“You, Emma, are entertaining,” he explains as though I’m some sort of simpleton. “Well, at least, that’s what the production crew have told me. I’m of another mind on the matter.”
“What does that mean?” On second thoughts, I can imagine: my less than stellar singing performance this afternoon. I wave my hand in the air. “Forget it. I don’t want to know. What I do want to know is what happened to our deal?”
“Contrary to popular belief, I do not make the rules.”
I slip down onto the facing sofa. “Are you telling me you told them you wanted me to go home and they didn’t let you?”
“That is precisely what I’m telling you.”
I let the news sink in. “Oh.”
“Oh indeed. Now, perhaps, you can understand why I couldn’t follow through with our arrangement. I wanted to, believe me.”
You and me both, dude.
“I guess,” I reply distractedly. “What have I done that’s been so entertaining? I mean, I know my singing isn’t going to win me any competitions.”
“Ah, no,” he replies. “You really are a terrible singer.”
“I did warn everyone.”
“I think you should have been more forceful with that warning. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully recover.”
“Oh, ha-ha. Very funny. I bet you can’t sing either. No, wait. I’ve got it. You can sing and you were a choir boy at some fancy school, weren’t you? I can picture it now. Your red and white robes, your little halo gleaming as you sing so high only dolphins and dogs can hear you.”
“Actually, when I was a child I was an alto, not a soprano.”
“I was right!” I cry with glee. “Sebastian the choir boy.” It’s an endearing image, and my heart softens a fraction. But only a fraction. “What else have I done that’s considered ‘entertaining?’” I ask. And then it hits me. “No! They’re going to use the footage of me falling out of the limo, aren’t they?” I look at him, wide-eyed, my mind whirring. It might very well have been my only opportunity to get my label on camera, but such a humiliating entry can’t do either me or Timothy any good. In fact, it could be disastrous.
I bury my head in my hands. This cannot be good. This whole thing is quickly becoming one huge mess. And not only that, it’s a mess I cannot escape from.
To my surprise, I feel the cushions beside me move and, startled, I look up to see Sebastian next to me. He’s got a look on his face I haven’t seen before. Can it be ... sympathy? No, it can’t be. This is the pompous Sebastian we’re talking about here, the over-privileged, smug aristocrat who likes me as much as I like him.
“Hi,” I say awkwardly, not really knowing how to take this strange turn of events.
“Now she says hello.”
“What does that mean?”
“You stormed in here without saying hello earlier. It was rather rude.”
“No, you dragged me in here.”
“Semantics, Brady Bunch. Semantics.” The edges of his mouth quirk into a hint of a smile, and unlike his public smiles out there with the contestants, this one reaches his eyes.
I smile briefly back at him, my heart softening a fraction. If this thing really is out of his hands, then he didn’t actually break our deal. Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on him? “I thought you got to decide. I mean, this is meant to be all about you falling for one of us, right?”
“Of course,” he replies formally, just like Mr. Darcy himself. “I do choose. Ultimately, anyway. However, this is reality television, as they keep reminding me. They need the ratings, and apparently contestants like you help with that.”
I let out a defeated puff of air. “What am I going to do?”
“Well, if you still want to leave,” he pauses and I give him an emphatic head nod, “then I suggest you try your best not to be entertaining.”
“You mean not sing.”
“Emma, if you do only one thing, please promise me that.” With his eyes trained on me, his smile broadens.
I can’t help but return it. I know he’s mocking me for my musical performance, but at least he’s doing it in good humor.
“Or I could break the rules and get kicked off the show.”
“There is that.”
“What could I do, I wonder?” I chew on my lip. “Ooh, I know. I could get caught on camera in a passionate embrace with one of the production crew.”
“Do you want to have a passionate embrace with one of the production crew?”
Between the cameraman with a face full of acne like a pepperoni pizza and the one who likes to show the contestants photos of his pet lizard dressed up in Scottish kilts, the pickings are slim to say the least. I let out a sigh. “No.”
