Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

A camerawoman bounded toward them from down the hal . Footmen lumbered up the stairs with pots of boiled water and kitchen maids carried up stacks of white linens. Al Chloe and Sebastian could do was fol ow.

When the entourage arrived in the dining room, Mrs. Crescent sat, fanning herself and smiling.

Henry stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at Sebastian and Chloe, who came in last. “False alarm,” he said. “Her contractions have stopped.” He pul ed Chloe aside and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Wel done, Miss Parker. You may be the smartest person in the room, but a lot of help you were, using this opportunity to take off with Sebastian. So glad I can count on you.”

Chloe wavered, feeling dizzy, surprised by his snarky reaction, which complimented and scolded her in one fel swoop. It crossed her mind, but only for a moment, that he might be jealous of his own brother. “You—you can count on me.”

Henry took off his glasses. “I hope so. Mrs. Crescent wants you to help me deliver the baby when it’s time. Do you think I can rely on you, or shal I consider you otherwise engaged?”

Chloe was shocked. Whether it was because of Mrs. Crescent choosing her to help deliver her baby, or how good Henry looked without glasses, she wasn’t sure.

“Can I count on you, Miss Parker?” Henry folded his arms.

“Of course.”

L ater that night, in her boudoir, Chloe woke up to a nightmare of Henry asking over and over, “Can I count on you?” She got out of bed and stumbled to her chamber pot, sicker than a girl who’d drunk negus al night at her coming-out bal . She leaned over it, her stomach sloshing. Could have been that spoonful of fish soup, or the fact that she’d have to spend the next two days riding sidesaddle, and if she didn’t ride, she’d be sent home. Would she stil be able to ride after more than twenty years? As she hugged her chamber pot, she realized, though, she was sick over disappointing Henry. Ugh! She liked Henry, but—real y! The fact that she cared so much about his opinion of her made her sick, literal y. She felt overwhelmed and confused.

At home she could’ve turned on music, the TV—hel , even the computer to distract herself. But here? Her own thoughts could torment her relentlessly. Final y she decided to play the footage in her mind of her moments alone with Sebastian, and that made her feel better.

He felt the same way about her as she felt about him! She had to take the reins and come up with a plan that put her in control. She decided to host a tea after the foxhunt. It would take some doing, and she’d have to put aside her painting, but it would be her show and she could cal the shots. Before she snuffed out her candle, she settled her eye on the stack of painting paper and tubes of oil paint that Sebastian had given her. He, too, was an artist. But what kind of artist? A vision of Dartworth Hal floated in front of her. Could he be the one? He was stacking up to be a most interesting man. Instead of snuffing out the candle, she blew it out and made a wish.

Chapter 9

E ven though she’d only just arrived, every day Chloe asked James, the Bridesbridge butler, if there were any letters for her. She couldn’t wait to hear from Abigail.

“Not today, miss,” was his reply as he offered letters from his silver salver to the rest of the women.

Mail from overseas took at least a week, sometimes two, so how could she expect something in just four days? She spent the morning arranging the hunt-tea menu with Cook, thril ed that hosting the tea would bring her fifteen Accomplishment Points, and the afternoon working on mounting and dismounting sidesaddle, until she earned five Accomplishment Points for that. Grace and the other women earned ten Accomplishment Points because they were ahead of her, practicing their jumps.

James arrived at her side during teatime with the silver salver.

“Letter for you, Miss Parker.”

The other ladies at the tea table set their teacups down and eyed the overnighted envelope with curiosity.

Chloe ripped open the cardboard envelope and almost bolted to the foyer, but then she remembered to ask first. “Mrs. Crescent, might I take this to the Grecian temple to read? I won’t be long.”

Mrs. Crescent, completely recovered from her false labor and feeling no il effects, fed Fifi a lump of sugar under the table. “Go ahead, dear, but watch for rain. Soon as you’re back, you must make your ink and start your needlework project.”

Chloe’s cameraman fol owed her as she trounced past the herb garden in her bonnet and walking gloves, parasol in hand, blue day dress flouncing at her ankles. Once under the green dome of the Grecian temple atop the hil at Bridesbridge, she sat on a stone bench and ceremoniously opened the envelope.