnant woman as she bustled through the doorway in a periwinkle gown and lace cap. The gown complemented her pregnant shape. She carried a pug dog under her arm. “I’m Mrs. Caroline Crescent, your chaperone at Bridesbridge. This is my boy, Fifi.”

Chloe hated smal , hyper, bug-eyed dogs. And who would name a male dog Fifi? She scooched up on her good elbow. “You’re my chaperone?”

Mrs. Crescent was not only pregnant, but probably a year or two older than her. Tops.

“We did arrange a more suitable welcome,” said Mrs. Crescent. “But you fainted.”

Chloe opened her mouth, then shut it.

“Very ladylike. The fainting bit,” whispered Mrs. Crescent. “Wel done.” She patted the panting pug’s head as if he had something to do with it. “I see you’ve met Mr. Wrightman.”

Chloe felt a ripple of disappointment until Fiona waved in two footmen carrying Chloe’s trunks. They set them on the floor near a great mahogany wardrobe.

Across the room, Mr. Wrightman opened another drapery and light gushed in. “It may wel have been hysteria,” he said. “The pistol incident and al .”

Everything came back to Chloe in a flash. “‘Pistol incident’? That woman practical y kil ed us!” She sat up and her left arm, for some reason, felt strange. “Where is that b—”

Chloe stopped herself, but Mr. Wrightman coughed.

“Blanket?” Mrs. Crescent interjected. She covered Chloe’s stocking feet with a tasseled blanket.

“Yes, blanket. Thank you.”

Chloe took a large gulp of cordial water and Mr. Wrightman raised an eyebrow. She barely managed to get it down. Who knew it would taste like mouthwash? Fiona offered it again but Chloe shook her head. “I’m quite refreshed, Fiona. Thank you.” Fiona whisked the drink away.

Chloe’s arm must’ve fal en asleep. She turned her head slowly, trying not to start the room spinning again, but someone had tied a leather strap around her biceps. She quickly untied it. On her night-stand, next to the silver candlestick holder, was a jar with something slithering around in it.

What was it? Maggots? Then it hit her. They were leeches. Leeches for sucking the blood from sick people, because that was what they did back in the 1800s. The leather strap? A tourniquet. The leeches squirmed around in blood and she bolted upright. Did he bleed her or what?!

She wanted to scream. To rant. To possibly crash the Wedgwood washbowl atop Mr. Wrightman’s head. Instead, she cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Wrightman?”

He was packing up his black medicine bag without a care in the world.

“You didn’t by chance, say, bleed me with leeches, did you?” She dangled the tourniquet in front of her.

He stepped back, folded his arms, and took his glasses off, looking, suddenly, not so librarian-like. If she hadn’t been so steamed she might even consider him attractive in a tal , pale, and blond kind of way.

She let her arm with the tourniquet fal . How could he be insulted? The gown might be exquisite, the boudoir charming, but she didn’t come al this way to get shot at and bled to death just to hook up with someone who wasn’t a Regency buck but some sort of bloodsucking vampire with glasses.

She swung her legs out to stand. “Wel . It was a pleasure meeting everyone, but I do believe I should go back home. Fiona, cal the carriage for me, please.” She stood in her stocking feet, but her knees weakened as she remembered the money, and the glimmer of possible love, although that was fading fast. The man in the tub, the man in the field, was he a stable hand, or perhaps a favored gardener’s son? If so, then Chloe, in al her heiressness, wouldn’t even be al owed to talk to him.

Mr. Wrightman guided her back to the bed, settling her on the mattress, which seemed to be stuffed with hay.

Mrs. Crescent came and sat so close to Chloe that the pug licked her arm. Chloe scooched away.

“Mr. Wrightman did not bleed you, my dear. Look at your arm. Do you see any open wounds?”

She checked both arms. “No.”

Fiona swung open the wardrobe doors and hung a yel ow gown, then a green one, and then another white, each one more exquisite than the last.

Chloe bit her lip and stared at the leeches, slurping and slithering in blood, gorged and happy as caffeine addicts after a few triple espressos.

“Whose blood is that, then?” she asked as politely as possible as she slid to the side of the bed farthest from the jar.

“It’s pig’s blood,” said Mr. Wrightman. He picked up the jar of leeches as if it were a glass of red wine. “I’l take them away.”

“Why did you tie my arm, then?”

“It’s what any apothecary would do when a lady who didn’t faint pushes away the smel ing salts. But luckily, it wasn’t necessary to do a bleeding.

This time.” He winked at her.

She clenched her fists. The pug was now in the bed with her, nudging her arm with his slimy nose to get her to pet him.