Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

Henry’s eyes roamed from her face to her neck, her breasts, her legs—then he turned to head back. “Fol ow me for the way out,” he said in the pouring rain as he led the way. “If you lose sight of me, keep your left hand on the hedge. I’ve got to hurry and get the dog cleaned and bandaged before infection sets in. He’s covered in mud.”

Henry didn’t know her lace was broken. As she fol owed him, her cameraman fol owed her, rain running down her face, over her lip, and into her mouth, tasting sweet and salty at the same time. The sky flashed lightning.

In a matter of moments she lost sight of Henry and could no longer hear his boots crunching in the gravel. She placed her wet glove on the hedge to her left. Fog was rol ing in among the hedgerows, and al at once the vivid green hedges seemed grayer, tal er, woodier. What kind of mother would let herself get lost in a hedge maze in the middle of nowhere in England, during a thunderstorm?

“Hand on the left. Hand on the left.”

Rain dripped down from her fingertips to her elbow as if she were a human gutter. She felt as if she’d been in this very spot five minutes ago. Did she just make a big circle? It occurred to her what a bril iant invention the GPS was, and she determined that as soon as she got home and could afford it, she’d buy one, because she hated being lost and alone. But, as it turned out, she wasn’t alone.

She turned and looked right at the cameraman. “Al right. How do we get out of here?”

He didn’t respond, he just kept filming.

“You don’t have to say anything. Just lead the way. I’l fol ow you.”

He stayed put.

“Ugh!” Exasperated, Chloe threw her arms up.

Thunder rumbled and the hedges seemed to grow tal er. Left hand. Left hand against the hedge, she reminded herself. Her gloves went translucent on her fingers. Tufts of fog blew through the hedgerows, obscuring the path. She kept bumping into the same dead end over and over.

When the rain began to let up, she stopped shivering. Her hair had gone wild and windblown around her shoulders and the bottom of her white gown was brown with mud.

Final y, she saw an opening in the distance. It was the exit! She did it. She’d made it! Al by herself. Something moved toward her, ran toward her in the fog. It was Sebastian come to save her, a little too late, unfortunately. She shook off the disappointment, but not the cold and rain.

“Miss Parker! Are you al right?” Sebastian cal ed out.

“I think so, Colonel Brandon,” she replied.

He smiled at the Austen reference and opened his arms to her. Did he forget he couldn’t touch her? She was too cold and wet to care about protocol or the camera. He held out his arms to her and she had no resistance left. She buried her head in his wet, white ruffled shirt, taking in his wine-barrel, snufflike aroma. He, too, had been soaked through and his body felt chil ed.

“I think we make a pretty cool couple.” She shivered and whispered in his ear, alone with him at last.

Sebastian didn’t have an umbrel a or a coat to offer her, but in an instant he swooped her up in his arms.

She locked her arms around his strong neck, and he carried her toward Dartworth Hal . Now, where were al the cameras when she needed them?

“You are Colonel Brandon after al ,” Chloe said.

Sebastian smiled while his Hessian boots trudged on. He seemed an enigma to her, but the scent of spongy grass fil ed the air and being in his arms made her feel safe and taken care of.

His dark eyes looked straight ahead at the doors of the hal , his nostrils flared slightly. The rain had stopped, but it had made him slick back his black hair, as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. His cheekbones were so chiseled a girl could go rock-climbing on them. The moment was right out of a movie, until he lost his footing, slipped in the mud, and Chloe slid out of his arms and landed with her feet on the ground.

He caught her, helped her regain her footing, and their hands touched for the first time. “So sorry,” he said, with his incredible English accent.

“I’m not.” She melted faster than a chocolate molten lava cake. “Maybe you’re fal ing for me.”

He laughed and there they were, face-to-face. “I am—fal ing for you. I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re a rarity.” He moved closer as if to kiss her, and her lips parted. She resisted taking his designer-stubbled jawline in her hands.

His lips were almost pressing against hers and his arms had almost gone around her waist when they heard twigs snap behind them, reminding them that Chloe’s cameraman was stil there, and now another cameraman had appeared as wel .