Hiring Mr. Darcy - Valerie Bowman Page 0,17

you need me to do, I’m willing to try.”

Here’s something that’s surreal: a super-hot guy sitting in your living room telling you he’ll do whatever you need him to for money. It certainly wasn’t something I had ever predicted would happen to me. Especially not in front of my brother. But there I was, cuddled up in my gray polka-dotted bathrobe with my glasses perched on my nose, sitting on my ugly feet to hide them, and I’d just heard those exact words.

“Look, Jeremy,” I began. “I think there’s been a mistake.”

“Oh, no. Don’t cop out, just tell him,” Luke groaned.

Jeremy bit his lip, and I could tell he was trying not to smile. “Just tell me,” he prompted. And that was so cute, I had to do it.

“Fine.” I set my mug on the glass coaster on the table between me and Jeremy. “I need a partner for the Jane Austen Festival in Bath in two weeks.”

Jeremy’s face went completely blank. It was as if he didn’t understand the words I’d just said. As if I hadn’t spoken them in English. I had. Hadn’t I? I wasn’t fluent in any other language. My French was barely passable.

“Her nerdy boyfriend is taking someone else now, and he was supposed to be her partner,” Luke added.

I arched a brow and glared at my brother. “Thanks, Luke. Just drip the lemon juice in the wound, why don’t you?”

Luke blinked at me innocently. “What? It’s true.”

I turned back to Jeremy. He still hadn’t moved or said a word.

“What exactly is a Jane Austen Festival?” he finally asked carefully.

Oh, great. Beautiful but dumb. “Jane Austen is a nineteenth-century author who—”

“I know who she is,” he interrupted. “She wrote Pride and Prejudice and Emma and Sense and Sensibility, among others. I just don’t know what a festival about her would entail.”

Hmm. Score one for Jeremy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s a festival with reenactments, Regency-era dancing, card games, things like that. We’d need to be in a set of competitions, almost like a beauty pageant, but in the nineteenth century.”

“People actually do that?” Jeremy asked, a frown marring his brow.

I squirmed in my seat. “Yes.”

“People like Meg do,” Luke interjected, as if that explained it all.

“What are the specific competitions?” Jeremy had leaned closer to me and searched my face as if really taking it seriously.

I took a deep breath. This was a horrible idea, and if I didn’t want to be by myself at Christmas and Thanksgiving with Mom or Dad, I would kill Luke and hide the body. “Specifically, there’s a card tournament, an acting competition, a costume competition, and a grand ball.”

“So I’d have to learn to play old card games and act?”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “And to carry yourself like a Regency gentleman.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” Jeremy replied, his brow still furrowed.

“Yes, well. I know it’s a lot to think about. Luke should’ve told you what you were getting yourself into.” I stood, ready to escort him to the door. There was no way I would be able to teach this guy how to beat Harrison of all people in a competition in two weeks. “I completely understand if you’d rather not. No hard feelings. I—”

“Meg can teach you,” Luke said, stopping me in my tracks.

“No. No.” I shook my head. “It’s perfectly all right. It’s a lot to ask, and—”

“Are you willing to? Teach me, Meg?” Jeremy asked, looking up at me quite seriously.

My mouth went dry. “I, um—”

“Because if you are, and you’re still willing to pay...I’m willing to try.”

My mouth went drier.

“See, there,” Luke said, splaying out his hand in front of his friend. “The perfect Mr. Darcy.”

I turned back to Jeremy and pushed up my glasses. “Are you sure?”

His smile was like sunlight on a sunflower. There was that cute dimple again, too. “I am if you are.”

All I could do was nod.

Jeremy slapped his thighs. “It’s settled then. When should we start?”

Chapter 6

Monday night

Running a little late…five mins, came the text from Jeremy. We’d agreed to meet at a bar downtown to go over the big-picture things. He had questions and I had answers.

I rolled my eyes. Oh, terrific. He’s a Late Person. The kind who’s chronically running behind. I knew the sort. My dad was one of them. They always said five minutes, but they meant more like thirty. Or two hours.

I settled into the booth at the back of the crowded bar and took a sip