The water around her ankles cooled her entire body, and even though it wasn’t a shower, she felt cleaner. She convinced herself that any lady worth her salt would do the same for the sake of personal hygiene, and after all, she did leave word with a servant to tell Mrs. Crescent that she would be right back. According to the rule book, as long as she didn’t leave Bridesbridge property unchaperoned, she should be okay.
She looked back toward Bridesbridge, but couldn’t see it through the trees. Something, probably a deer, moved among the greenery. She’d better get going. Mrs. Crescent would be waking from her nap soon. Chloe forced herself to head back toward the bank.
Atop a hill, in the distance, stood a Grecian temple with a green dome and six columns. Just above the dome, an airplane sliced through the sky and the rumble of the airplane engine cut through her.
Chamber pots and weekly baths aside, she really didn’t want to go back to the modern world. She had gone in worse places than a chamber pot in her lifetime. Porta-Potties. A parking lot once or twice during the college years. In a plastic cup at the OB when she was pregnant. Then there was Mrs. Crescent’s poor son William, who seemed to have some kind of medical condition. And Abigail, who looked up to her mom and expected her to succeed. Mr. Wrightman may not have looked like her vision of a Mr. Darcy, but her second impression, after the leech incident had been cleared up, was good. Certainly Grace and Mrs. Crescent considered him a paragon.
She’d better get back to the drawing room—pronto.
A horse whinnied on the other side of the water, she lost her soap ball in the water, and her hem fell into the pond.
“How’s the water?” The male voice was English-accented. Unfamiliar. It came from behind the chestnut tree.
Everything went numb, even her lips. The water turned icy, sunlight broke through the trees, and the water went translucent. A man in a green riding coat emerged from behind the tree. He stepped onto the embankment in black riding boots and breeches, a gloved hand holding on to the reins of a white horse. Two greyhounds flanked him.
It could’ve been a scene right out of a Jane Austen adaptation—tall, dark, and handsome hunk of man appears in forest out of nowhere—except, of course, the heroine wouldn’t be knee-deep in pond water, her stockings hung in a tree.
He lifted his hat and bowed his head of slightly unruly black hair. He had dark eyes and broad shoulders in the well-tailored riding coat, and he had to be the man she saw working out with the logs in the field. “Pity we haven’t met formally, Miss Parker, or we’d be free to converse. And I could, perhaps, escort you out of the water.”
How did he know her name? Her stockings floated in the breeze and her ability to speak simply floated away.
“I have been most anxiously awaiting your arrival, and now I can see why.”
She flinched.
“Not to worry. I won’t report this infraction. Not yet, anyway. Luckily, I gave my cameraman the slip for the moment. You’re on Dartworth property unchaperoned, you know. You’d be asked to leave. And I wouldn’t want that, I can tell you.” He moved toward the pond’s edge, the dogs panting at his side.
She didn’t think the pond could be on Dartworth land! She had to get out of here. Then it occurred to her that she was alone in the woods with a man she didn’t know, her stockings hanging in a nearby tree.
“Just who are you?” Chloe asked.
“Don’t you know who I am?” He laughed.
Now, that was pretty egomaniacal even if he was gorgeous.
He shaded his eyes with his hand and tried to get a better look at her. This was the guy from the field, from the bathtub. She could see that now. She stepped back. Maybe this was a trap. A man wasn’t supposed to see a woman’s bare legs or ankles until after marriage. Chloe’s ankles were well hidden under the water, and she decided not to move until he left.
But he just kept staring at her as if she were the only woman left in the world, and it made her—uncomfortable.
“Since we haven’t been properly introduced, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she said.
He cocked his head, stepped off the boulder, and a look of hurt came over his face. She instantly regretted the remark, but had to play by the rules, especially since she had already accidentally broken one of them. He mounted his horse, tipped his hat. “Good day, Miss Parker.” She curtsied. And he galloped off, his horse’s tail twitching, his dogs bounding after him.
Whoever he was, he’d probably report her infraction and she’d be on the next flight home. As she trudged toward the bank, a strange noise came from behind. She whipped around. A group of frogs was croaking on the opposite side of the pond, their throats puffing with air. Something slithered around her ankle. She fumbled up the embankment and scrambled toward her linen towel. As quickly as she could with a linen towel, she dried off her legs and feet. The sound of hooves pounded around the far edge of the pond. Flickerings of a man on horseback appeared through the trees. He’d come back! She rolled down her pantalets and reached for her stockings.
Chloe turned to say something—anything—to him. But . . . it wasn’t him. It was Mr. Wrightman, who dismounted his black horse even as it was moving.
She didn’t think his appearance was mere coincidence. Her every move was probably tracked on a GPS chip in her microphone pack. She slid into her stockings and fumbled with the ribbons. Finally, she tied them off, though they were much slouchier than when Fiona had done them.
He took off his hat and bowed. “And here I was hoping you’d emerge from the pond in a wet shirt.”
Despite herself, Chloe laughed at the Colin Firth Pride and Prejudice reference, but she kept herself from saying anything out of character and determined to get back on Bridesbridge property right away. She hurriedly pulled on her shoes.
“I suppose you weren’t swimming. You were—trimming your bonnet? Do you want to be asked to leave?”
“No! I love Bridesbridge. It was—the chamber pot. And the one-bath-a-week thing. I’m over it now. I’ve got to get back to Bridesbridge.” She yanked on her gloves.
“Just now, when I saw Sebastian, and he told me you were here at the frog hatchery, I—”
“His name is Sebastian? And this is a frog hatchery?” She’d washed off in a frog hatchery?!
“It’s one of my conservation projects. A mere two hundred years from now, in the twenty-first century, more than half of the global amphibian population will face extinction.”
He was spewing factoids at a time like this? She plopped the bonnet on her head and spun toward the pond, seeing now, for the first time, just how many frogs were scampering around. Her soap had disappeared. She eyed the boulder where the dark-haired so-called Sebastian had appeared with his dogs and horse, but she didn’t dare ask about him. No doubt Mr. Wrightman would find it all very improper.
He grabbed her fan and parasol and handed them to her.
His gallantry surprised her. She scampered toward the footpath, looking back as she spoke. “I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Wrightman, for helping in the preservation of the Miss Parker species.”
“My pleasure. It’s a specimen we really wouldn’t want to lose.” He untied his horse and caught up with her.
She spoke as quickly as she could. “And I apologize for my bad reaction to the leeches. I just don’t appreciate being put under the microscope. But . . . I have to hurry back. I didn’t want to break any rules, I just needed to wash up.”
“I understand. It’s better that you go back alone, and to get on Bridesbridge property sooner, you should go that way.” He pointed to the north side of the property. “Watch out for the ha-ha. Do you see it?”