Marrying Mr. Darcy: A romantic comedy (Love Manor Romantic Comedy Book 2) Read online

  Marrying Mr. Darcy

  A romantic comedy

  Love Manor Romantic Comedy Series

  Book 2

  by

  Kate O’Keeffe

  Marrying Mr. Darcy is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  ISBN: 979-8699699315

  Edited by Wendi Baker

  Proofread by Julie Crengle

  Cover design by Sue Traynor

  Copyright © 2020 Kate O’Keeffe

  About this book

  Is it a truth universally acknowledged, that a girl can humiliate herself on reality TV and still get her fairy tale ending?

  Emma Brady is in shock. She fell in love with Sebastian Huntington-Ross on national television, showing everyone that opposites can most definitely attract. Now, he’s asked her to marry him and live happily ever after in his fancy English manor. It’s a fairy tale ending.

  Or is it?

  The problem is the TV audience wanted Sebastian to marry someone else. And in choosing Emma to be his bride, Sebastian could lose everything his aristocratic family has held dear for generations. Not to mention Sebastian’s granny, who goes out of her way to make Emma feel like she doesn’t belong.

  With enough hurdles to keep an Olympian jumping, can Emma and Sebastian find a way to stay together? Or will the pressures pulling them apart cancel their trip down the aisle?

  Author’s Note

  Hello!

  In case you didn’t know, this is the second book in my Love Manor Romantic Comedy series, and it follows the continuation of Emma and Sebastian’s story from the first book. Sure, you can totally enjoy this story without having read the first book in the series (I promise), but if you really want to get the most out of it, I recommend reading Dating Mr. Darcy first. That way you’ll know who everyone is, what’s happened with Emma and Seb before (hint: a lot), and get the in-jokes. ’Cos I’d hate you to miss out on those in in-jokes.

  And now, without further ado, I will let you get on with your fun, feel-good escape.

  Kate xoxo

  Also by Kate O’Keeffe

  Love Manor Romantic Comedy Series:

  Dating Mr. Darcy

  Marrying Mr. Darcy

  Falling for Another Darcy

  Cozy Cottage Café Series:

  One Last First Date

  Two Last First Dates

  Three Last First Dates

  Four Last First Dates

  High Tea Series:

  No More Bad Dates

  No More Terrible Dates

  No More Horrible Dates

  Wellywood Romantic Comedy Series:

  Wedding Bubbles

  Styling Wellywood

  Miss Perfect Meets Her Match

  Falling for Grace

  Standalone titles:

  Manhattan Cinderella

  The Right Guy

  One Way Ticket

  I'm Scheming of a White Christmas

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Falling for Another Darcy

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  You know when you’ve been humiliated on a reality TV show by a guy you’re in love with, he chooses someone else, and now he tells you he made a big mistake and he’s been in love with you the whole time?

  No? Just me, then?

  The thing is, that’s our story. Sebastian’s and mine. Well, it’s the start of our story, anyway.

  It’s girl meets guy, girl and guy hate each other but secretly grow to like each other too, girl and guy overcome a bunch of obstacles, and then finally guy admits to being in love with girl on national TV and that he made mistake in not choosing her in the first place, girl forgives guy once he explains he will lose his house, and they live happily ever after.

  It’s a classic, straightforward tale, really.

  Oh, I hear it. You don’t have to tell me. It’s complicated. More than complicated. It’s a freaking soap opera, with a handsome lead, an evil rich bitch, and me, the girl who didn’t win the show.

  But I won something a whole lot better than that.

  I won Sebastian’s heart.

  And I’m not giving it up for anything. Not when we’ve come so far.

  “Seb, I cannot believe you’ve gone to all this effort.” I lean my elbows on the tablecloth and smile across at my handsome boyfriend.

  “I hadn’t seen you for a while, Brady Bunch. I wanted to do something special for you. Timothy has stolen you away from me a little too often for my liking.”

  “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

  In case you’re wondering, Timothy is the name of the activewear business I run with my bestie, Penny. It’s not some other boyfriend. I’m a one-man woman, and I could not be happier.

  Since getting exposure for the label on the reality TV show Dating Mr. Darcy, Timothy sales have gone through the roof, and with it my workload. I’m not complaining, though. Promoting Timothy was the reason I went on the show in the first place.

  Without it, I’d never have met Sebastian.

  I owe it a lot.

  “I thought you might enjoy a simple candlelit dinner for two in the gazebo tonight. Now that it's late summer, we won’t be able to do this much longer. Not without risking hypothermia, anyway,” he says in his sexy, Henry Cavill accent.

  I shake my head as my heart dances for him. Sebastian Huntington-Ross may be my boyfriend of the last three months, one week, and five days (yes, I’m counting—go ahead and judge me all you like), but he’s still a little on the formal side of the equation. As I’ve been known to say, with being both English and an aristocrat, the guy never stood a chance on that front. But it’s a part of who he is, and I love him for it.

