America won, and Chloe was sure Grace knew that, too.
Grace turned her back on Chloe, bustled out of the drawing room, and Lady Martha scuttled after her.
Mrs. Scott sat up, snapping her vinaigrette closed. “Miss Parker, I’m not done with you yet. You wil dance with me these next three hours. You need to learn this dance to earn your Accomplishment Points, and so you’re al mine.”
Chloe pressed her ink-stained fingers against the window, looking out on the horses tied to the post in the courtyard. If she had known that this was going to be boot camp in bal gowns, she might not have enlisted. Just half an hour ago she was al about dancing, but Grace had ruined that for her.
Beyond the courtyard, past the sculpted shrubs, along the country lane curving in the distance, Mr. Wrightman, Mr. Sebastian Wrightman, rode in on his white horse, gal oping toward the house, his greyhounds barreling behind him. He wore a black hat, a tan cutaway coat, a cravat in a ruffle at his throat, and riding boots. He moved up and down in the saddle in a slow, rhythmic pulse. Chloe clenched her fan in her left hand.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Scott, ful y recovered. She came to the window. “Carrying the fan in the left hand means you desire his acquaintance.”
Chloe felt color rise to her cheeks.
“Yes, but it’s going to take more than a morning of archery practice and a few dance lessons to earn an introduction,” Mrs. Crescent said.
Mrs. Crescent looked at Chloe as if she were a schoolgirl. “First impressions are so very important, don’t you agree, Mrs. Scott?”
Mrs. Scott nodded her head. “Oh yes. Absolutely, dear. Crucial. There has to be that spark—that je ne sais quoi—right from the beginning.”
Chloe’s shoulders slumped. If Mrs. Crescent was depending on a good first impression, wel , they were screwed.
Alongside Sebastian, the film crew rode in an ATV, cameras rol ing. Hanging off the back of the cart, in his blue jeans, sunglasses, and basebal hat, was George.
“George,” Chloe whispered. Her mind flitted back to Abigail, the money, the modern world. She real y wanted to dash out there and ask him if he’d heard anything from home, but that, of course, would not be the ladylike choice.
Mrs. Crescent, obviously sensing Chloe’s urge to see George, hung on to the ribbon tied behind Chloe’s Empire waist, and that, too, held her back.
“Don’t go out there. Think of Wil iam,” Mrs. Crescent murmured.
“I think of him more than you know.”
Mr. Wrightman dismounted and took off his cutaway coat to inspect one of the horseshoes on his horse.
“I daresay,” Mrs. Scott said from behind her lace fan at the window, “that must be quite a ‘whore pipe’ Mr. Wrightman sports under his inexpressibles.”
Chloe laughed. She didn’t know much Regency slang, or “vulgarian,” as it was cal ed, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out.
She covered her mouth with her gloved hand.
“Shocking!” Mrs. Crescent gaped at Mrs. Scott.
“You know I was an actress, years ago, Mrs. Crescent. Not as wel bred as you, I’m afraid.”
Mrs. Crescent tightened the reins on Chloe. “Miss Parker, Mrs. Scott, I beg you to be discreet. Consider—”
“Consider they’l never see us behind these draperies,” Mrs. Scott said. Mrs. Scott wore a marquis-cut wedding ring, but her blue eyes sparkled even more than the diamond. She real y charmed Chloe with her dramatics. “Consider we’re rather man-depraved around here. I’m quite overcome. Oh, to be young again!” She lifted her hand to her heart.
George directed the camera crew around the front door. He spotted Chloe in the window and lowered his sunglasses down his nose. She raised her eyebrows. Then he seemed to wave her over toward the front entrance. Mrs. Crescent released the ribbon, and Chloe stepped on Fifi’s paw.
The dog yipped and growled. “Sorry, Fifi. Sorry, Mrs. Crescent, I didn’t mean to—”
Fifi bolted.
“Someone catch him!” Mrs. Crescent shouted.
Chloe ran after him, with Mrs. Crescent’s voice trailing behind her. “He’s going to run out to the stables again and get trampled!”
Hot on Fifi’s trail, Chloe pul ed off her gloves and flung them on the silver salver on the hal table. She swooped down to grab the dog, but he wriggled away. Fifi charged down the hal and skidded in the front foyer, where the footmen were just opening the front doors. Just before the dog made it to the threshold, Chloe grabbed him single- handedly, and she bumped right into—Sebastian. She conked right into his ruffled cravat and snug waistcoat. She pressed her hand against his chest and pushed herself away. He glanced at her ink-stained hand, then his waistcoat.
Fifi barked.
“Excuse me,” Chloe managed to say, holding the pug in her arms. “I had to stop Fifi from running outside.”
Sebastian smiled. “Miss Parker? I presume?”
