Definitely Not Mr. Darcy by Karen Doornebos

weathered wooden trunks strapped to the back of it.
    â€œIn 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—”
    â€œQuite 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.
    â€œWow.” 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?”
    â€œThirty-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.”
    â€œYou’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,