“No rest for the weary, Miss Parker.” Mrs. Crescent clapped and Fifi barked.
“I shook my ink vial three times today, Mrs. Crescent.”
“No, no, it’s not that.”
“What, then? Darning a footman’s stockings? Trimming Lady Grace’s pantalets?”
Mrs. Crescent motioned her to get up. “Come here, dear, and you wil see.” She led Chloe to the drawing room, a footman opened the doors, and at first, al Chloe saw was the candlelight.
Sebastian rose from a high-backed chair near the fireplace, stepped over to her, and bowed.
Chloe wondered if she stil smel ed of mincemeat from the kitchen. She curtsied.
“Mr. Wrightman is here to take your silhouette.”
“Only if Miss Parker wishes me to,” he said.
If he only knew her wishes! “Yes, yes of course,” Chloe said.
A candle burned in front of a large piece of paper attached to the wal and Mr. Wrightman escorted Chloe to the chair turned sideways in front of it. Chloe sat down, her back straight, thanks to the busk. He picked up a stick of charcoal.
Mrs. Crescent and Fifi sat on the far end of the drawing room, out of earshot, but not out of sight.
Mr. Wrightman put his hands on her head, then her shoulders, adjusting her until he achieved the desired effect, that effect being her whole body going aflutter.
“This may be a chal enge for you, Miss Parker, as you cannot talk while I’m tracing your shadow.”
Chloe smirked. “I can accept that chal enge.”
He started to trace. “Consequently, you’l simply have to listen. I must say, Mrs. Crescent is quite the taskmaster.”
Chloe’s eyes, not her head, turned toward Mrs. Crescent, who merely turned another page in her book and continued to pet Fifi.
“Ah, there, she can’t hear me, so I can say what I came here to say.”
Chloe couldn’t imagine what that would be.
“You must know, Miss Parker, that I know significantly more about you than you know about me, and this puts me at a great advantage. I can confidently say we are ideal y matched. Not only was I privy to your audition video, but to al the transcripts of your interviews with our producers.”
He paused for a moment. “Certain strands of your hair simply refuse to be pinned in, and I find that infinitely charming and entirely indicative of your character.”
Chloe didn’t know how much longer she could remain silent. Her lips parted and her eyelashes fluttered.
“I also had the opportunity, since I knew your ful name and the city you live in, to look you up on the Internet.”
She gulped. This was exactly the kind of cyberstalking Emma would do. So much for a slow-build Regency courtship. He had TMI while she had
—nothing.
“That’s the advantage of the era we live in, that with just a few clicks we can learn so much.”
That was exactly what she couldn’t stand. A day after you’ve met someone, via Twitter or Facebook, you know what they ate for dinner last night.
Where was the mystery? The romance? The
He paused again and stood back from the tracing, within her line of sight. He studied the shadow on the wal , not her, so her eyes were free to wander down from his broad shoulders in his tightly tailored cutaway coat, past his cravat, down the last two undone buttons on his waistcoat, to his suggestive white breeches tucked into boots with the tops folded over.
“Yes, I think I wil continue past your slender neck and trace your bust, even though I am risking Mrs. Crescent’s disapproval.”
Chloe did her best to breathe slowly.
“Wel , as it turns out, we have much in common, Miss Parker, perhaps most markedly in our charitable ventures and choice of entertainment.
Architectural preservation events, the opera, theater, gal ery openings, museum galas, gourmet restaurants, I see us together, you on my arm, perhaps even as my wife, in my London town house. Or my lodgings in Bath. Or here in Derbyshire, or al of the above.”
Chloe did everything she could to keep her mouth from going ga-ga. She couldn’t even imagine that kind of life.
“There.” He stood back, hands on his hips, and stared at his work. “Not as good as the original, but—”
He could be a little too charming. “Real y, Mr. Wrightman!”
He took the piece of paper down, picked up the scissors, pul ed a Chippendale chair up across from her, and sat down, just looking at her. “But true, al of it true.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Might I have a lock of your hair?” He held the scissors in his palm.
Was he for real?