  “There’s nothing simple about this meal, Seb.” I eye the silverware lined up on the table in an order that still manages to mystify me, despite it being really quite logical when explained. There’s a vase filled with a dozen red roses in the middle of the table, and I think I spied someone in a white shirt and waistcoat lurking in the bushes on our walk up to the gazebo from the house. But then I might be hallucinating. I did fly in from my hometown of Houston on the red-eye a mere handful of hours ago. A flight that long does things to your brain. Like scramble it and serve it on toast.

  Sebastian reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. “I wanted to treat you, Brady Bunch.” His gorgeous brown eyes with the gold chunks that so dazzled me when we first met turn soft, the skin around them crinkling into the smile that never fails to make me weak in the knees. Which can be a problem at times.

  Like when I’m standing.

&nbs
p; I return his smile, my heart full. “I can totally get on board with being treated.”

  “Good, because I’ve had a special meal prepared for you by this new caterer I’ve recently met.”

  “Oh, how awesome.”

  Inwardly, I groan. Sebastian’s idea of a “special meal” usually involves something fancy. From pheasant to escargot (yup, you got it, snails) to this traditional English dish called tripe that put me off eating altogether for a full day it was that bad. Seriously, never try it.

  He raises his hand, and someone dressed in a white shirt, black pants and waistcoat, and black bowtie materializes beside the table.

  My eyes grow wide. “Zara?” I question, naming Sebastian’s kid sister. My eyes land on her fake moustache.

  “Non non non. I am ze Chef Henri Carron of ze renowned restaurant, Chez Henri,” she replies in a fake French accent that sounds thoroughly convincing to me. “But ’ooh-ever this Zara is, she sounds extremely attractive.”

  I let out a laugh. “Well, Chef Henri, it’s great to meet you, and Zara is extremely attractive in that fake moustache kinda way.”

  Sebastian shakes his head and laughs. “My sister should be on the stage, don’t you think?”

  Zara—sorry, Chef Henri—takes my hand in hers and plants a kiss on it. Her moustache promptly drops to the table. She snatches it up and tries not to giggle as she replies, “Ah, mademoiselle. Bien sur, ze pleasure is all mine.”

  I begin to giggle myself, and it ends in an unladylike snort.

  “Would you care for some-sing to drink, mademoiselle?”

  “Sure. Whatcha got? Let me guess. A bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape?” I eye Sebastian as I name his favorite wine, the one we drank in his family library as we got to know one another away from the cameras on Dating Mr. Darcy.

  It’s also the place he delivered the then devastating news that he wasn’t choosing me on the show, so I’ve got some seriously conflicting emotions about the room. I’m working through them, especially since I’ve moved over here on an extended working vacation. Yup, you heard it right—as of today, I’m going to be spending a lot of time here at Martinston, Sebastian’s family home.

  “Actually, I thought we’d forgo the wine and go with a Brady family tradition instead,” Sebastian says. “Since you and Frank have moved here for an extended period, I thought it only right.”

  I think of Frank, my prickly but lovable tabby cat, resting up in the house after his long journey today. I didn’t want to leave him behind in Houston. A girl needs her cat, you know, even when that girl is currently dating a hot British aristocrat.

  Zara places a bottle covered in beads of water on the table in front of each of us.

  I look up at Sebastian in surprise. “You got Budweiser? Oh, I could totally kill for a beer right now.”

  Sebastian picks up his bottle, and we clink. “I thought it might go well with the special meal I have planned for us.”

  I lift the bottle to my lips and take a grateful swig. Although I love Sebastian’s choice in wine, a girl can’t go past a good old bottle of Bud every now and then, even if our surrounds at Sebastian’s family’s manor house are a lot more champagne and caviar than beer and chips. But then, that’s the way we are. Opposites. And yes, we definitely attract.

  Zara returns holding a plate covered in one of those silver bubbles that keeps the food warm (Sebastian tells me it’s called a “cloche” but I prefer “silver bubble” because it sounds a lot cuter, plus I can pronounce it, which is a major plus). She places it in front of me and says, “No peeking, mademoiselle, or else you may lose ze fingers.”

  “Lose my fingers? Wow, Henri’s a bit harsh,” I say to Sebastian.

  “You know Henri,” he replies with a laugh.

  Zara returns with another plate and places it in front of Sebastian. “And now, ze great unveiling of ze masterpiece.”

  She lifts both silver bubbles off with dramatic flair. I fully expect to see some obscure dish that Sebastian’s father’s father’s father once enjoyed after a jousting competition with the King of England or something, complete with enough saturated fat to clog everyone’s arteries.

  Instead, I’m met with a sight from my childhood.

  I blink at my plate. “Mac and cheese?” I say in delight. “Seb, you know how much I love mac and cheese!”

  “I do know. I also know you put on a brave face with all my family traditions, and I thought we could create a new one of our own.”

