“Welcome, ladies, to the second-to-last Invitation Ceremony,” the butler said, rubbing his hands together like a seasoned gambler.
The cameras panned from him to the five women in gowns perched in front of the pianoforte in the drawing room at Bridesbridge Place. Their chaperones sat near the game table, fidgeting. Mrs. Crescent lowered her head to look at her locket portrait of William while Fifi twisted and turned at her feet, unable to settle down.
Even though Chloe had changed into a jonquil gown and put an ostrich feather in her hair, she still smelled of horse and muck, and she couldn’t shake the thought of Henry kissing her. Okay, she was attracted to him for some reason, but what a mistake! She didn’t think the cameraman had captured the kiss, or she would’ve heard about it. For four years she didn’t have a man in her life at all and now she had two? That was one man too many. Kissing Henry? It never should’ve happened and she swore to herself that it never would again. Thankfully, she wouldn’t have to see him tonight, because of the Invitation Ceremony. It would only be Sebastian. Sebastian . . . she smiled.
But it was Henry who set her, despite his hurt leg, back on her horse, and led both horses back to Bridesbridge, with a camera in tow. He got her back in time to change, wash up, and even attend to the last-minute details of the hunt tea she was hosting. If only it had been Sebastian.
Here she was dwelling on the men, and not the money!
She fingered the reticule she had sewn and trimmed herself during her sewing lessons, made of vintage maroon silk, embroidered with golden horses. It was barely big enough to hold a girl’s calling cards—but able to carry a simple wish. A wish to stay.
“We have five ladies,” the butler said. “And three invitations.”
A footman promenaded into the room and set a silver tray on the marble table in front of the fire. Three crisp invitations lay fanned out on the tray, each sealed with a red wax W.
“Two of you will be sent home immediately.” The butler looked Chloe smack in the eye.
Chloe looked down at her reticule. It was over. Tonight she’d be on her way back home, and the best she could hope for from this ordeal would be some PR for her business.
“Might I remind you,” said the butler, “that Lady Grace won the foxhunt, Miss Tripp placed second, and Miss Harrington third.”
Chloe sucked on her lower lip, which didn’t matter because she had no lipstick on.
“The fifteen Accomplishment Points for winning the foxhunt will be awarded to . . .” He paused for dramatic effect.
Grace stood on her toes, ready to leap forward and accept her award.
“. . . Miss Parker.”
Chloe looked up.
“Miss Parker?” Grace whined.
The butler nodded.
All heads, with feathers and headdresses, turned toward her.
“Miss Parker wins the Accomplishment Points for making the most ladylike choice of all the contestants by stopping to help a wounded horse and Mr. Henry Wrightman, who had been thrown. Only one other lady considered helping, and that was Miss Tripp, who will be awarded five points for her considerateness. Congratulations, ladies.”
Chloe smiled, Mrs. Crescent and Julia’s chaperone clapped, and Chloe thought for a moment that there might be a glimmer of class in this circus of a reality show after all. She credited Sebastian, who had to be behind this turn of fate. He was a true gentleman.
“I wanted to stop, but—” Gillian started to say.
Grace gave Chloe an icy stare and whispered, “It’s obvious that you care for Henry. Perhaps more than just as a potential brother-in-law?”
Chloe could feel her pinned-up hair practically standing on end. “I care for a lot of people,” she replied. “But I’m here for Sebastian. I’ve put everything on the line for him.”
The butler cleared his throat and looked into the cameras. “Before Mr. Wrightman presents these invitations, Miss Parker has arranged a posthunt tea in the back drawing room. This will allow all of you ladies to make any last impressions before he announces his decision. Best of luck.”
The footmen opened the doors to the hall. Sebastian stepped in, radiating heat, and Chloe could feel herself gravitate toward him. His crisp white shirt and cravat enhanced the effect of his sun-kissed skin. He offered each of the women a red rosebud posy wrapped tightly with pink ribbon.
A certain hunger came over Chloe. In her best imitation English accent she asked, “Shall we go to tea?”
Grace locked her eyes on Sebastian, then took his arm and spoke over her shoulder to Chloe. “How did you ever manage to find the time to save the wounded and put a tea together Miss Parker? You are too good.” Her gaze shifted to Chloe’s reticule. “What other tricks do you have up your sleeve—or should I say in your bag? Do tell.”
Whatever did she mean by that? Even Sebastian looked confused.
