Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

And with that, they were at the carriage, where Mrs. Crescent checked the time on her chatelaine. Chloe looked back at the ruins, wondering what had just happened. She hadn’t learned a thing about the castle, but she did learn something about Sebastian. He was thoughtful, playful, sexy, attracted to her, and, most importantly, he saw right through Grace. He wasn’t swayed by her good looks, and that pointed to his intel igence. It gave them common ground to be in cahoots against her, too. Sebastian didn’t seem as reserved around Chloe as he did with the others; she had gotten him to loosen his starched cravat, and that was exactly what she had intended to do. He had given her a meaningful gift, yes, but in just a short window of time he had given her something more, much more, and that was the hope that she could desire, and perhaps even love, once again.

F iona washed Chloe’s hair in a washbowl with a sticky mix of rum, eggs, and rose water. Chloe cringed every time her maid poured a pitcher of cold water over her head to rinse her hair. To help get through the ordeal, she thought of Kate, who had accidental y eaten a nut in one of the luncheon dishes, broken out in hives, and had to spend the day with her face covered in a paste of melted lard and crushed brimstone that Henry had whipped up. Brimstone, as in sulfur.

Fiona set out a paper-thin chemise and new stays for Chloe. The stays seemed more like lingerie and Chloe’s breasts showed through the sheer fabric. Mrs. Crescent burst in with Fifi. She set down a fresh washbowl, plunged her hands in, and proceeded to press her hands against Chloe’s thinly covered boobs.

“Aggggh!” The camerawoman had filmed Chloe’s chest and she tumbled back into her dressing table, spil ing the mashed strawberries meant to be her blush. “What are you doing?!”

“What every other right-minded chaperone does to attract the men to her charge. I’m dampening your stays. Now hold stil .”

Chloe shuddered. It was the nineteenth-century equivalent of a wet T-shirt contest.

Fiona pushed the mashed strawberries back into the china bowl.

Mrs. Crescent shook her wet hands at Chloe, sprinkling lavender water on her corset. “When a lady has such assets as yours, Miss Parker, she must take advantage. Many a Regency girl does this.”

“What about the impeccable Miss Gately? Did she dampen her stays?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Crescent said.

“Wel , a lot of good it did her.”

“She wasn’t asked to leave. There was a family emergency. Surely I told you that?”

She had. Lightning struck outside and rain pummeled against the single-pane windows and Fiona lit the candles. She had laced Chloe’s hair with a string of beads, stained Chloe’s cheeks with strawberries, and used candle soot as eyeliner to fabulous effect.

Mrs. Crescent clasped her hands. “Mr. Wrightman couldn’t take his eyes off you this morning, and I intend ful wel to keep it that way. I’ve never seen him so animated. And he’s never given any of the other girls a gift.”

Chloe’s creamy silk, and now slightly wet, gown clung to her breasts as she descended the staircase. Grace, who sat in the foyer on a cushioned bench as if it were her throne, glared at her, a result of her dampened stays, no doubt.

Fiona guided her to a bench next to Imogene. “With the rain, miss, we’l need to strap on your pattens.” She strapped what looked like rol er skates without wheels to Chloe’s evening slippers.

Imogene explained. “We wouldn’t want to get our slippers caked in mud.” She clunked around on the black and white hal tiles, lifting her powder-blue gown to her ankles.

The pattens took Chloe some getting used to as they elevated her four inches off the ground.

Even Grace the fashionista couldn’t pul these things off. She frowned at them under her gold lamé gown as her maidservant draped her shoulders in a fur capelet.

“I quite like your headdress,” Mrs. Crescent said to Grace. “You look very exotic.”

Grace toyed with her gold-and-pearl necklace. “Why, thank you.”

“Your pelisse,” Fiona said to Chloe. Chloe slid her arms into an ankle-length slate-colored satin coat, tight fitting on the top.

The great doors opened and a footman stepped in, rain dripping from his trifold hat. “Carriage is here for the first group.”

Becky, Gil ian, Olive, Julia, and Kate descended the stairway to get fitted with their pattens. Becky, bil ed as an heiress from Africa, looked radiant in a white silk gown and white headdress. Her dark complexion didn’t need any makeup, and out of al the women, she looked the best.

“You al look gorgeous,” Chloe said. “Especial y you, Miss Harrington. Al the hives are gone.”

Kate smiled. “I know. It was worth breathing in the smel of rotten eggs al day. I wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for Mr. Henry Wrightman.”