Chloe leaned back on her heel and crushed the back of her slipper.

A cameraman cut from Lady Martha to Chloe as she watched Sebastian and Henry bow to Grace.

Grace’s chaperone looked over her capped-sleeve shoulder at Chloe. “That would mean you come in behind us.” She glanced at Chloe’s slippers. “Go to the cloakroom and have a maid repair your lace. You cannot enter the ballroom looking like that.”

A group of people dressed in ballroom attire sauntered past Chloe. One of the pink ribbons strapped around her ankle had broken. She looked up and saw Sebastian leading Grace and her chaperone into the glowing ballroom. Henry greeted the crowd with a smile and a handshake.

If she went back to the cloakroom now, she’d miss the opening minuet, and that was probably exactly what Grace and her chaperone had planned, even though Chloe, as she knew full well, had to sit out the first dance in punishment for her mishap at the archery competition. She ducked into an alcove, knelt down to fix the lace, and the camera was on it. Or was the camera on her cleavage? There. She’d fixed it. She stood up and flashed a fake smile at the camera. But she couldn’t enter the ballroom without a chaperone—she knew that.

The footmen stood like soldiers guarding the archway. The cameraman filmed her biting her lower lip. Another crowd of ball goers passed by. Who were these people? Townfolk? Actors?

She stood awkwardly and pretended to check for something in her reticule when a whiff of garlic hit her. It was Cook dressed in a high-cut green silk gown and white gloves, her silvery hair held in place by a peacock-feathered hair band. Her blue eyes twinkled. “What’s the belle of the ball doing out here?” She held out her arm.

Chloe took it in her own. “You don’t want to know. I’m so happy to see you here. You look—gorgeous.”

“Might I be your chaperone for the evening?”

Chloe beamed. Together they headed toward the anteroom.

“Tonight, at least for a little while, I’m a card-carrying member of the well-to-do Ton. You know. Society with a capital S.”

“I know what the term Ton means,” Chloe said. “And you more than qualify, as far as I’m concerned.”

Cook patted Chloe’s hand with her fan and lowered her voice to a whisper. “George had everyone at Bridesbridge dress as society for the ball. It’s fabulous, but sad, in a way, too. The show’s almost over.”

“The show?” Chloe was always surprised when Cook stepped out of her Regency character. She wasn’t at all like Mrs. Crescent in that regard. Then again, this could be another test.

“The reality show. The little charade.”

Chloe just smiled.

Henry and Sebastian both turned toward them. Henry flicked the hair out of his eye and Sebastian adjusted his cravat.

Both men smiled at her. It had started out as a show. A way to score some money. But what was it now? Chloe’s heart was on the line and it felt as fragile as a Regency-era Wedgwood teacup. First Henry bowed, then Sebastian. Sebastian escorted Cook into the anteroom, and seemed to slight Chloe. But why? Had her eye lingered too long on Henry when he bowed?

“So glad you could join us, Miss Parker.” Henry offered his arm. “Before I escort you to the ball, would you like to see the library here at Dartworth—just for a minute? It’s right over there. You don’t need a chaperone with all these people milling about.”

Chloe hesitated. “I don’t want to miss the minuet, even though I have to sit it out.”

“You won’t. I promise.”

As excited as she was about the ball, this might be her last chance to see the Dartworth library. She stopped. “This isn’t code for showing me your etchings, is it?”

“Maybe.”

“Is this some kind of test? Because I won’t do anything to put my relationship with your brother in jeopardy. You must know, Mr. Wrightman, where my affections lie.”

“I do.”

Once Chloe walked into the library, she had to catch her breath. Hundreds and hundreds of candles had been lit and carefully placed around the room. The leather-bound books with gold- and silver-embossed titles on the bindings glistened in the candlelight. And, in tiny vases everywhere, were flowers from the heirloom cutting garden at Dartworth. Larkspur, snapdragons, bachelor’s buttons, lilies, and foxgloves perfumed the air and seemed to sprinkle their colors against the dark wood paneling.

“It’s—it’s amazing. Did Sebastian do this?”

“I did.”

“You did?”

Henry nodded. “I did it for you. And this is for you, too. I’ll have a footman run them over tomorrow.”

He placed three leather-bound books in her hands. Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility in three volumes.