He pats my knee. “Well, maybe you’re stuck here with me for a while longer.”
“I guess. I’ll just have to work on not being entertaining.”
“That could be your best bet, Brady Bunch.”
“What’s with the Brady Bunch nickname?”
I try not to let on how much I like it. I mean, it’s not exactly original, but it’s unexpected from a guy like Sebastian.
“You call me Seb, so I thought I’d repay the compliment.”
“Okay,” I reply warily as I notice how the gold chunks in his brown eyes seem more pronounced tonight. I become increasingly aware of him sitting close beside me, and my body begins to respond. Looking like Mr. Darcy doesn’t help, especially this version. He’s sexy, casual, off-duty Darcy, chilling on the sofa at home. If Mr. Darcy did that sort of thing, which seems completely unlikely, really.
I know it’s only the Mr. Darcy Effect, toying with me once again. It’s perfectly natural, and nothing for me to take seriously.
I mean, it’s not like I’m attracted to Sebastian or anything.
Feeling uncomfortable, I hop up off the sofa to my feet. “Right-o,” I say, sounding as English as him.
He raises his eyebrows at me from his seat. “Right-o?”
“Yes, right-o,” I repeat. “It’s a common phrase here in Texas. It means ... right.”
Smooth, Emma.
He rises to his feet. “Interesting. ‘Right-o’ means right. I will have to fit in as many Texan lessons as I can from you before you leave, shan’t I?”
“Ah, sure. Yeah,” I mutter.
He wants to spend time with me?
“Good. I’ll look forward to my next lesson. Will it be focused on other British expressions used in the Texan vernacular?”
Got it. He’s teasing me.
“The what?” I ask.
“The vernacular. The language.”
“Oh, right. Sure. I knew that.”
“I wonder whether ‘jolly hockey sticks’ and ‘poppycock’ are in common use.”
“Oh, sure. Me and my friends always talk about hockey sticks and poppycocks.”
“Do you indeed?” His lips quirk. “How fascinating.”
His gaze is intense, and I feel it right down to my toes. This is beginning to feel very flirty. Time I refocused the conversation.
“I really need you to insist that I get to leave next time. Okay?”
“I will do my best for you.”
I nod. “Good. Thank you.”
“What about if I asked them to allow some time on camera when the contestants aren’t dressed in Regency clothes?”
“You could do that?” I ask in surprise.
“I can’t promise anything, but I can try.”
Hope begins to ping around inside my chest. “That could seriously change things for me.”
“I imagine it could.”
My mind races. “I could do what I came here to do. Maybe I could get some of the other contestants to wear my label too, that way it’ll get even more exposure.” I look back up at him. “Oh, that would make such a huge difference! Thank you.”
“Thank me if I manage to pull it off.”
“Okay, I won’t count my chickens. But if you could help me out, it would totally make my life.”
He gives a single head nod and says, “I’ll let you know. Off camera, of course.”
“Of course.”
With nothing else to say, and with a weird feeling in my belly, I head to the door. I hold it open a crack and check to make sure no one is lurking around outside. The coast is clear. I look back at him and whisper, “Thanks, Seb.”
“It’s Sebastian,” he whispers back.
“Not in Texas it’s not, dude. Take that as Lesson Number Two.”
His smile lingers with me as I quietly make my way back to my room, slip into my bed, and drift off to sleep.
Chapter 15
With the prospect of being able to wear my label on camera, my mood lightens and I even find myself enjoying some of the aspects of life on a reality TV show.
In fact, I’ve made a list. Don’t judge me. There’s not a lot else to do around here. Here it is: Things I like about being in here:
Free drinks. All. The. Time. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an alcoholic, but I’m also not one to turn down a glass or two of free wine, either. Because, duh, it’s free wine.
Some of the girls, the non-crazies, have become my friends. Like Kennedy. She’s helped me keep my sanity here, and Phoebe, the sweetest person I’ve ever met. She keeps me from falling into a snarky, cynical hole. Reggie is a heap of fun and always up for a laugh. I can totally see the four of us remaining close on “the outside,” as we’ve begun to call it (and yes, I know that makes it sound as though we’re in prison. But it’s not. I refer you to point #1).
