Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

“Hook me up, then—with the mike, that is.”

He laughed and clipped the wireless translucent microphone pack to the back of her gown, then draped a silky shawl over her shoulders. “Mr.

Wrightman handpicked you. You! Out of eight thousand applicants—”

Chloe interrupted. “Eight thousand?”

She felt flattered, and already enamored of the kind of man who would participate in such an elaborate Jane Austenesque scheme in the hopes of finding his true love—if she were to believe al this.

“You’re the only American contestant.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. It had a competitive, Olympic-type feel to it, as if she alone were representing the entire United States, and she hardly qualified to represent the typical American woman.

“Rule number three,” George said. “Stay in character. No talking about the Internet and jobs and iPods.”

“I think we’re up to rule number five now. But not to worry about me babbling on about modern life. I’m ecstatic to be away from it.”

“Every day there wil be a task, some tasks wil take only a few hours, others wil be ongoing, but each smal task wil be worth five points. Larger tasks and competitions wil be worth fifteen. You’l acquire these ‘Accomplishment Points’ by completing chal enges such as trimming a bonnet and seeing a few Regency craft projects through to completion.

“For every twenty-five Accomplishment Points you accumulate, you win time with Mr. Wrightman. There wil be various competitions, including archery and a foxhunt. Winning wil be to your advantage. And, in order to be invited to the bal , you’l need to survive the Invitation Ceremonies. At every Invitation Ceremony, somebody, sometimes several women, get sent home. Oh, and the audience, via phone and Internet, rates you during your stay as a service to Mr. Wrightman. You have three weeks to win How to Date Mr. Darcy.”

Chloe was rendered speechless at such a delicious array of Regency experiences soured by the odious reality- show points system, popularity contests, and jockeying for a marriage proposal. She didn’t real y understand how the scoring worked and she hated the thought of it. She squinted at George, but her eyes widened when, on the screen behind him, she got a flash of what must’ve been Mr. Wrightman’s taut butt as he stood up in the tub, just before the servant wrapped a linen sheet around his dripping body.

“He’s got a great ass, don’t you think?” George asked, looking at the screen side by side with her.

Chloe propel ed herself toward the trailer door.

“I’m glad to see you exhibit the proper modesty of a Regency heroine. You must behave at al times as if you are a lady of quality in 1812. As a

Jane Austen fan, you should know what you can and can’t do, but just in case, your rule book details everything. Any modern behavior and you risk expulsion.”

She bit her lip.

“Now for the fun part. Accessories.” George guided her toward an open wooden trunk.

“Your purse, or ‘reticule.’ Inside you’l find your tiara from home to wear to the bal .” He hung a slip of a crimson silk bag from her arm and the golden tassels dangled as she moved.

It looked like one of Abigail’s toy purses. “Women real y did have a lot less baggage back then,” she said.

“Vinaigrette.” He opened a silver perforated case, smal er than a matchbox, and waved it under her nose. Vinegar and—lemon? He tucked it into her reticule. “A lady would open her vinaigrette to avoid rank smel s, say in the streets of London. Or to keep herself from fainting.”

“I never faint. And what could possibly smel rank out there?” Chloe looked out the trailer-door window at the lush English countryside.

“Fan.” With a crinkle, George opened the fan to reveal a painted scene of a woman in a flowing gown playing a lute.

“It’s gorgeous.”

George slipped it into the reticule. “Cal ing cards.” He opened a silver case the size of a cigarette tin and revealed a cream-colored stack of cards. Miss Chloe Parker had been printed in black script and hand-set on a letterpress printer. She ran her fingertip along the script and felt the debossed letters sinking into the paper. “They’re letterpressed.”

F eel this,” she’d said to Winthrop when she finished printing up menus for one of their fund-raising dinner parties.

“Okay. So I can feel the letters.”

“That’s why the slogan for the business wil be ‘Make a great impression.’”

“Cute.” He tossed the menu on the table. “But if you’re going to open your own business, don’t you think it should have something to do with the Web? I mean. That’s where the money is.”

“You don’t get it. My future’s in the past and I’m going to do handmade. Hand-set type. Cotton-rag paper. Hand-stitched books. It’s what the world needs right now.”

He got that fuzzy look in his eye that told her everything she needed to know. Then he pul ed his BlackBerry out of his jeans pocket to check his e-mails.

G eorge tipped the cal ing-card case into her reticule. “I can see you approve of the cal ing cards. I told you everything is historical y accurate here.

Just look at these gloves, for example. A lady never leaves home without them.” He gave her a pair of light gray gloves that she glided onto her arms with a strange familiarity, as if she had been wearing them al her life. They reached just past her elbows, almost touching her cap sleeves, but they became a little loose and bunchy just