She ran her gloved fingers along the letterpressed title.

“Someday our kids will laugh about these things called ‘books.’”

Chloe got stuck on his saying “our kids.”

“Good thing we’re both wearing gloves. It’s a first edition,” he said.

Chloe handed the books back to him. “I can’t accept them. They’re worth a fortune. I can’t accept any of this.”

“The books may be worth a fortune, but I never planned on selling them. I don’t think you will either.”

He looked at her with so much passion in his eyes that she—she swooned—and had to lean against the writing desk. “Henry. You have to stop.”

“I must warn you that this goes against all the rules, but some things are better expressed without words.” He gently but firmly nudged her against the bookshelves, the section labeled FANTASY, and he trapped her there with his arms. Their bodies crushed together as he kissed her deftly and deliciously. He stopped for a moment, and desire ricocheted through her.

“You really are quite accomplished, Miss Parker,” he said. “Very talented.”

He rendered her speechless. He cupped her cheek in his hand. “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know how ardently I admire you.”

The room spun a little around her, but the light-headedness could’ve been due to a lack of oxygen. She hadn’t been kissed like that in a long time. Why was he doing this to her? Was this another test?

He checked his watch fob, which happened to be dangerously near his bulging breeches. “The minuet will be starting soon.”

Chloe’s mouth dropped open a little. He didn’t want anything more than a kiss? Surely she did. But “Miss Parker” did not. Miss Parker had already gone too far.

“Perhaps, sometime, when there isn’t a grand ball going on, you would like to accompany me back to the library?”

Chloe looked around at the candles, the flowers, the books, drinking it all in. All of it was slipping away already, like a good dream you only remember pieces of when you wake.

“You don’t have to answer. I’ve read it all on your face.”

She buzzed into the ballroom on Henry’s arm. She felt as if she’d drunk a couple of glasses of wine. People approached Henry with smiles and swarmed around him. The height of the room, the gilded ceiling, the candlelight, orchestra, and gowns intoxicated Chloe even more than she already was. Cook made her way toward them.

Henry pulled out chairs for the two women. He motioned a flourish with his hand for them to sit. “Ladies, if you please?”

“I’m much obliged. Thank you, sir.” Chloe sat, her vision of the evening torn asunder. She was bedazzled and bewildered all at once.

Henry said something about supper at midnight, lemonade, tea, coffee, and even wine, which, God knows she would’ve given her last soap ball for a glass of. She half expected to see Colin Firth or Hugh Grant mingling in the crowd. Chloe caught a sudden whiff of beeswax and a drop of something from above fell into the crook of her arm just above her glove. It hardened into a warm white circle. She rubbed it off with her gloved finger.

Henry pointed to the ceiling. “Wax from the candles.”

She squinted up at a gold chandelier hanging high above her like an oversized halo. The ceiling itself was painted in a skyscape of white clouds, sunshine beams, and golden-haired cherubs.

“The candles melt quickly in all this heat. It takes an army of servants just to keep the place lit. Which reminds me. Mr. Smith?” He signaled a servant. “Please snuff out the candles in the library. Thank you.”

The candles that hung above her had already melted to half their height. She wasn’t ready for all this to melt away. She didn’t want the candles in the library to be snuffed.

Her eyes welled up with tears. At least she wasn’t wearing any mascara, but the candle-soot eyeliner might smudge. She dabbed the corners of her eyes with her glove.

Henry, of course, offered her a handkerchief. He always had a handkerchief. It was so old-fashioned.

An older woman, doused in Chanel perfume and draped in layer upon layer of silk, broke into their little threesome. “Mr. Wrightman—” She spoke to Henry, but looked down at Chloe, then deliberately turned so that her butt was in Chloe’s face.

Cook squeezed Chloe’s hand.

The woman hooked her arm in Henry’s. “I simply must introduce you to my niece who’s in from London. She’s a doctor, just like you. You will absolutely adore her.”

Who were these people? And why were they mixing with the unwashed from the reality show?

Henry bowed. As the woman led him away, he looked back at Chloe over his shoulder. “Save two dances for me.”

“Of course.” Chloe bowed her head, and when she lifted it, Henry and his companion had already disappeared into the crowd. Poof. It felt as if someone had doused the lights. Her eyes scanned the room for him.