Read Online Definitely Not Mr. Darcy by Karen Doornebos - Free Book Online

was, miss.”
    Chloe sighed, and an image of herself, in her white gown, draped over Mr. Wrightman’s strong arms, her head against his broad shoulders, his dark wavy hair grazing her bonnet, popped into her head. He had been forced to do the forbidden and touch her—carry her in. She’d have to wait till it came out on DVD. She squinted at the light and struggled to move.
    â€œMr. Wrightman’s been tending to you the entire time,” Fiona said.
    â€œMiss Parker,” said a deep voice in an English accent.
    Chloe melted just a bit. His voice was enough to make a girl forget she’d been shot at.
    â€œCan you see clearly?”
    â€œYes, I can,” she lied. The blur of a man looking down at her so intently, with so much concern, came through clearly, even if his features didn’t. “My arm hurts. Did a bullet graze me or something?”
    Fiona stifled a giggle.
    â€œYou fainted,” said Mr. Wrightman. “I’m going to put some smelling salts under your nose now. It will smell rancid and sting a bit, I’m afraid—”
    â€œOoooo! What the—” Chloe snorted and sneezed simultaneously, and she sprayed droplets into Mr. Wrightman’s face. “Excuse me,” she said, trying to regain composure.
    The first thing she really saw was Mr. Wrightman’s lips curving into a smile, a very sexy smile, as he handed her his handkerchief. He wore a brown cutaway coat with tails, an upturned white collar tied with a ruffled cravat, a waistcoat, and cream-colored breeches tucked into buckskin boots. Still, he didn’t look like the guy in the bathtub or out in the field. Instead of dark wavy hair, he had dirty-blond straight hair, with a couple strands falling into light brown eyes. He was pale with round wire-rimmed glasses. Despite his seductive smile, he looked more like a librarian than the local Mr. Darcy.
    â€œThe smelling salts really clear the senses after a fainting spell,” he said. With a large but gentle hand he pressed a cool cloth on her forehead.
    The cloth felt great, but what if it smeared her elderberry-painted eyebrows? “Fainting spell? I don’t faint.”
    â€œOf course you don’t.” He stepped back and let Fiona hold the cloth to Chloe’s forehead.
    She wasn’t the fainting type. But this was England, after all, and people fainted in England. She handed the handkerchief back to him, but he didn’t take it. Her thumb grazed the blue embroidered HW in the corner. “Well, I’ve never fainted before.”
    â€œI suppose it follows that if one has never fainted before, one never will. When a lady doesn’t faint, as you clearly haven’t, I recommend a brief rest in her boudoir.”
    Chloe’s head spun. She thought sarcasm wasn’t allowed. The nerve of him to spar with a person who’d supposedly just fainted. But—boudoir?
    â€œDid you say ‘boudoir’?” Chloe dropped the handkerchief in the folds of the bedspread and looked around from under the cool cloth at the floral molding, yellow walls with painted-grapevine border, Empire writing desk, high marble fireplace topped with a gilded mirror, and the mahogany four-poster bed she’d been propped up in. Boudoir. Bridesbridge Place! She couldn’t wait to explore it, so she sat up, the cloth slid off her forehead, the room spun, and Mr. Wrightman, with a firm hand, settled her shoulders back against the bumpy pillows.
    â€œFiona,” Mr. Wrightman said. “Please fetch Miss Parker a cordial water.”
    â€œHow cordial of you,” Chloe said. She looked forward to something that smacked of alcohol.
    â€œStandard protocol for a woman who has fainted ,” he replied.
    â€œYou gave my Fifi and me a most dreadful scare, Miss Parker,” said a gorgeous, probably eight-months-along pregnant woman as she bustled through the doorway in a periwinkle gown and lace cap. The gown