The lack of noise is pretty darn fantastic. And by noise, I don’t mean the chatter or the laughter around here, because there is plenty of that, believe me. I mean no emails, no social media, no phone calls, no endless to-dos. It’s weird, because I never thought I’d be happy to live my life without them. But still, here I am, content to live in a pre-electronic world. Most of the time, anyway.
My mind turns to Sebastian. Is he on my list of things I like about being here? If I were honest with myself, maybe I would include him. I mean, the guy’s not what I thought. Sure, he’s pompous and formal and quite standoffish at times, and I’m sure he looks down his nose at me. But there’s a side to him I’m catching glimpses of that I admit I like. And I don’t just mean he’s hot, because that’s a given. The man is “smokin’,” as Reggie puts it. It’s more that I’m seeing the real Sebastian, not the guy playing Mr. Darcy for TV.
And the real Sebastian is captivating.
That said, I hate that he’s got all the power. Well, him and the production crew, that is. Keeping me here to “entertain” the viewers is enough to make me want to pull my hair out, strand by strand. Whichever way you look at it, the net result is the same: we, the contestants, most certainly do not have the power, and I challenge anyone to say they enjoy that feeling.
You know what can make that feeling of utter powerlessness even more fun? You guessed it: Regency clothing. Why they can’t let us wear normal bras instead of these darn stays things, I do not know. I mean, it’s not like the audience is going to see what we’ve got on underneath our clothes. And yes, I do clearly recall Penny coming up with the ludicrous idea of “whisking off” my clothes at the soirées to show off our label underneath, but believe me, there’s no “whisking off” when it comes to these outfits. More like painstakingly unravelling. Not that I was exactly on board with Penny’s idea in the first place.
“Holy crap, Reggie. Could you tie those any tighter?” I say as my ribs snuggle up together in a wholly unnatural way.
“Hold still, darlin’. Nice and tight and your puppies’ll pop.”
With my favorite pastime I like to call “breathing” severely restricted, I reply, “I don’t need my ‘puppies to pop,’ as you put it, but I would like to avoid a trip to the ER.”
“All done.” Reggie steps back and examines her handiwork.
I, on the other hand, am still trying to recover. I look up at my reflection in the mirror. “I look like I’m serving my boobs up on a platter.”
“You are. Now, help me with mine.” She thrusts her stays at me and I reluctantly take it from her as she turns for me to fit it. “Pull as tight as you like. I’m not afraid of a little bolstered puppy action.”
I laugh. It hurts. “You’re not afraid of a whole lot, Reggie.” I slip the stays over her head and begin to pull.
“Tighter.”
I pull some more.
“Tighter,” she repeats, her voice strained.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she squeaks.
I give one final pull on the cords and tie them up. Reggie examines herself in the mirror. “I’m thinkin’ of keepin’ this when I leave.”
“Because you’re a masochist?”
“Because they make me look hot, darlin’.”
“To each their own.” I finish off my outfit and then set about styling my hair.
Reggie settles onto her bed and pulls out a notebook and begins to scribble.
“Whatcha writing?” I ask.
“I record everythin’. I plan on vloggin’ my entire experience on the show when it goes live.” She sighs. “Oh, how I miss my phone.”
“Do you? I quite like the calm.”
“Calm? You’re insane if you think the girls here are calm.” She finishes what she’s writing and says, “What’s your plan?”
I cock an eyebrow. “Plan?”
“Yeah, you know, how you’re gonna get yourself noticed.”
“By Sebastian?”
“Sure.”
I think of Penny’s advice the day this all began. “Be myself, I guess.”
“Be yourself,” Reggie repeats as though I said “eat Brussels sprouts.” Side note: I hate Brussels sprouts.
She gives me a look like I’m being completely dense. “You’ve gotta get yourself out there, darlin’. That’s why we’re all here: for after the show is done and dusted.”
