Dating Mr. Darcy - Kate O'Keeffe Page 0,29
do my best imitation of Mrs. Watson sitting down on the edge of the seat beside him with a ram-rod straight back. I probably look ridiculous, but at least I look the part.
He quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing.
I concentrate hard on not looking at the cameras, as we’ve been drilled, and instead gaze out at the dark night sky. I take a steadying gulp of my wine. “How—”
“What—”
We both begin to speak at the same time.
“What were you going to say?” he asks.
“I was going to ask you how things are going, I guess. This is, what, day two? And we’re already playing dress up.”
Well, that came out a whole lot flirtier than I’d intended.
The outer edges of his mouth curve into a small smile, and I know he took it that way.
“I mean, we’re in costumes. Me in this,” I claw at my petticoats, “and you in your jodhpurs and whatnot.”
“Breeches.”
“Sorry, what?”
“They’re called breeches. Jodhpurs are what one wears when one rides a horse.”
“Forgive me,” I say in mock apology. “I grew up in the ‘burbs, not in some massive castle knowing what the right pants are to wear on a horse. In fact, there weren’t a lot of horses on my street for one to ride.”
His smile is now fully formed. “I imagine not if you grew up in the ‘burbs, as you put it. By which I assume you mean the suburbs.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eyes. “Are you for real?”
He pats his chest. “I believe so, yes.”
I roll my eyes. “And a lame comedian at that.”
“I do try. The boys at Eton were pleased with my efforts, I recall.”
I throw my hands in the air. “You see? That’s what I’m talking about here. ‘The boys at Eton’ and ‘one wears jodhpurs on a horse.’ You’re from a totally different world from me. From all of us.”
He nods, a thoughtful look on his face. “And that’s bad in your books?”
“No. Not necessarily. It’s a thing, that’s all.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “A thing?”
“A thing.”
“Well, I’m glad we got that cleared up.”
I flick my eyes up to his and see the amusement written across his face. This guy has got such a stick up his butt, I’m surprised he can even sit down.
He smiles, and it’s hard not to warm to the guy a little. Not a lot, of course. He’s still a toffee-nosed, over-privileged, castle-owning Mr. Darcy imposter whom I morally object to on so many levels I could form a high-rise in my mind. But still. A little.
And right now, this particular pompous snob is standing between me and going home. Although I hate to admit it, I do need his help.
I’ve never been a girl scout, but I thought ahead and I’ve come prepared. I wrote a note that says, We need to talk, just you and me. NO CAMERAS, and I was forced to put it in the only place I knew it would be secure. No pockets, you see.
It’s time to dig it out.
I avert my eyes from his as I fish around inside my top for my piece of paper. I check one side of my ... “obstacles,” and then the other. Dang it, it’s not where I put it. How could it have moved? It’s not like I’ve been exactly active while wearing this outfit, unless you count dodging Camille and Hayley’s evil glares, that is.
Chewing on my lip, I dig deeper, and finally, with a rush of relief, I locate my note. I pull it out and give a sigh of relief.
Sebastian is looking at me as if I’m some kind of freak.
“Duh. No pockets,” I explain, which is, like, so obvious.
His lips curl up in that sexy smile of his. You know, the one to which I’m entirely impervious.
Okay, I admit to a little wave of tingles, but it means less than zero.
“No pockets. I see.”
With the warm and slightly damp (ew) note in my hands, I glance out of the corner of my eye at the camera. It’s trained on us, as I totally expected it to be, of course—this is a reality TV show, and I’m sitting alone with Mr. Darcy. Like the non-girl scout that I am, I knew there was no avoiding the cameras while I did this. So, I’ve got a cover story.
“Look, Seb. Can I call you Seb?”
“No.”
See? Stick. Butt.
“I’ve written you a note to tell you how much I, err, like you.” I try to retain eye