Grace led Sebastian toward the hall, Kate and Gillian following in her wake. Julia took Chloe’s arm and the chaperones and Fifi followed them into the back drawing room.
Hosting the tea was her way of taking control and flaunting her knowledge of Regency mores, and as far as she was concerned, a nineteenth-century aristocrat couldn’t have pulled it off any better. A quartet of musicians in the corner played Mozart, the punch sparkled in a crystal bowl, and candles flickered around the silver epergnes stacked with slices of strawberry tart, rout cakes, sandwiches, a trifle, the gold-dusted confections, clotted cream, and apricot ice. Wedgwood china dishes crowned the table, a teapot warmed on the grate, and a whist table stood set and ready.
Sebastian looked impressed, or at the very least, hungry.
“I want to host a tea. Why haven’t I hosted a tea?” Gillian asked her chaperone.
“You didn’t think of it, dear,” was the chaperone’s reply.
Julia took a turn about the room with Kate.
Before anyone so much as touched a teacup, the butler suddenly announced a random reticule inspection.
So much for my being in control here, Chloe thought. “What is he talking about?” she asked Julia.
“This happened a couple weeks ago before an Invitation Ceremony,” Julia whispered. “It’s like a pop quiz. They want to make sure you’ve remembered to bring everything a lady might need at such an event.”
Julia, Grace, and Kate all passed muster. They each had an array of the necessities: fan, smelling salts or vinaigrette, calling-card case. The butler opened Chloe’s reticule last. He named each item as he pulled it out. “Vinaigrette. Calling-card case. Fan.” Then he fell silent as he pulled something else from her bag, even though Chloe hadn’t put anything else in there. It was a small, square black packet with serrated edges. At the sight of the glistening wrapper, horror flashed through Chloe. It was a condom! What was it doing in there? She had left the condoms in her valise back at the inn!
Grace gasped. “Oh my.” She fanned herself.
The butler held the little packet up high so everyone could see it. It took a while for the crowd to make out what it was, then the room went abuzz.
Chloe squinted. It wasn’t one of the strawberry-margarita-flavored condoms Emma had given her. This one had a black wrapper. She looked at Grace, who smiled. In an instant, she knew that Grace had planted it on her, and that was it. The end of ladylike behavior toward Grace.
“That’s not mine,” Chloe said to the butler. “Someone must’ve planted it on me. I’d never smuggle something like that in here, and even if I did, would I bring it to the tea party I myself am hosting? It doesn’t make any sense.”
The butler nodded in agreement. “Still, you have no proof that anyone ‘planted’ this on you, as you claim, Miss Parker. If you had proof, that would be a different story.”
“Likewise there isn’t any proof that it is mine,” Chloe said.
“It was in your reticule,” Grace pointed out.
Mrs. Crescent spoke. “I can attest to the fact that my charge did not smuggle any such thing in here. She has been set up. I stake my reputation on it.” Fifi barked in agreement.
The butler looked stymied. “This item will be confiscated and we will determine how to proceed. For now, let the tea party resume.”
Chloe frowned. She vowed to get proof—whatever that might be. Talk about awkward. Well, she’d wanted to make an impression on Sebastian, and she sure had.
Grace fanned her way to a settee, patted a cushion next to her, and urged Sebastian to sit. “I’ve never been to an American tea before, have you, Mr. Wrightman?”
Sebastian opened his mouth to speak, but appeared to have second thoughts on the subject and remained silent.
Grace had pushed Chloe too far. Chloe held up a punch glass. “Lady Grace, would you like a punch?” she asked ingenuously.
“How amusing. I prefer tea, thank you.”
Chloe reached for the teapot on the grate, but the butler beat her to it. “Allow me,” he said.
“If this is an American tea party, then I find it quite charming.” It was Henry, interjecting from behind the fireplace screen. He rose out of a high-backed chair and bowed to the women and the chaperones.
“I—I didn’t expect you to be here,” Chloe said.
“Indeed you did not,” he replied. “I had to ask the servants to bring an extra tea setting.”
She couldn’t look him in the eye, even as he came closer.
“Still, you seem to have thought of every other detail. Like you said, you didn’t know I’d be here.” Under his breath he said, “Did you think I’d miss your hostessing debut?”
Chloe cooled her sweaty palms on her punch glass.
