Instead Sebastian cleared his throat. “Let me begin by saying . . .” He paused for the camera and lifted one of the invitations. “This was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever had to make.” He shifted from one side to the other in his Hessian boots. “You are all very attractive women, with equally—interesting personalities.” He looked right at Chloe.
Zing. Chloe felt that one. Interesting was never good in guy language, whether Regency or contemporary. She also became acutely aware of her pungent body odor. That was what no showers, horseback riding, and sweating bullets at tea-party debacles did to a girl.
Sebastian looked down at the invitation in his hand, his long, thick eyelashes practically brushing against his aristocratic cheekbones. The room was completely still, the flames of the fire providing the only semblance of movement, and it was so quiet you could hear a nineteenth-century needle drop. He looked up. “Lady Grace.”
Voom. One video cam swung to shoot Grace sauntering up to Sebastian while another recorded the expressions on the other girls’ faces.
Chloe clenched her gloved fists. In the corner of the room, her sewing box sat unlatched, the fireplace screen she had only just started seeming to mock her. She would leave so much unfinished here if she had to go now. It wasn’t just about the money anymore, she realized that. She was willing to gamble it all—her business, her precious time with Abigail, and even her friendship with Henry—for this, for Sebastian, and all the possibility of him. His quiet dignity, his perseverance throughout this process, his romantic gestures with riddles and silhouettes and packages wrapped in gold in a castle keep.
“Lady Grace, will you accept this invitation?” Sebastian asked in an almost singsong voice.
“Of course.” Grace slid the invitation from his hand, eyed him up and down, then curtsied.
He bowed and watched her butt as she walked back.
Chloe cringed. She blocked out any thoughts of Sebastian and Grace hooking up; the possibility made her nauseous.
Grace took her spot next to Chloe, pressing the invitation to her chest.
“Miss Tripp.”
Of course he chose Julia, Chloe thought. Who wouldn’t? Lithe, enthusiastic Julia deserved to stay on. Plus, she didn’t have a scandal, real or imagined, attached to her name. Chloe looked straight at Sebastian now and rose on tiptoe in her satin slippers, on the edge of the carpet, on the edge of everything.
The butler lunged in front of Sebastian. “Ladies, before Mr. Wrightman presents the final invitation, it has been determined that, for hosting the hunt tea, Miss Parker will gain only ten of the fifteen Accomplishment Points, due to unladylike behavior. The reticule inspection adds five points to everyone’s score except hers. Nevertheless, Miss Parker currently leads with a score of forty points, Miss Tripp with thirty-five, and the rest of the women are tied at thirty points each. Consider carefully, Mr. Wrightman, the behavior you’ve witnessed tonight. I can assure you that the ratings online indicate that Miss Tripp is the favored contestant, and in choosing her to stay on, you have chosen wisely.”
The butler turned toward the women. “Mr. Wrightman will now present the final invitation. Two of you will be sent home tonight. Mr. Wrightman, if you please.”
Chloe, Gillian, and Kate took a step forward together. Chloe could feel the beads of sweat running down her back and in the sour taste that filled her mouth, even though she’d brushed with her swine’s-hair toothbrush and chalky powder less than an hour ago.
“Miss Harrington . . .” Sebastian said.
Kate practically skipped up to him. Chloe’s neck went limp and her chin hit her chest. Of course it was Kate, who, despite her allergies, seemed rather sweet. Chloe had blown it. As recently as a few days ago, she might not have cared so much, but at the moment she felt completely devastated.
“. . . and Miss Potts.”
Chloe was confused. There was only one invitation.
Sebastian took Kate’s and Gillian’s hands in his own. “You both are wonderful, amazing women, and you will find someone who deserves you. But I’m afraid I must ask you to take your leave of Bridesbridge Place.”
Chloe lifted her chin. On their way back to their spots, Gillian sneered at Chloe and Kate looked dumbfounded.
Sebastian picked up the last invitation from the silver salver. “Miss Parker . . .” He extended the invitation toward her.
Chloe’s shoulders slumped with relief. He got it, she realized. He got her. Maybe he even believed her story about the condom, and about her lack of feelings for Henry. She stumbled, but didn’t fall on the edge of the carpet. Behind her, as she padded toward Sebastian, she could hear Kate blowing her nose.
Sebastian looked down on her with a half smile. “Miss Parker, will you accept this invitation to stay on?”
“I do.” Chloe took the envelope. The heft of the handmade paper in her hand felt good and right. “I—I mean I will!” She laughed. He crinkled his nose, and remembering both her bad breath and nineteenth-century protocol, she fumbled a curtsy as she breathed out of her nose. He bowed. As much as she wanted to talk to Sebastian, to stay with him, she forced herself to turn and walk back to her spot. It was enough to know that he trusted her. Now that the trust was there, they could build on it—spires into the sky.
“Ladies,” said the butler. “Mr. Wrightman has made his decision. You may say your good-byes.”
This time, the good-byes were not as difficult for Chloe. Imogene had been her closest friend here, and she was gone. Gillian and Kate, by comparison, were easy to let go.
“Miss Potts, Miss Harrington, your carriage is waiting,” said the butler.
Sebastian turned to Chloe, Grace, and Julia. “Good night, ladies. I look forward to our next encounter.” With that, he escorted Gillian and Kate out the door.
Outside the sash windows, the afternoon sun was fading fast and maids began to scurry around inside to light the candles while footmen lit the torches outside. Grace sat down at the pianoforte and pounded out an English reel. A maid set a candelabrum on the piano and lit it.
Mrs. Crescent waddled over to Chloe, fanning herself from face to pregnant belly. The white ruffles of her cap wagged right along with Fifi’s tail. “I don’t know how you managed it.” She squeezed Chloe’s hand.
She’d managed it by sacrificing Henry, and already she began concocting ways to rectify that situation. He, and his good opinion of her, meant more to her than she had thought, and it made the victory bittersweet.
The carriage pulled away from the house, lumbering toward the road.
“Whatever could be wrong?” Mrs. Crescent asked.
“I’m missing—a friend,” Chloe said.
“Miss Wells? She was never your friend,” Mrs. Crescent whispered.
That wasn’t who she’d been thinking of. Wait a minute. “She wasn’t?”
Mrs. Crescent shook her head. “We’re not here to make friends. Nobody’s here to make friends. Nobody here is your friend! It’s not about friendship; we’re here to win. And we’re on our way. Well done! Let’s go. We have needlework to do.” She nodded toward the hall.
“But it’s Sunday—bath day, right? I’ve been looking forward to a bath!”
Mrs. Crescent shook her head. “No, dear, due to the foxhunt, bath day has been postponed.”
“Postponed? Until when?! How much longer can a girl wait?” Chloe was beside herself.
“Waiting, dear,” Mrs. Crescent declared, “is the name of the game.”
Chapter 11
Chloe took a candelabrum into the dark hall, stopping by a painting of roses to wait for Mrs. Crescent and Fifi. The candlelight seemed to illuminate the thorns in the painting more than it did the roses, and Chloe felt a chill come over her.