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, will you accept this invitation?”
“I will.” 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 Gillian gratefully “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, will 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 all she had cracked it up to be or that it was all 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 excellent 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 Regency England, waiting for men to determine your destiny.
Sebastian smiled. “Miss Parker, will you accept this invitation?”
The red wax seal looked like candy.
“Yes, I will.” She hardly knew where the words came from. Glad to be asked, but mortified to accept, she curtsied, and on her way back, she noticed Imogene wipe a tear from her cheek. She, Olive, and Becky didn’t have an invitation. Chloe’s three favorites.
“Ladies,” said George. “Mr. Wrightman has made his decision. You may say your good-byes.”
Grace held her arms out to Imogene, who instead threw herself at Chloe. Abigail had cried like this when she finally understood that Winthrop wouldn’t be living with them anymore. Chloe wrapped her arms around Imogene and realized that even Imogene could use a shower.
“I can’t believe he chose Grace over me,” Imogene whimpered into Chloe’s neck. “I actually have feelings for him and . . . and I don’t want to go.”
“I know. I’m going to miss you.”
Imogene was the closest thing to a friend Chloe had here, and Sebastian ripped her away. Who else would Chloe talk to? Paint with? Imogene stepped back and squeezed Chloe’s arms. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Good luck.”
“That’s quite enough now.” George linked his arm in Imogene’s, avoiding eye contact with Chloe. “Your carriage is waiting.”
Chloe hugged Becky and Olive. They wished her well, even though, Olive said, Chloe seemed a mismatch for Sebastian. The audacity! Imogene threw Grace an air kiss. Sebastian said good-bye and thank you to the women. As Imogene walked out the double mahogany doors, her blue satin bow on the back of her gown drooped like a frown.
Sad as Chloe was to see her go, and embarrassed as she was to have participated in the ceremony, she thrilled at the thought of staying on, for the money and the man, and this mix of emotion made her uncomfortable. A torrent of lust and a wave of hope for love overcame her. Her mouth quivered into a smile as Mrs. Crescent congratulated her.
Sebastian turned and smiled at Chloe, but protocol dictated that he escort Grace. He took her arm and they both turned their backs on her. The other women and their chaperones followed suit, leaving Chloe in the back of the promenade alone.
George seemed to have vaporized and Henry appeared just as quickly and bowed to Chloe. He held out his arm and offered to escort her. “I’m sorry that Miss Wells was asked to leave. I know you’ll miss her.”
Henry was not only observant, but thoughtful. “Thank you, Mr. Wrightman. I will miss her.”
“Someday, when we have a chance,” he said, “I’d like to show you the library. I think you’d quite like it.”
Chapter 8
From Chloe’s vantage point in the back of the promenade, Sebastian looked hot and bulging in his “inexpressibles.” His tight cream-colored breeches were revealed every time his coattails wafted open. With this potent cocktail of sexiness and intelligence that she had only ever seen on screen, she forgot everything else.
She felt compelled to reconnect with him as she had this morning, or next time around he could kick her off the show with his gold-buckled shoe. But she was at the end, the very end, of the line of guests walking through the mahogany-paneled hall toward the dining room at Dartworth. It made her jealous that he led the procession, arm in arm with Grace, and then it made her mad that she felt jealous. She was just getting to know him! Why was she crushing on him already? The rest of the party followed in order of rank with Chloe, the token poor girl (and come on, she had always thought of herself as decidedly upper middle class despite her current strife) bringing up the end.
Holding her chin high and her spine straight, she walked through the doors with Henry, the cameras all over her. Once she lowered her chin, she found herself standing in front of a long table bedecked in a white tablecloth, and she felt wistful now, on top of everything, because it was Wednesday night, her pizza-and-movie night with Abigail. The grand dining table in front of her stood resplendent with five-pronged candelabra and beeswax candles, silver-rimmed china bowls, and crystal wine goblets at each place setting. Pineapples and shiny red apple pyramids punctuated each end of the table. Fruit! She hadn’t eaten fruit in days, as it was considered bad for a lady’s complexion. Dainty desserts stood on silver epergnes, and five footmen in blue coats and gold waistcoats, all equally young and handsome, and all of uniform height, stood behind the Chippendale chairs, waiting to serve. And then she remembered pizza gave her heartburn and Abigail was probably having fun with her grandparents or, God forbid, her dad and stepmom-to-be.
“You were perhaps expecting a larger dining room?” Henry asked.
Chloe must’ve been frowning at the thought of Marcia Smith.
Henry smiled. “I do hope you find Dartworth Hall to your liking. You don’t think it too ostentatious?”
“Ostentatious? No. No, not at all.” She tried to remember the last time a man spoke to her using polysyllabic words like ostentatious. “I find it elegant.”
“Allow me to escort you to your chair,” he said.
Nobody had ever said that to her before. She took his arm. “Thank you.” He was so nice she actually felt guilty for thinking maybe getting in good with Henry would help her score points with Sebastian.
Henry pulled out her chair and pushed her in next to him. Sebastian sat on the other end of the table, at the head, with Julia on his left and Grace on his right. He caught Chloe’s attention and then rolled his eyes when Grace wasn’t looking. Chloe shrugged. Next to Grace and Julia were Gillian and Kate, then Chloe and Henry, and all the chaperones.
“It appears that American heiresses don’t pull much rank at the dinner table,” Chloe said to Henry.
“Do you seek to improve your rank in this world, Miss Parker?”