Dear Miss Parker,

I would like to take this opportunity to welcome you to Bridesbridge Place and Dartworth Hall, both of which my eldest son currently oversees. I live at the seaside now, as it is better for my health. My son is a wonderful man who I’m convinced will, through this experience, find his true life partner. I’m very excited for him and I very much look forward to meeting you in future.

Wishing you a pleasant stay,

Lady A. Wrightman


This woman certainly seemed much nicer than Chloe’s ex-mother-in-law. Of course, Mr. Wrightman’s mother came from a polite, well-bred, titled family, and clearly, she wanted the world for her son, as any mother would. Mr. Wrightman’s father was extremely rich as Mrs. Crescent had said, but untitled like Mr. Darcy’s father. It made Chloe feel guilty that she needed to win over Mr. Wrightman for the money first and foremost. Phew, it was warm upstairs.

She opened her casement window to let in the cooler air. Looking out the window past the Bridesbridge gardens, she saw a pond shimmering in the midday light. At the moment she’d give anything just to dangle her feet in it for a few minutes.

The chambermaid knocked, opened the door, and beelined toward the chamber pot while the cameraman followed.

“Excuse me,” Chloe asked, “might I have a bath?”

“Bath will be on Sunday, miss.” The chambermaid picked up the chamber pot and basket of used rags.

Chloe pulled back the draperies to get a better look at the pond. “But—today’s Monday.”

“That’s right, miss. Only one bath per week.”

This took Chloe a minute to absorb.

“As you know, the servants have to pump the water, then heat it and carry it in buckets up the stairs. Bath will be Sunday.”

“Ugh,” Chloe blurted out.

“What was that, miss?”

“Might I have more soap and water, then?”

“The soap ball needs to last you two weeks when the Irish soap monger will be coming by again. I’ll have a footman fetch fresh water.” She bowed her head and took the pot away. Where? Chloe wondered. The cameraman followed the chambermaid. Apparently Chloe’s chamber pot was more interesting than Chloe herself.

Chloe fixed her eyes again on the water that was glistening in the distance. She paced in front of the yellow draperies, trying to put a positive spin on this. So there wasn’t any plumbing. There would be time to paint, there would be a ball, and candlelight dinners in Dartworth Hall.

She stopped and buried her head in her hands. Come on, she was almost forty and a mom. Why couldn’t she grow up and give up the fairy tale? No bath till Sunday. Chamber pots. No phone to call Abigail. Bullets. Leeches. Psycho-housemate Grace. Ready-to-pop-a-baby chaperone. And a Mr. Wrightman who foiled her expectations. She imagined him as dark-haired and brooding, or at least standoffish, and was taken aback that he seemed approachable and caring, if a bit left-brained for her taste. Still, how could she win over any man without being able to bathe for six days? If she wanted to win this thing, she had to be proactive, and she had to, at the very least, smell good.

Something wet nuzzled against Chloe’s leg.

Fifi was nudging his way under her gown, sniffing and licking. Chloe pulled on her walking half boots, snatched the soap ball, a linen towel, and had gotten as far as the hallway when she remembered her bonnet. Bonnet, parasol, and gloves retrieved, she scampered down the servants’ staircase, almost missing a step in the darkness.

Chapter 5

Her white stockings hung from a nearby branch and swayed in the breeze while she waded in the pond. She had rolled up her pantalets, lifted her gown to her knees, and washed her legs and arms with the soap ball when what she really wanted to do was just pull off her gown and dive in. Not only would that have been inappropriate, but she wouldn’t want anyone to see her stark naked unless they’d had a few drinks and she was illuminated by candles. Candlelight was one of the perks of nineteenth-century living for an aging spinster like her.

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.