Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

For once, Chloe didn’t have a wisecracking thought in her swirling brain. She didn’t want to go—and not just because of the money either.

Beyond just lusting for Sebastian, she actual y wanted—no, needed to be with him, to talk with him and learn more about him.

The footmen opened the mahogany doors. “Ladies.” It was George, dressed in a butler’s coat, his auburn hair coiffed to Regency perfection, with a curl tumbling down his forehead and into his eye. He was a player. Why hadn’t Chloe seen it? She leaned in toward him, hoping for a message from home, but there wasn’t one. The footmen shut the mahogany doors behind George.

“Before we enter the hal , I’d like to take a moment to review everyone’s Accomplishment Points.” He pul ed a black leather-bound book from his pocket. “Lady Grace d’Argent leads with three hundred and ninety points. Miss Julia Tripp, three hundred and eighty points. Miss Gil ian Potts, three hundred and eighty points. Miss Becky Carver, three hundred and sixty-five points. Miss Olive Silverton, three hundred and sixty points. Miss Imogene Wel s, three hundred and thirty points. Miss Kate Harrington, three hundred and twenty-five points. And Miss Chloe Parker . . . fifteen points.”

Mrs. Crescent patted Chloe’s arm. Grace lifted her chin in the air.

The butler continued. “But it’s only fair, considering we have a new guest, to even the playing field, especial y as our guest has been a lady about the entire situation and not raised a complaint. As of tonight, everyone wil start over with zero points.”

The women, except for Imogene, gasped and stepped away from Chloe, as if this were her fault. Grace narrowed her eyes at Chloe, and al of them, Grace in particular, because she was in the lead, had real reason to hate her now.

“And in terms of popularity, according to our online audience ratings system, there is one woman who far outranks the rest at the moment.”

The women al looked around at one another, except for Grace, who nodded and smiled at her chaperone.

“Miss Chloe Parker wins the week’s audience popularity contest by tenfold,” George said.

Chloe had never been superpopular before. But here, in England, in 1812, apparently they liked her, except for her fel ow contestants.

“Now. The Invitation Ceremony. May I point out to you again the importance of the invitation in this era. Entire seasons, entire destinies are made or broken by invitations. If you are lucky enough to get invited to the right bal s, the right dinners, you may meet the husband you are destined to be with. Without the invitations, you could become a spinster. Invitations are everything. Good luck,” George said. He gave a nod and the footmen swung open the doors to a room swathed in crimson and lined with velvet curtains and velvet-stuffed chairs.

Sebastian stood next to a footman holding a silver salver stacked with five creamy envelopes, al with red W seals, no doubt. He stepped forward in his starched cravat, tailored black cutaway coat, off-white breeches, and stockings that showed off the muscles of his calves. He bowed, his dark eyes flitting from girl to girl. Chloe’s white-gloved hands shook as if she’d had a round or two of triple-espresso lattes without the latte. Maybe what Grace said in the carriage was true. Maybe al that mattered to her was the money. But there was more to it than that. Mrs. Crescent nudged Chloe until she curtsied.

“Welcome to Dartworth Hal . So pleased to see you, Miss Parker.”

Heat rose up her neck and into her cheeks. “Pleased to see you,” she said, and curtsied again. She was more pleased than he could know.

The chaperones stood in a cluster off to the side, shifting their feet and adjusting their assorted headdresses and necklaces. The eligible women had been instructed to stand in a line straight across, arm’s length apart, facing Sebastian.

“I just want everyone to know that this was one of the hardest decisions I’ve had to make.” He looked down at his brass-buckled black shoes, reached for the first invitation, and looked straight ahead, then, after a pause, his eyes darted toward Chloe, then away.

“Miss Kate Harrington.”

Kate stepped forward.

“Miss Kate Harrington, wil you accept this invitation?”

“I wil .” She curtsied, went back to her place, and sniffled.

The blatant sexism that defined this reality show ate away at Chloe as she watched Julia, then Gil ian grateful y “accept” their invitations. But George was right when he said invitations could make or break a Regency woman’s future. It just never hit her until now, this pathetic aspect of being a woman in 1812. She tasted something sour in her mouth, but that could’ve been the tooth powder.

“Lady Grace d’Argent.”

Grace sauntered forward with a smirk on her face.

“Lady Grace d’Argent, wil you accept this invitation?”

“Absolutely.” She curtsied, and slowly walked back to her place.

George stepped in front of the cameras. “Ladies. There is one invitation left.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Mr. Wrightman, proceed.”

Chloe felt nauseous, probably hungry. It couldn’t be that her fantasy Regency world wasn’t al she had cracked it up to be or that it was al crashing down around her. Mrs. Crescent crossed her fingers.

“Miss Chloe Parker.”

Instead of looking at Sebastian, she looked at Mrs. Crescent, whose shoulders slumped in relief—she, who prided herself on her excel ent posture.

“Miss Chloe Parker,” Sebastian said again.

In a muddle of happiness and humiliation, Chloe stepped forward. This was what it felt like to be a woman in