  I beam back at him. “Any tradition that involves mac and cheese is all right by me.”

  “Well, tuck in before it gets cold. We wouldn’t want to upset Chef Henri. Fingers, remember?” He waggles his fingers at me.

  I dig my fork into my meal and take a bite. It’s creamy and cheesy and totally delicious. “Did one of you make this?” I ask with a mouthful as I look from sister to brother and back again.

  “We had some help,” Zara admits after a beat, her fake French accent dropped in favor of her everyday English one. “You know neither of us can cook. And Seb wanted it to be special. I’m not sure congealed, cheesy goop would have done the trick for you.”

  “Actually, I wouldn’t have cared,” I reply as I take another bite. “Bif iff bobally yubby.”

  “Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk with your mouth full?” Sebastian teases. “But you’re right, it is ‘yubby.’”

  My phone tells me a new message has arrived, and I swallow my mouthful. “Sorry, one sec. That’ll be a message from Penny,” I say as I pull it out of my purse.

  “Of course,’ he replies graciously, because that’s what Sebastian is, totally gracious. With Timothy taking off, I’ve got to work into the evenings sometimes when I’m here in England with him, and he never complains.

  I read the screen, and my heart sinks. “Actually, it’s from Jilly.” I flip it over for Sebastian to see.

  Sebastian takes my phone from me and knits his eyebrows together. “Why is Jilly sending you something like this?”

  “She told me it was best to know what they’re saying out there about me. I kinda agree. And anyway, she’s not just your lawyer. You’ve known her since you were in diapers.”

  Jilly Fotherington has taken me under her wing since I began seeing Sebastian, and she’s become a close friend. Without her here, I’m sure I’d feel like a fish out of water—or a Texan in the English countryside. Which fits, because that’s exactly what I am.

  “But it says ‘When Emma sings, I be like…’ with a picture of Macaulay Culkin screaming from that Home Alone movie. That’s hardly something you need to know about, in my opinion.”

  I shrug. “At least it’s not still carrying on about how they wanted you to marry Phoebe. That got real old, real fast.”

  Phoebe was the final contestant on the Dating Mr. Darcy show, and the public’s hopes seemed to lie with her and Sebastian marrying. When she announced she was in fact in love with Johnathan, Sebastian’s bestie, you’d think the world had imploded, so many people were upset by it all.

  One headline stood out in my mind from the time Sebastian had told the world that he was head over heels in love with me—and yes, it was the most romantic experience of my life bar none. It was the famous British tabloid, The Sun, and it said succinctly, “Sod Off, Emma! Give Us Phoebe!” Don’t get me wrong, I prefer it when people get straight to the point, but Phoebe had just proposed to Johnathan, so she was never going to end up with Sebastian in the first place.

  Sadly, there were many, many more. None of them particularly nice about me and all questioning why such a hot, rich guy like Sebastian would choose someone like me.

  Nice, huh?

  Not that I’ve ever let it get to me.

  Well, not that much.

  Okay, it still gets to me. I mean, they say some pretty mean things, and I’m only human after all.

  “One of those trashy magazines Zara likes to read had a supposedly exclusive interview with Phoebe, who said she’d made it all up and had bee
n in love with you all along.”

  “It’s utter tripe, Emma. Ignore it.”

  I slip my phone back into my purse. “You’re right. And tripe is disgusting, by the way. Your granny made me eat it last time I was here.”

  “My point exactly.”

  Zara arrives at our table once more, her moustache and white chef’s jacket now gone. Instead, she’s dressed in a pair of skinny pants and a sparkly tube top.

  “You look hot,” I say to her.

  “Thanks. I’m off to the pub.”

  “Not too many, okay? You know what happened last time,” Sebastian scolds in his older brotherly way.

  She rolls her eyes. “I told you, Seb, we had nothing to do with the fire alarm going off, and the bra the police found the next day hanging from the lamppost wasn’t mine.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Absolutely,” she replies, and it’s totally clear to me she set the alarm off and the bra was undoubtedly hers. Zara’s a bit of wild child to say the least. “The firemen made it all worthwhile, though,” she adds as she fans herself.

  Sebastian shakes his head at his sister. “Unbelievable.”

  “Now, you two love birds. There are some chocolate chip biscuits on the table over there. I’m going to leave you to it.”

  “Are they the chocolate chip cookies from that little café in the village?”

  “We call them biscuits,” Zara says, “and, yes, they’re from Mia’s.”

  My mouth begins to salivate as I think of Mia’s to-die-for baked goods. They’re almost as good as the ones I chow down on with Penny far too regularly back home. Almost.

  “Yum.”

  “Well, I’m glad we cleared that up,” Sebastian says. “Perhaps we could write an English-American dictionary.”

  “Already exists,” I reply.

  “Really? Why didn’t I know about that?”

  “Seb, there are websites, apps, you name it. We Americans have been trying to understand you Brits forever.”