“Right. For the follows.”
“The follows, the endorsements, all of it.” She glances around the room, even though we’re alone. “This is our moment. We have got to grab it by the balls and not let it go.”
Reggie might be here for promotion in a way I’m not, but we do share a common goal: use the show to get ahead. Now, I need Sebastian to deliver on his offer to help get Timothy some air time.
“I hope it works out for you, Reggie. Now, we’d better get down there.” I stand up to leave. “We don’t want to upset Mrs. Watson.”
She hops up off the bed and collects her spencer from the closet. “Heck, no. That woman scares the livin’ crap out of me.”
We are the last to arrive in the living room, and we try to sneak in without being noticed. But you can’t pull a fast one on Mrs. Watson, as we find out pretty quickly.
“Ladies, how nice of you to join us,” she says with a disingenuous smile.
“Sorry we’re late,” we both mumble as we try to merge into the background.
“Since you’re here last, you have the honor of going first in today’s activity.”
“Okay,” I reply worriedly. “What is the activity, exactly?”
“Horse riding.” She pauses, and then adds, “Side saddle,” before she shoots us a triumphant smile.
Horse riding? Side saddle? I blink at her in disbelief. Is she freaking kidding me right now? I may be Texan born and raised, but the full total of my experience with horses is owning a yellow My Little Pony I called “Matilda Horsie” when I was five. Not so helpful in riding an actual, live horse.
I flash my eyes to Reggie’s. She’s a city girl through and through. I bet she’s as freaked out as I am.
I clear my throat. “Mrs. Watson, neither of us have any experience of riding horses. Can’t one of the other girls go before us? Someone who knows about them?”
“Miss Emma, after your remarkable rendition of that song about a horse in the singing competition, I felt quite certain you would leap at the opportunity to ride one.”
Sebastian in all
his Mr. Darcy regalia appears at the door, and the cameramen turn to capture him. They were clearly not expecting him.
“I’d be more than happy to assist you,” he says.
For some inexplicable reason, I blush.
The women in the room begin to gush their greetings, and there’s much toying with hair and battering of eyelids as he steps further into the room.
“Oh, my,” Reggie says beside me. “I have said it before. This guy is smokin’.”
“Oh, it’s only because he’s dressed as Mr. Darcy,” I explain knowledgeably as I think of the way he made me feel last night in his room. “He’s one of the most romantic heroes of all time. It’s The Darcy Effect.”
“Sure, darlin’. If you say so,” she replies, obviously unconvinced. “I’d prefer to call it The Hot Guy Effect, but maybe that’s just me.”
I open my mouth to respond as I watch Sebastian greet the contestants in his riding boots and snug-fitting jacket with the long tails (I really should find out what those are called). It’s true, he does fill that Darcy costume pretty darn well, but I’m beginning to realize it’s more than just that. He’s got an air of confidence to him that’s very appealing, and as his eyes find mine and he offers me a hint of a smile, a sudden jolt of electricity shoots through me.
Much like The Force in Luke Skywalker, The Darcy Effect is getting stronger in me.
“Sebastian, how kind of you to join us,” Mrs. Watson says as her eyes dart to Toni, one of the crew who gives her a shrug and gestures for her to continue. “A lovely surprise. We weren’t expecting to see you until we were at the stables with our top four riders.”
“And miss out on all the fun, Mrs. Watson?” he replies with a cheeky smile. “But please, continue.”
“All right,” she replies dourly.
“Come sit next to me, Sebastian,” Camille simpers as she pats the sofa beside her.
“Thank you, Camille,” he replies. In a handful of strides—which I don’t want to refer to as “manly,” but they totally are—he’s across the room and sitting between Camille and Shelby, much to both women’s unadulterated delight. Camille places her hand possessively on his forearm on one side, and Shelby scoots over so she’s pressed up against his other arm.
Dating Mr. Darcy: A romantic comedy (Love Manor Romantic Comedy Book 1) Page 12
