Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

Mrs. Crescent pointed a finger at her. “To win this competition, you need to do more than act like a lady. You need to be one.” With that, she took off.

Chloe picked up the cat and slid the quil from his teeth. She thought about sending Sebastian a thank-you note, but she couldn’t write to a man unless they were engaged. Or could she? Marianne Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility did.

She took the cat up to her bedchamber, shutting him in the room with her. She’d never had a cat before. And no man had ever given her anything with more of a pulse than a potted petunia. He must’ve real y trusted her; after al , he had no idea that an eight-year-old girl thrived under her care.

She plopped herself down on the red velvet-cushioned stool at her writing desk and ceremoniously lit a tal ow candle with a piece of kindling from the fire in her fireplace. The cat paced near the door. She took a piece of thick writing paper from the shelf and it felt almost like cloth. Seizing her bottle of rose water from the dressing table, she sprinkled a couple droplets onto the paper. Mmm—text messages never smel ed like roses!

She plucked the goose quil from the penholder, and—was it her sex-starved imagination, or was this pen total y phal ic? She touched the hand-cut nib, which was spliced up the center, and ran her hand al the way up the bare shaft to the few feather barbs left at the top. Henry had told her most quil s came from the gray goose, and “pen” derived from penna, Latin for “feather.” They were made from the stiff flight feathers on the leading edge of the bird’s wing. Henry, schmenry. The only reason why she thought about him at al was that she spent the most time with him by default, and that had to change.

She flipped the silver top off the crystal ink pot, dipped the quil into the ink, and wiped the shaft of the pen on the rim, as Mrs. Crescent had taught her. The ink permeated the nib and she’d just written the word Dear when the ink ran out and the cat jumped onto the paper. Paw prints and ink were smeared al over. At least she no longer got ink up to her elbows like the first time she tried to write with a quil . She started al over again, with fresh paper, and wrote in a most ladylike tone:

Dear Mr. Wrightman,

Thank you for the mousetrap.

It was a most thoughtful gesture and I’m hoping the cat will catch the mouse sooner rather than later.

Yours,

Miss Parker

After rol ing the blotter over her words, she folded the letter and dipped a black sealing-wax stick into the candle. Smoke uncoiled into the air. The melting wax perfumed the air with sweetness. The wax dripped slowly onto the paper, forming a liquid circle. Brass seal in hand, she pushed the letter P into the soft wax. It was much more satisfying than clicking the send button!

“Fiona,” Chloe cal ed out down the hal way. Fiona was never far. “Please have this delivered to Mr. Wrightman immediately.”

Fiona took the letter and curtsied.

“Wait. No. I can’t do this. Please give that back to me, Fiona. Sorry to have bothered you.” It was the ladylike thing to do. She’d have to thank him in person, the next time he chose to see her.

Fiona handed the letter back, and without a second thought, Chloe tossed it into her fire. With that, she closed her bedchamber door, stripped off her silk gown, donned a lacy dressing gown, pul ed al the pins out of her hair to let it down, and stood at the window.

Her eyes went al glassy as she imagined Sebastian serenading her. He would toss a bouquet of red rosebuds up to her and she would catch it

—

An hour and forty-five minutes later, she sat at her open window, flicking her cheek with the quil pen. She couldn’t see Grace and Sebastian anywhere anymore. The hal clock had struck one ages ago. Two o’clock and it was archery time.

She watched a footman and driver mount a carriage below and drive it off toward Dartworth Hal in the afternoon heat. Footmen dressed in long-sleeved coats and wigs carried big wooden tables and wooden chairs out to the lawn for the archery meet while the maids balanced wooden trays loaded with pitchers of lemonade and raspberry puddings ringed with rose petals.

Wel , some music would’ve been nice. She didn’t realize how much she’d miss the radio, her CDs, her LP col ection, and yes, even iTunes.

Sometimes it was just so—quiet here. And the fact that Sebastian had sent her a gift of a cat put her in a celebratory mood. He must have some feelings for her!