Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

B ack in her boudoir, Chloe sat down at her writing desk to write Abigail and Mr. Wrightman’s mother. She untied a red ribbon that bound a stack of handmade writing papers and plucked a quil from the penholder. Her eyes settled on the bottle of black ink and then moved toward her white dress. When she was in art school, she had used pen and India ink and remembered just how messy that became. Art school. She had been what

—twenty-one? The tender age of the lovely Miss Becky Carver?

Chloe fanned her face with the writing paper. She couldn’t believe Mr. Wrightman would pick her and a twenty-one-year-old in the same fel swoop. It didn’t seem to make sense. Either you like more mature women or you like jailbait. How could a thirty-nine-year-old compete with girls in their early twenties? How old was Mr. Wrightman anyway? Not old enough to make her a cougar. Not that she was a cougar anyway—yuck. But Becky was actual y closer in age to Abigail than to Chloe!

She set the quil down. Her head throbbed and jet lag hit her again.

There was a quick rap on the door and Fiona came bursting into the room.

“No time for writing now, miss. Time to dress!”

Fiona dressed her in a green—pomona—evening gown, which reminded Chloe of frogs and Mr. Wrightman, who saved her from fal ing into the ha-ha. Then her mind turned to a certain dark-haired man whom she had insulted at the pond.

“Jeez,” she said out loud.

“What is it, miss?” Fiona asked as she clipped the mike to the back of Chloe’s dress.

Chloe rubbed her temples with her fingers and closed her eyes. “I just have a headache.”

“I can prepare a cloth soaked in vinegar, salt, and brandy. It’l decrease the inflammation of the brain.”

“Forget the cloth. Skip the vinegar and salt. Just bring on the brandy.”

Fiona smiled and pinned up stray strands of Chloe’s hair. She didn’t bring the brandy.

But Fiona could provide answers, Chloe thought. “Fiona, I saw a man from the window—dressed in gentleman’s clothes—with dark hair and a white horse. Do you know who he is?” She knew better than to ask about him by name, as that would indicate she’d met him inappropriately.

Fiona pul ed a thin yel ow ribbon from the dressing-table drawer. “That would be Mr. Wrightman.”

“No, it wasn’t Mr. Wrightman. It was someone else. With dark hair. Tal ?”

Fiona cracked a smile. “Oh, it is confusing. There are two Mr. Wrightmans. They’re brothers.” She wove the ribbon through Chloe’s hair.

“Brothers?” Chloe slid her tiara out of her reticule. The tiara was broken. Cut in half! Chloe gasped. It must’ve happened when the carriage tipped over.

Fiona examined the tiara. “I’m so sorry, miss. You’l need a good silversmith to fix it. Mr. Henry Wrightman does a right good job of fixing things.”

Chloe tried to piece it together, to see if anything was missing. In eight years it would be Abigail’s. “I can’t have someone around here fix it.” She put it down gently on the vanity. It looked like a broken heart.

“Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, miss, I can have it sent to Mr. Henry Wrightman. He’s quite talented in that way.”

“Henry. Is he the one who—who almost bled me with leeches?”

Fiona nodded her head yes. “Yes, but—”

“If he’s one of the brothers, then who’s the other one?”

Fiona continued to braid the ribbon through Chloe’s hair. “Sebastian, but you haven’t met him yet, miss. He’s dark-haired, and rides a white horse. He stands to inherit the estate, as the eldest of the two. Mr. Henry Wrightman, the blond, with glasses? He must marry money, as he’s the younger brother and wil inherit very little.”

Chloe shot up, half the ribbon dangling down her back, and snatched both halves of the tiara in hand. Fabulous. Not only had her crown broken, but she switched up the brothers and total y insulted Sebastian, the man whom she needed to propose to her in less than three weeks. Worse, she couldn’t e-mail or cal him to apologize and she couldn’t write him a letter either, because a couple had to be engaged to do that.

She stomped toward the drawing room and a footman opened the double doors for her. For a moment she lost some of her huff. She wasn’t used to footmen opening doors for her.

And the drawing room, with its two-story ceiling, scrol ed-arm Grecian couches, and window treatments more elaborate than the train of a wedding dress, helped her remember her heiressness, as did the cameraman behind the pianoforte.

Mrs. Crescent, who was playing whist with another woman in a white cap at the game table near the fireplace, homed right in on Chloe’s dangling ribbon and broken tiara. “Where have you been, dear? You cannot go ambling about outdoors without my consent.”

Just as Chloe gathered the composure to speak without yel ing, a bel rang. Mrs. Crescent and her cardplaying companion stood and hurried toward the double doors. Everybody knew what it meant except her.

“That’s the dressing bel ,” Mrs. Crescent said. “Time to get dressed for the evening.”