Chloe raised her eyebrows . . . and her hopes.

The butler unfolded the letter. “Dear—Lady Grace.” He stopped for a moment while the tableful of women did their Regency best not to react too emotionally one way or the other, but a general sigh was audible. Chloe hadn’t prepared herself for the sting of rejection, but then again, Sebastian hadn’t even really met her yet.

“Oh,” Julia said.

Kate sneezed.

Grace dabbed the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin, drawing attention to her Botoxy smile. Grace, though very attractive, was definitely not twenty-one. Still, she didn’t look like she was facing the big four-O yet either.

The butler continued. “‘Would you, Lady Grace, be inclined to accompany me on a horseback outing this afternoon? Please leave word with my footman. I will be at Bridesbridge at three o’clock to collect you if you are so kind as to accept. Sincerely, Mr. Wrightman.’”

When it was put that way, so eloquently, on paper, Chloe felt a twinge of—jealousy. And not just because of the prize money.

The other women whispered among themselves.

“Tell the footman I accept, of course,” Grace said.

The butler folded the letter before he spoke. “Aside from her ladyship’s obvious charms, winning this invitation may have something to do with her high number of Accomplishment Points.” He looked down at Chloe. “And Mr. Wrightman’s choice may have been influenced by some . . . peccadilloes of others in the party.”

Chloe remained stoic.

Gillian stood and put a hand on her hip. “I have two hundred and ten Accomplishment Points. I’m sure I’m due for another outing with Mr. Wrightman, too.”

But what really set the room atwitter was the butler’s announcement that Mr. Wrightman and his brother, Henry, would be practicing their fencing on the east lawn.

“First dibs on the telescope!” Chloe heard Gillian say amid the din.

Chloe, embarrassed for the entire female gender, slumped in her chair. Mrs. Crescent poked a finger between her shoulder blades. “Posture, Miss Parker. Posture.”


It took longer for her, with Fiona’s help, to change out of her green archery dress and into her day gown than she had spent on the archery itself. The lady’s lancewood bow with linen bowstring and green velvet grip was exquisite, and the brown suede archery gloves lovely, but she was no Robin Hood, that much was clear. Still, despite a dismal start, she had completed the task of scoring three bull’s-eyes in a row, and was allowed to progress to dancing lessons with a total of ten Accomplishment Points to her name.

When the contestants walked into the drawing room with their fans in hand, ready to dance, the servants scrambled. Nobody had told them that another group would be dancing and they had already set the furniture back when the first group had finished. Quickly, the servants moved the furniture, hauling it to the periphery of the room, and rolled up the French Aubusson carpets. Chloe wished she could help, especially when she saw the beads of sweat gather on their red faces. The footmen, even in this heat, had to keep their heavy livery coats on, and a hint of body odor permeated the air, despite the open windows. Chloe thought she might need her vinaigrette, the tin with the lavender-scented sponge, after all. No doubt it would’ve been useful at a ball where hundreds of people crushed together, many of them dancing, and very few of whom had likely bathed that day.

Julia, Becky, Grace, and their chaperones wandered in.

Lady Martha Bramble, Grace’s chaperone, cleared her throat, organized her sheet music at the pianoforte, and batted away a fly that had flown in through the open window.

Lady Martha struck up the pianoforte, and Chloe was spellbound. She couldn’t wait to learn the dances that had looked so elegant on TV and the big screen.

Grace fanned herself and her blond curls bounced as she sprawled on a settee. She looked at Chloe, then past her, at Mrs. Crescent. “Must I move? Really?” Away from the camera, she added, “Pity we can’t tweet here. I’m sure my people miss me.”

Chloe wondered why Grace had bothered to audition for this thing. “Are you familiar with an author named Jane Austen, Lady Grace? She wrote Sense and Sensibility.”

“I know what she wrote. I absolutely adore Jane Austen.”

Chloe leaned in to whisper, knowing, as she did, that in 1812, the only Austen novel to have been published was Sense and Sensibility. “I’m curious. Which is your favorite?”

“Pride and Prejudice,” Grace whispered back. “The one with Keira Knightley.”

Chloe cringed. Not her favorite adaptation. It was historically inaccurate, for one thing. “I mean which book do you like the most?”

“Oh. I love all of Jane Austen. But I’ve never read her books.”

Chloe looked at her askance. This explained everything.

Julia twirled into the room with her chaperone behind her.

