The brim narrowed her view, the straw scratched the back of her neck, and Chloe wanted nothing more than to yank it off. Even when she went to her Jane Austen Society galas in costume, she didn’t wear a bonnet, but chose a tiara or a turban. She tugged at the ribbon under her neck.

George stepped back to look at her. “I find it very interesting to see who has the strength of character to throw themselves into the time period and who doesn’t.”

“I’m all about rules,” Chloe said. “That’s half the fun of it. Regency manners and etiquette.”

He smirked and opened the trailer door. “And no cell phones.”

Sunlight fell upon them. George put his aviator sunglasses on. “Shall we? The carriage awaits.” He offered his arm.

She looked back over her shoulder at her untouched latte sitting on the coffee table. The copper tub on TV number three had been emptied, upended, and propped against the wainscoted wall. Chloe put her arm in George’s. He’d won this round, after all.

The vista from the top of the trailer steps softened her. The grass in England seemed greener, the trees more gnarled, and the sheep more picturesque, with horns and long wool. Of course, there were no such things in Chicago. The sheep bleated as Chloe and George ambled past the inn, which must’ve dated from the Tudor era. They passed a cabbage-rose garden, a crumbling stone wall, and a stream along the lane, and Chloe took it all in. They approached the carriage from behind, and Chloe noticed a stack of weathered wooden trunks strapped to the back of it.

“In these trunks,” George said, “you’ll find your wardrobe for the next three weeks. Everything—your gowns, wraps, shoes—has been custom-made for you, all in your favorite colors. Green, yellow, red. What the people of the day would call ‘pomona,’ ‘jonquil,’ and ‘cerise.’ I hope the lady approves.”

Chloe looked down at her shoes. They might’ve been flimsy, and entirely without modern arch support or heel, but they fit her size-seven-and-a-half foot perfectly. She hadn’t even thought that they had to tailor-make everything for her. “Thank you. I didn’t realize—”

“Quite all right.” He made a flourish with his arm toward the gleaming carriage. “Mr. Wrightman sent one of his carriages to collect you. Not even an heiress could afford a carriage like this.”

The open carriage, on four wheels with spokes, shone glossy black in the sunlight, complete with brass fittings and a golden family crest featuring a W, a hawk, and an arrow. A driver in a red coat tipped his three-cornered hat and four horses stamped their hooves.

“Wow.” Chloe ran her gloved hand along the side. “I’ve never really been into cars, but I can tell a barouche landau from a gig any day. It’s gorgeous.”

A footman who couldn’t be a day over eighteen held out his white-gloved hand to her, opened the half door, and handed her into the red velour interior. She perched on the tufted seat, crossed her underwearless legs, set her parasol and rule book in her lap, and looked down on George. She actually felt like an heiress.

George propped his sunglasses atop his head for a moment. “Your chaperone, Mrs. Crescent, will be waiting at Bridesbridge Place—”

Chloe’s shoulders slumped and the shawl slid behind her. “Chaperone—?” She knew chaperones were de rigueur, but not for someone her age, surely. “Aren’t I too old for a chaperone?”

“Thirty-nine is not as old as you think, Miss Parker, you are a single woman, and it would be unseemly to have you go alone. Your chaperone is a few years your senior, and it’s your duty to treat her with respect. Read your rule book along the way. It’s nearly a four-mile drive through the deer park.”

He pushed his sunglasses back down and he looked—good. He rested his hand on the carriage. “Good luck.”

The bonnet shaded her eyes from the sun. “Thank you, George, for everything. Really.”

“You’ll see me out there with the camera crew. But they’re strictly forbidden to interact with the participants. Good day, Miss Parker.” He bowed and slapped his hand on the carriage door. He shouted to the driver: “Drive on. To Bridesbridge Place! Good luck, Miss Parker!”

Surely she would be better behaved than some American heiresses are wont to be. The carriage lumbered forward, crushing the mike on the small of her back into the velour. She eyed the camera on the ATV beside the carriage and, with her gloved hand, gave George the royal wave and a clipped smile. He gave her the royal wave back. She’d miss him—the cad. Something about him intrigued her.

