Dating Mr. Darcy - Kate O'Keeffe Page 0,31
hold my head high and trudge up the path as my fury bubbles up inside.
Chapter 11
With my head held so high I’ll need a chiropractor to snap me back into place before too long, I trudge down the path, crunching gravel beneath my flimsy ballet flats, as I head back to the terrace.
Well, that was a big fat waste of my time. What was I thinking appealing to his sense of decency? The guy didn’t even give me a chance! He cut me down to size with his ridiculous line about me professing my love for him in my note, making me look like some sort of prepubescent schoolgirl with a crush.
Oooh, I’m so angry I could scream!
That man is beyond exasperating. He’s so arrogant and I can tell he thinks so much more of himself than he does anyone else. Save perhaps for Johnathan, even though he’s probably some actor being paid to pretend he’s Sebastian’s friend.
I can tell you one thing for free: that little exchange between us back there makes me even more determined to get out of here as soon as I can. Between the cast of Mean Girls and Snobby Sebastian, I cannot stand another minute here.
I’ve got to come up with another plan. This feels so much more than simply a lost opportunity to market Timothy. It feels personal. And I for one am—
I feel a hand on my arm and look up in surprise to see Sebastian standing right behind me.
“Move. Quickly.”
He cups my elbow and steers me off the path in between some bushes. My petticoat snags on a branch and rips, and I hoist it up around my knees. How did women in 1813 manage to do anything physical while maintaining “decorum,” as Mrs. Watson puts it?
We reach the other side of the bushes, and he drops his hand. “This way.”
“Where are we going?” I hiss.
“You’ll see.”
I follow him as we enter the house. I rush down the corridor behind him, and into an area of the house I’ve not been.
“My living quarters,” he says by way of explanation as he closes the door behind us.
I cock an eyebrow. “So, you diss me in front of the cameras, then whisk me away to your bedroom?” I ask, incredulous.
Who the heck does this guy think he is?
Yeah, I know: Mr. Freaking Darcy.
Well, he’s not Mr. Darcy. He’s just a pompous English stiff who thinks he can take what he wants, when he wants.
“You and I both know you’re jumping to entirely the wrong conclusion, Emma,” he says sternly.
I eye the bed. It’s the hugest bed I’ve seen—and I live in Texas. “We’re in your bedroom.”
“I assure you, you are perfectly safe with me.”
I shoot him a look. Is that meant as an insult?
I give a short, sharp nod. “Good.” I take in the room. Other than the big bed, there’s a spacious seating area, a large TV (he’s a guy, so duh), and a door leading through a closet to an ensuite. It’s the opposite end of the accommodation scale the contestants have got to put up with, with three single beds to one room and shared bathroom facilities.
He sits down on one of the sofas and looks up at me. “We’ve got a couple of minutes. I suggest you take full advantage of it.”
He gestures at the sofa opposite.
“Look. After what you pulled out there—”
“I thought it was quite funny.”
I cross my arms. “I bet you did.”
“We’ve got one minute and thirty seconds now.” He gestures at the sofa once more and I give in and sit down.
“Okay, here’s the thing.”
“Another thing? You Americans and your ‘things.’”
“Don’t you talk that way in England?”
“We tend to use actual, descriptive words instead of relying on ‘thing.’”
I give him a false smile. “Well bully for you.” I lean in, my elbows on my knees. “The thing is,” I begin, emphasizing the word for effect, “I can’t do what I intended to do on this show if I have to wear this.” I tug at the fabric of my petticoats.
He raises his eyebrows at me. “You don’t want to wear clothes? Because if that’s the case, Emma, I would say you’re on entirely the wrong kind of show.”
“These clothes. The Jane Austen stuff.”
“So not clothes per se, then?”
I pull a face. Does he think I’m some kind of exhibitionist nudist? “No! Of course not. I wear clothes like everyone else. Every day, in fact.”
“Including your Spanx.”
I pull my lips into a thin line. “That was