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 wall 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 challenge for you, Miss Parker, as you cannot talk while I’m tracing your shadow.”
Chloe smirked. “I can accept that challenge.”
He started to trace. “Consequently, you’ll 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 ideally matched. Not only was I privy to your audition video, but to all 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 full 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 courtship?
He paused again and stood back from the tracing, within her line of sight. He studied the shadow on the wall, 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 will 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.
“Well, 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, gallery 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 all 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. “Really, Mr. Wrightman!”
He took the piece of paper down, picked up the scissors, pulled a Chippendale chair up across from her, and sat down, just looking at her. “But true, all 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?
“Go ahead,” she said.
She offered some split ends to him, and, most seductively, he smoothed her hair, and slowly snipped about two inches off.
It was amazing how intimate an act it was, especially as he had to pocket it before Mrs. Crescent came over, rubbing her belly.
“A very good likeness, Mr. Wrightman, though I do find it a bit shocking just how low you’ve chosen to go. I daresay this needs trimming.”
He rolled up the paper. “Not to worry, Mrs. Crescent. I shall trim it and lampblack it at home.” He bowed. “I must let you both rest for the big day tomorrow. Until then!”
Chloe curtsied, and he left.
“Did he take a lock of your hair?” Mrs. Crescent asked.
Chloe didn’t think she should say yes.
“You don’t need to answer, I can see in your face that he has. Very clever of him to come under the pretense of a silhouette, with shears. It’s a good sign, a very good sign!”
Sunday, the day of the mock foxhunt arrived, and everyone was excited except Chloe, whose sidesaddle riding wasn’t exactly show quality yet.
Instead, she focused on the footman at the stable, with his blond hair tied back in a short ponytail and his taut calves that practically popped out of his tights. He took her tiny hand in his strong, white gloved one and helped her mount the horse for the hunt. She locked her legs into the stirrups and gripped the reins. Just a week ago, the prospect of an attractive footman would’ve enchanted her, but now more than ever, she wanted to win the fifteen Accomplishment Points and gain some more time with Sebastian.
Afraid she hadn’t practiced enough, she mounted Chestnut with a show of bravado because horses, like dogs, sensed fear, and she had to be strong. She hardly recognized her shadow, cast on the fine gravel in front of the stable. It exuded confidence, from the tip of her riding hat with a ribbon underneath to her tight jacket, long riding habit skirts and crop tucked under her arm. The sun glistened on the Kelly-green hills, the hounds barked and horses milled about in the field, and—the stable stench snapped her back to reality. Where was Sebastian?
Her hands quivered as the footman carefully strapped the sidesaddle belt across her lap. Her skirt seemed the size of a circus tent and she tucked in the heavy folds.
Grace trotted up on horseback. “Your skirt does look more unwieldy than mine,” she said.
The cameras weren’t on them. “Thank you for that brilliant observation,” Chloe said.
“Perhaps the seamstress made a mistake on yours. You’d best not flash any leg while riding. That would be an infringement of the rules.”
“And flashing a breast isn’t?”
“That was an accident, Miss Parker.”
“I’ll say. I can only hope there won’t be any accidents today.” Chestnut started sniffing Grace’s horse’s behind. Chloe tugged at the reins, urging him to turn, and he would obey for a minute then turn his head again to sniff.
“I’ve spoken to Mr. Henry Wrightman about fixing your tiara. I would delight in undertaking a little project like that with him.”
Chloe flinched. Now she was after Henry, too? “I’d prefer the jeweler it came from, Tiffany’s, to do the fixing.”
Grace seemed insulted. “I had very little to do with your tiara breaking, whilst you had everything to do with all of our Accomplishment Points getting wiped out. We worked weeks to acquire those points and making ink isn’t exactly my forte.”
“I’m sure it’s not.”
Grace kicked her horse and it trotted off—she was an expert rider. Chloe patted her horse’s neck.
The master of the hunt, a red-faced man with a brass hunting horn tucked under his arm, headed over to Chloe. He took off his top hat and bowed toward her and the cameras.
“Our hunt awaits you, Miss Parker. Need I remind you that should you choose not to ride, you must go from whence you came?”
Chloe tapped the riding crop in the palm of her hand. The image of her whipping him with the riding crop flashed through her mind. “I do thank you for that gentle reminder,” she said.
“Mr. Wrightman is quite keen on riding, and whatever woman he chooses should love to ride as well.”