The horse hooves clomped and gunned her forward. She felt as if she were leaving something behind, something important, like her cell, for one thing. She looked away from the camera with a feigned disinterest as any heiress would. Ancient and storied trees laced into an archway overhead. The sky seemed bluer in England, the sun brighter. Of course, she didn’t have sunglasses on because they hadn’t been invented yet.

Sunlight dappled in a clearing far from the road, and when Chloe squinted her eyes she saw two men, one dark-haired in a white shirt open to his chest, in breeches and boots, jogging with two logs atop his shoulders, and the other brawny and bald, who clapped and cheered and yelled. The dark-haired man hurled the logs onto a cart, then ran back for two more. The bald man put his hands on his hips and shouted at the guy. Chloe looked back at the footman behind her on the coach, wanting to ask, knowing it would be improper.

The footman spared her. “Training.” That was all he said.

Chloe nodded. It was the Regency term for working out. Was it Mr. Wrightman? Only a gentleman would be able to afford a trainer. Whoever it was, she admired the fact that this guy was so into the Regency that he even stepped up his workout to a nineteenth-century routine.

He flung two more logs onto the cart and she heard the impact all the way out on the road. He turned his head toward her carriage and shielded his eyes to see her.

She wanted to wave, but didn’t, especially when she thought she saw him smile. The trainer turned his head toward the carriage, then pointed toward the logs and shouted until the dark-haired man lifted four logs.

It was her first real glimpse of Regency life here on the estate, not to mention her first glimpse of a man in an unbuttoned shirt and snug pants in a while. He looked as if he had just burst from the cover of a Regency romance novel and it took serious willpower not to turn and stare long after the carriage had passed. If the rest of the people on the show were as gung ho as that guy, this could be “cool,” as Abigail would say. Really cool.

She cracked open the rule book in her lap and ran her fingers along the thick pages that had been hand-cut. She brought the book up to her nose to breathe in the smell of paper pulp and ink. Then she settled back to read.


Miss Chloe Parker, you are thirty-nine years old, an American heiress who may be without a fortune due to unforeseen circumstances in your family’s business. You have one foot in the States and another one firmly planted in your mother’s native England. A projected income of five thousand pounds a year is yours, provided you land Mr. Wrightman, a husband of the English gentry, thus securing your family’s social status. Your parents and your younger sister, Abigail . . .


Chloe stopped there. Abigail. She squeezed her eyelids shut for a moment.


. . . and your younger sister, Abigail, depend upon your success. Mrs. Crescent, your chaperone, will introduce you to English society. Best of luck.


The table of contents included chapters on “Archery Rules,” “Ballroom Behavior,” “Your Chaperone,” “Dinner Etiquette,” and “Sexual Protocol.” Hmm. Chloe paged over to that very short chapter:


A lady would never engage in sexual relations with a gentleman until after marriage. So doing would compromise her reputation, her position in society, and her eligibility to marry someone her equal or above. One wrong move and a lady could be ousted from society and plunged into a life of poverty and depravity, doomed to remain an outsider. A lady may be kissed only when she is properly engaged. Before engagement, a gentleman does not touch a lady, except to hand her into a carriage, dance at a ball, or escort her on a walk in the garden with her chaperone. He may only touch her in extreme circumstances, in emergency, if the lady finds herself in trouble.


Chloe looked back, toward the inn, the trailer, and George, but she couldn’t see any of it anymore. And suddenly she felt a million miles from American men, work, TVs, computers, phones—Abigail.

The rule book slid off her lap. She leaned over, struggling to pick it up despite the busk restricting her movements. The cameraman on the ATV eased back to get a good shot of her boobs, no doubt. She wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders.

The carriage lurched to the top of a hill and stopped. Dust rose from the dry road and Chloe coughed, digging into her reticule for her fan.

The driver turned around, tipping his hat. “There it is, miss.”

Chloe tossed the fan aside, put her hand over the brim of her bonnet, and, awestruck, stood up. Tucked in a valley off in the distance, rising out of the greenery, was a Queen Anne stone mansion, complete with a four-columned portico and stone urns on all four corners of the roof.

She collapsed back in the carriage seat. “Is—is that his estate? Mr. Wrightman’s?” Chloe asked.

“No, miss.” The driver laughed. “That’ll be Bridesbridge Place, that. Where you’ll be staying with the ladies.”