“Mr. Wrightman,” Grace said to Henry. She left Sebastian to take Henry by the arm. “I’ve been meaning to remind you about a little silversmithing project I have for us to work on together. You’re so good with your hands, I thought of your talents right away. Might I have a word with you in private?”
She stole Henry away from Chloe while Gillian slid in next to Sebastian. Chloe stood alone with an empty punch cup in her hand. She didn’t like Grace slithering away with Henry like that, but she set her sights on Sebastian.
Suddenly something brushed against her leg. Next thing she knew, something warm and furry was pushing against her calf. It startled her, and her punch cup slipped out of her gloved hands and crashed on the floor. It was Fifi—humping Chloe’s stockinged leg with wild abandon. Chloe lifted her gown, trying to shake the dog off. The quartet stopped playing, but Fifi kept going. First the condom, now the dog? This was not the way her elegant tea party was supposed to go.
“Fifi,” Mrs. Crescent yelled. “Come back here to Mother.” She waddled over to her dog.
Fifi kept humping away with unusual tenacity even as Mrs. Crescent detached him from Chloe’s leg. Chloe felt her cheeks flushing red with embarrassment and she swooped down to pick up the shards of glass.
Grace chimed in from across the room: “It seems everyone and his dog is attracted to Miss Parker.”
“Poor Fifi.” Mrs. Crescent held the quivering dog. “It’s always the same this time of year for him.”
A maid plucked the glass shards from Chloe’s open hand and cleaned up the remaining slivers from the floor. Chloe could feel Sebastian staring at her while Henry looked politely away, and into the fire. She stepped backward. Somehow her gloved hand landed in the bowl of clotted cream on the tea table behind her.
Grace, moving closer for a better look, laughed. “Is this a typical American tea party?” she asked. “How provincial.”
Chloe boiled over like a forgotten teapot. She imagined smearing the clotted cream all over Grace’s face. Nothing would’ve made her happier. She edged closer to her rival.
“Miss Parker. Please, dear, protocol.” Mrs. Crescent wedged herself between the women, but her belly ended up bumping Chloe’s arm and the clotted cream smudged Grace’s arm.
“I do apologize,” Chloe said. “That was an accident.”
Another cameraman rushed in from the hall and suddenly they were surrounded by three cameras. Grace lunged toward the table, reached for a miniature mince pie, and dropped it onto Chloe’s shoe.
“Oh. I’m sorry. Really. That was an accident, too.”
“Oh, dear Lord, another pair of shoes ruined,” Mrs. Crescent groaned as Fifi, in an unexptected show of loyalty, growled at Grace.
Without even looking down, Chloe plated a slice of strawberry tart. “I see the mince pie does not appeal to you. Perhaps a tart would be more apropos?” She handed the plate to Grace, who did not take it. Eventually Julia took it and promptly ate it up.
Grace picked up a goblet of apricot ice. “Here’s something even an ice queen like you might enjoy, Miss Parker.”
Chloe plucked two gold-dusted confections from the sweets plate and set them on a small dish. “Perhaps the lady would like these? She seems to enjoy digging for gold.”
Mrs. Crescent breathed heavily and began fanning herself furiously. “Miss Gately, the good Miss Gately would never, never behave like this,” was all she could manage to expostulate.
Henry took a sip of his punch. “I daresay this is the most amusing tea party I’ve ever attended,” he observed.
Sebastian turned to look at Julia.
Chloe smiled to herself. It was a smackdown, nineteenth-century style.
Kate sneezed three times. “Were there strawberries in those rout cakes?” she asked. “I must stay away from strawberries.”
“There aren’t any strawberries in the rout cakes! The strawberries are in the strawberry tart!” Chloe rubbed her forehead and signaled to the quartet to start playing.
Amid the cacophony of the musicians tuning up their instruments, Henry approached Chloe. “Are you all right?” he said with obvious concern.
“I sure didn’t see that coming.” Chloe glared at Grace.
“None of us did,” Henry said. Under his breath he added, “But you have to realize we’ve all been here awhile, and some of us are on edge. They miss home. Family. Friends.”
And Chloe didn’t miss anyone? How could he say something like that? She thought about smearing his face with clotted cream. Getting him away from her would solve a myriad of her problems. He kept usurping time she should be spending with Sebastian, and with an Invitation Ceremony just minutes away, he was putting her position in jeopardy. She had to make it clear to everyone that she had no romantic inclinations toward Henry, and maybe she had to do it for herself more than for anyone else.
