Dating Mr. Darcy - Kate O'Keeffe Page 0,14

reply, “I guess we’re about to find out.”

With the cameras trained on both us and him, we watch the men with expectation.

“Ladies. Mr. Darcy has a set of invitational cards on this table.” Johnathan gestures to a wooden table which is indeed covered in envelopes, complete with red wax seals from the olden days. “Each card represents an invitation to stay here at the ranch, which of course is an invitation to secure Mr. Darcy’s heart.”

I stifle a scoff. “Cheesy, much?” I mutter under my breath to entirely the wrong audience. Phoebe shushes me, Shelby looks at me as if I’ve just said “I am the devil’s servant,” and I receive several annoyed looks from other women around me.

Tough crowd.

“Eleven of you have named invitation cards on this table which, I’m sorry to say, means that one of you is going home tonight.”

Virtually all the contestants strain to see if their name is on one of the invitations, but it’s all in vain. Of course they won’t put them close enough to us to read. That would ruin the moment, which is designed to amp our nerves up to maximum, all in the name of good television ratings.

Not that my nerves are amped in the least. I don’t care what Mr. Pompous thinks of me.

“The contestants who are invited to stay for another week are called The Lizzies, a nod to Elizabeth Bennet from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice,” Johnathan says. “We thought it would add a touch of fun to the proceedings.”

The Lizzies? Jane Austen must be raising a deeply disapproving eyebrow in her grave right now.

“Now I ask Sebastian, our Mr. Darcy, to step forward to hand the cards out. Sebastian?”

And so the process begins. It’s a process I’ve seen enacted before on countless dating shows. I know, because Penny has made me watch them plenty of times before, always tempting me with free takeout and wine in exchange for girl time.

This time, it’s different. This time, as the names are read out and more and more girls collect their cards, thoughts run through my head, my palms getting sweaty, my heart beginning to thud: Have I done enough to stay here? Has Sebastian decided against me, thanks to that humiliating entrance of mine? Am I going home?

Could this mean the end for our new, precious activewear label?

“Emma. Please come and join The Lizzies.”

I heave a sigh of relief. There are only four of us left up here, so that was a pretty close call.

I step down from my position and collect the card with my name from the table. I glance at Sebastian as I do so, a mixture of emotions bubbling inside. He shoots me an impassive smile, one that doesn’t meet his eyes, and I pad on my bare feet to the other side of the room to join the others.

The names are read out until a woman whom I barely spoke with is sent home. She doesn’t look overly bothered by it all.

The experience has shown me I need to try a little harder to ensure I stay for at least the next round or two. Otherwise, Timothy won’t get the promotional boost it so desperately needs to stay alive—Penny’s and my dreams along with it.

Then I can be home free, back to Frank and my sofa, and put this whole weird experience behind me.

As the dismissed contestant, Sebastian, and Johnathan all leave the room, one of the production staff tells the rest of us to stay put. We look at one another questioningly. Seriously? It’s got to be about three in the morning, and after the weirdness of the day—and possibly the amount of champagne I drank tonight, but who can say?—I, for one, am in desperate need of my bed. And I don’t even know where it is yet.

The cameras are still rolling, so this has got to be part of the show.

Penny reminded me there are all sorts of twists in reality dating shows. Maybe they’re going to announce we’re all hopping on a plane to the Bahamas? Maybe a second bachelor? One without a stick up his butt.

We don’t have to wonder for long. Mrs. Watson walks into the room and we turn and stare. There’s something about her that makes my eyes bulge. Something so out of place in a sea of plunging necklines, long flowing hair, and sky-high heels, that it makes me almost laugh out loud.

“What the—?” Kennedy mutters.

Mrs. Watson is wearing old fashioned clothes, and I