Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

The other women whispered among themselves.

“Tel the footman I accept, of course,” Grace said.

The butler folded the letter before he spoke. “Aside from her ladyship’s obvious charms, winning this invitation may have something to do with her high number of Accomplishment Points.” He looked down at Chloe. “And Mr. Wrightman’s choice may have been influenced by some . . .

peccadil oes of others in the party.”

Chloe remained stoic.

Gil ian stood and put a hand on her hip. “I have two hundred and ten Accomplishment Points. I’m sure I’m due for another outing with Mr.

Wrightman, too.”

But what real y set the room atwitter was the butler’s announcement that Mr. Wrightman and his brother, Henry, would be practicing their fencing on the east lawn.

“First dibs on the telescope!” Chloe heard Gil ian say amid the din.

Chloe, embarrassed for the entire female gender, slumped in her chair. Mrs. Crescent poked a finger between her shoulder blades. “Posture, Miss Parker. Posture.”

I t took longer for her, with Fiona’s help, to change out of her green archery dress and into her day gown than she had spent on the archery itself. The lady’s lancewood bow with linen bowstring and green velvet grip was exquisite, and the brown suede archery gloves lovely, but she was no Robin Hood, that much was clear. Stil , despite a dismal start, she had completed the task of scoring three bul ’s-eyes in a row, and was al owed to progress to dancing lessons with a total of ten Accomplishment Points to her name.

When the contestants walked into the drawing room with their fans in hand, ready to dance, the servants scrambled. Nobody had told them that another group would be dancing and they had already set the furniture back when the first group had finished. Quickly, the servants moved the furniture, hauling it to the periphery of the room, and rol ed up the French Aubusson carpets. Chloe wished she could help, especial y when she saw the beads of sweat gather on their red faces. The footmen, even in this heat, had to keep their heavy livery coats on, and a hint of body odor permeated the air, despite the open windows. Chloe thought she might need her vinaigrette, the tin with the lavender-scented sponge, after al . No doubt it would’ve been useful at a bal where hundreds of people crushed together, many of them dancing, and very few of whom had likely bathed that day.

Julia, Becky, Grace, and their chaperones wandered in.

Lady Martha Bramble, Grace’s chaperone, cleared her throat, organized her sheet music at the pianoforte, and batted away a fly that had flown in through the open window.

Lady Martha struck up the pianoforte, and Chloe was spel bound. She couldn’t wait to learn the dances that had looked so elegant on TV and the big screen.

Grace fanned herself and her blond curls bounced as she sprawled on a settee. She looked at Chloe, then past her, at Mrs. Crescent. “Must I move? Real y?” Away from the camera, she added, “Pity we can’t tweet here. I’m sure my people miss me.”

Chloe wondered why Grace had bothered to audition for this thing. “Are you familiar with an author named Jane Austen, Lady Grace? She wrote Sense and Sensibility.”

“I know what she wrote. I absolutely adore Jane Austen.”

Chloe leaned in to whisper, knowing, as she did, that in 1812, the only Austen novel to have been published was Sense and Sensibility. “I’m curious. Which is your favorite?”

“Pride and Prejudice,” Grace whispered back. “The one with Keira Knightley.”

Chloe cringed. Not her favorite adaptation. It was historical y inaccurate, for one thing. “I mean which book do you like the most?”

“Oh. I love al of Jane Austen. But I’ve never read her books.”

Chloe looked at her askance. This explained everything.

Julia twirled into the room with her chaperone behind her.

Grace put her chin in the air. “Truly, Miss Parker, I cannot understand why you Americans obsess over al things British. Jane Austen is ours.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And so are the Beatles. James Bond. Mr. Sebastian Wrightman. Hands off. ”

Chloe sat next to Grace. “I’m the first to admit I’m a proud Anglophile, but with an attitude like yours, it’s no wonder we staged the American Revolution. And won. Can you say ‘Boston Tea Party’?”

“Shoulders back.” Mrs. Crescent poked Chloe in the shoulder blades.

Grace nodded in agreement. “Unlike in your savage America, it’s al about the propriety and manners here, Miss Parker.”

“Please. It’s not about the manners. It’s about the man,” said Chloe.

“Or maybe it’s about the money?” Grace whispered behind her fan. Mrs. Scott, the dance mistress, clapped her hands three times and the room, now crowded with various servants to serve as extras in the dance, went silent. A tal woman, probably in her early fifties, Mrs. Scott had a fabulous figure and wore a purple gown with a tal purple feather sticking out of her turban.

Mrs. Scott stared at Chloe, Grace, Becky, and Julia with piercing blue eyes. Without thinking, Chloe straightened her posture and visualized a book on her head. Persuasion.

Mrs. Scott moved to the center of the room. “Far be it from me to draw attention to myself, because this is al about you young ladies, surely.” She brandished her lace fan, sashayed her hips. “But al ow me to demonstrate some steps as a female dancer in ‘Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot.’ Maggot means ‘whim,’ as you al wel know. I find this particular dance so—dramatic.” She clapped her hands and the hodgepodge of servants, footmen, and even the cook from downstairs, who was simply known as “Cook”, stepped forward and