Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

the woes of the single American woman. During our extensive interviews with you, you said you’re open to finding love and happily-ever-after. Is it true, Miss Parker, or did you misrepresent yourself?”

He had her there. The spotlights shone bright and hot, and she hesitated to say it on camera.

“It’s true. What you said.”

George smiled and looked her straight in the eye. “Say it, Miss Parker.”

“I’m stil hoping to find true love.”

George clasped his hands.

“But not now—someday. And it’l never happen on a reality dating show.”

“Don’t think of it as ‘dating’; think of it as ‘courting.’”

“If I took this on, the only thing I’d be courting is disaster.” Chloe steadied herself with a palm on the whitewashed wal . She squeezed her eyes shut. “What is the name of this atrocity?”

“The working title is How to Date Mr. Darcy.”

Chloe’s stomach churned. “You have got to be kidding me. If Jane Austen only knew! ‘Dating’ is right there in the title, it’s an anachronism.

Where’s the courtship? Where’s the class?”

“Even if the title is a little on the commercial side, the production is top-notch. Trust me.”

Trust him?!

A text message beeped on her phone, and, stil holding the gown in front of her, she scissor-stepped over to it. Abigail’s text said “<3 u” and Chloe would never have even known that meant “heart you” had Abigail not taught her. “Hugs 4ever,” Chloe texted back. She needed to cal her.

Chloe sighed, phone in one hand, gown in the other, wondering what to do. If she quit this thing, would she regret it? She’d be out the money for the plane ticket, which she’d paid for with the last of her savings. She’d have to face a short sale on the brownstone, her bankrupt business, and worse, she’d have to explain to Abigail why she quit. One of the perks of doing this thing was to set an example for her daughter that a woman, even a single mom, could go to another country, hel , another era—and kick butt. But what kind of PR for her business would come out of something cal ed How to Date Mr. Darcy?

Speaking of how, how could she leave England now, when she’d been dreaming of coming here her entire life? And why did the image of her on a dark-haired Mr. Darcy’s arm just pop into her head?

She stared at her phone, as if it would have the answers.

“Bit of a mobile addict, Miss Parker?” George asked.

That snapped her back to—dare she think it—reality. George obviously hadn’t read the bio she sent. “Oh yes, I can’t get enough of modern time-sucks like Facebook, Twitter, or reality TV. Bring it on. Who would want to step back in time a couple hundred years and actual y live a quality life?”

“That’s the attitude, Miss Parker! So glad you’re on board.”

“I never said—”

His phone blared a British police-siren ringtone. “So sorry, best take this one. Whatever did we do without these things?”

“We read books and talked face-to-face. We didn’t watch reality, we lived it.”

George winked at Chloe. “Hal o,” he answered his phone. He whispered to her, “You’re perfect. Just relax. Forget the cameras. You’l make a fabulous governess.”

Chloe almost dropped the gown. “Get out! I can’t be a governess! I—I forgot al my col ege French.” Being cast as a governess would be her worst nightmare. Homeschooling spoiled children in an attic somewhere? Wearing gray up to her chin? Dealing with a moody master? This sounded more Jane Eyre than Jane Austen.

“I’m kidding. Kidding. Of course you’re not a governess. Not in that gown. Though it wil tear if you step on it, I’m afraid. It’s sprigged muslin.”

Chloe lifted the gown and narrowed her eyes at him.

“You’ve just proven to me that you real y do want to be a contestant and not just a—governess.”

She had passed a test, and didn’t even know she was being quizzed.

This time she had the questions, so many questions, and it was her turn to get some answers, but George didn’t give her a chance. He left, the cameras stayed.

He slammed the door so hard behind him that something shook above her. It was swags of drying lavender. Ah, lavender. England. Regency England, where leather-bound books were treasures, where women who had a talent for drawing were cal ed “accomplished,” and where men were gentlemen—not sleazy producers.

Fiona brought over a stack of garments, placed them on the chaise, and hung the gown back up.

“Fiona, please tel George I insist on finishing our discussion.”

“You’re to see him after you’re dressed, Miss Parker, and you can sort it al out then, can’t you?”

Chloe eyed the gown. If she left, she’d be leaving this picture-perfect inn, and she hadn’t even seen Bridesbridge Place yet. She slunk down on the chaise and ran her fingers over the red velvet. “I don’t want to go. You can real y feel the history here.”

“Forgive me, miss, but it’s just an inn.”