Grace put her chin in the air. “Truly, Miss Parker, I cannot understand why you Americans obsess over all things British. Jane Austen is ours.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And so are the Beatles. James Bond. Mr. Sebastian Wrightman. Hands off.”

Chloe sat next to Grace. “I’m the first to admit I’m a proud Anglophile, but with an attitude like yours, it’s no wonder we staged the American Revolution. And won. Can you say ‘Boston Tea Party’?”

“Shoulders back.” Mrs. Crescent poked Chloe in the shoulder blades.

Grace nodded in agreement. “Unlike in your savage America, it’s all about the propriety and manners here, Miss Parker.”

“Please. It’s not about the manners. It’s about the man,” said Chloe.

“Or maybe it’s about the money?” Grace whispered behind her fan. Mrs. Scott, the dance mistress, clapped her hands three times and the room, now crowded with various servants to serve as extras in the dance, went silent. A tall woman, probably in her early fifties, Mrs. Scott had a fabulous figure and wore a purple gown with a tall purple feather sticking out of her turban.

Mrs. Scott stared at Chloe, Grace, Becky, and Julia with piercing blue eyes. Without thinking, Chloe straightened her posture and visualized a book on her head. Persuasion.

Mrs. Scott moved to the center of the room. “Far be it from me to draw attention to myself, because this is all about you young ladies, surely.” She brandished her lace fan, sashayed her hips. “But allow me to demonstrate some steps as a female dancer in ‘Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot.’ Maggot means ‘whim,’ as you all well know. I find this particular dance so—dramatic.” She clapped her hands and the hodgepodge of servants, footmen, and even the cook from downstairs, who was simply known as “Cook”, stepped forward and created two lines facing each other. “Mr. Reeve?”

A young footman hurried over to Mrs. Scott, his face still red from hoisting sofas.

Mrs. Scott hid her face behind her fan. “I’m young. I’m the belle of the ball. Ask me to dance.”

Grace rolled her eyes.

Chloe sat on the edge of her seat, enraptured.

Mr. Reeve bowed. “Excuse me, miss. Might I have this dance?” Mrs. Scott peeked out from behind her fan. “Hmm. I do believe I am available.” She batted her eyelids and curtsied. With a snap of her fingers, she cued Lady Martha, and the music began. Moments after the first chords were struck, Chloe was transported back to the 1995 TV adaptation of Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle.

Grace checked the watch on her chatelaine.

Julia tapped her fan in her hand to the rhythm.

Becky smiled.

Mrs. Scott announced the moves. “Both couples turn by right hands.” Chloe, entranced, did everything she could to memorize the steps. “Left hands. Ones cross and cast down.” But she kept getting swept away by the music and a vision of Sebastian in his coat and riding boots at the pond. “Ones dance back-to-back and faceup.”

At first, Mrs. Scott paired Chloe with Julia, and the two proved to be a great match. Julia danced with a bounce in her step and always looked her dance partner in the eye and smiled; maintaining perfect posture and poise, she was an inspiration.

After just a few dances, Mrs. Scott moved Julia down the line and set Grace across from Chloe. “Your ladyship, might you dance the male role with Miss Parker? I want to watch her form.”

Grace sneered. She stood a full head taller than Chloe. For the first time in a long time, Chloe missed her heels. She never wore stilettos, but even her chunky heels would’ve helped. Lady Martha started in on the pianoforte. Grace bowed while Chloe curtsied. The two stepped toward each other, to grasp hands and turn. Chloe stretched out her hand and Grace recoiled.

“Ugggggh! Whatever is that all over your hands, Miss Parker?”

Lady Martha hit a wrong note on the piano and stopped.

“It’s ink. Dried ink.” Chloe held out her hands. “From some letters I wrote.”

“That happens to me every time I write,” Julia said. “It takes aeons for it to wash off.”

Grace tossed her head back. She must’ve worn her hair long in the real world, as tossing her hair seemed part of her repertoire, but when it was pinned up, the head toss didn’t have the same effect. “I can’t tolerate it.”

Chloe put her hands down at her sides. She had to wonder about Grace. Was she a born socialite or did she actually do something for a living? Fashion designer? Manscaper? Personal trainer from hell?

Cook, who stood next to Chloe in the line, held her hands out. They were very rough and chapped from all her work, no doubt. “You’re not alone, Miss Parker.”