In a very calm, but firm and rather loud tone, she said to him, “You don’t know anything about me, Mr. Henry Wrightman.” Even as she spoke, the memory of his lips upon hers rose up in her mind. “Nothing. And I prefer to keep it that way, thank you very much.” She ripped herself away from him, and practically fell into the hands of Mrs. Crescent and Fiona, who did their best to make her presentable again.
Sebastian, meanwhile, was leaning against the fireplace mantel, watching Grace’s chaperone and maid rush to her aid. Fifi was wagging his tail while Julia looked out the window. But Grace wasn’t finished with Chloe yet.
“Tell Mr. Wrightman what happened in the forest this morning with Henry, Miss Parker!” she said.
“Nothing happened, as you all well know.” There was no proof—of anything.
Grace laughed. “Perhaps Miss Parker has designs on your younger brother,” she said to Sebastian. “Perhaps she means to use the item found in her reticule after all.”
Heat rose to Chloe’s cheeks as an inevitable image surfaced in her mind’s eye, of herself and Henry writhing together naked. She raged at Grace. “You’re absolutely wrong, Lady Grace. I have no intention of the kind with Henry!”
Mrs. Crescent buried her head in her hands. Fifi whimpered.
Sebastian’s brows came together. He glared at Chloe and Henry.
Sebastian oozed testosterone, and Chloe realized that he could probably beat the crap out of Henry should he wish to.
Henry paced the floor. “I think Miss Parker has made it quite clear that she has no designs on me whatsoever.”
Chloe leaned against the tea table. She felt light-headed.
Sebastian crossed the room and glowered into the fireplace. If she didn’t convince him that the condom had been planted in her reticule and that she felt no attraction to Henry, she’d be sent home knowing she hadn’t given it her best shot. She followed Sebastian. “What I did for Henry during the foxhunt, I would’ve done for anyone here, including you, Grace.”
Fifi barked in agreement. Mrs. Crescent rubbed her belly.
Henry buttoned his coat.
The cameras surrounded Chloe and Sebastian. The glow of the fire made his tanned face look even darker. Chloe plopped down in the settee near him, but springs hadn’t been invented in 1812, and it didn’t give, hurting her butt, already tender from the morning’s horse ride. She was losing him, she saw it in his smoky eyes. Him, the man who had chosen her from so many thousands of other women, who had given her the gift of paints and paper, a poem even. Well, the closest thing to a poem any man had ever written for her. She gulped. “I hope you’ll give me a chance. Get to know me a bit more.”
Sebastian’s eyes went glassy. “I believe I have gotten to know you more.” He stared into the fire. He seemed to have made his decision.
“But you don’t understand. If this is about Henry, you have to realize, I talk to him mainly to find out more about you. To get to know you better. He’s a doorway to you.” This was, of course, only partly true, and Chloe knew it.
“Speaking of doorways . . . if you will excuse me.” Henry bowed and left before the ladies even had a moment to curtsy.
Chloe felt the emptiness he left behind.
“Time for the Invitation Ceremony,” the butler announced.
Chloe stepped back toward the door, her bare shoulders cold.
The butler opened the doors. “Ladies.”
Chloe had failed to get through to Sebastian. She hadn’t gotten a chance to eat any of the delicious confections she’d made either. The bullet pudding had gone untouched, a symbol of the fiasco this supposedly festive occasion had turned into. And to top it off, she’d lost Henry.
The butler tapped the condom in his pocket. “After you, Miss Parker.”
She was the last member of the party to leave. She needed a drink, and not just a lame two-hundred-year-old lemony-watery punch with a splash of champagne. What she needed was a massive modern martini.
No drinks and only a few minutes later, Gillian, Chloe, Julia,
Kate, and Grace stood poised in front of the pianoforte, all Kate, and Grace stood poised in front of the pianoforte, all cleaned up and smoothed over. While the cameras rolled, Sebastian paced on the far side of the room, and everyone tried to ignore the three cream-colored invitations on a silver tray.
In Chloe’s imagination, Sebastian would see her innocence on all fronts, fling two invitations into the fireplace, waltz right up to her, and present her with the remaining envelope. “It’s you,” he would declare. “It’s always been you. Take this invitation. Take me!” He would sweep her up off her feet and—But that wasn’t going to happen. Not by a long shot.
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.”