Chapter 1
Corsets Are a Crime Against Humanity
Friday Afternoon
Hayley
Ilove an earl.
Said no woman who’s ever worn a corset.
It’s taken me approximately three years to trudge a hundred metres downhill, in a dress designed by Satan, clutching an invitation to my best friend’s Tudor-themed wedding and wondering why I agreed to participate in this circus and the role I now have to clown my way through.
And as if that isn’t enough, I’m sweating through a rented empire-waist monstrosity. And before you start, yes, I know: wrong century, historically inaccurate, blah blah blah.
My boobs are the only rebellion I’m focused on, one deep breath away from a full-scale jailbreak, so please don’t send me angryye oldefan mail.
I LOVE AN EARL
That’s not me speaking. That’s the role printed on my wedding homework, complete with character description. And little else.
Of course I’m here alone. Which means I’ll probably be paired with some creepy uncle who thinks double-dipping the hummus is foreplay and coffee breath counts as cologne.
Behind me, tourists snap photos of the moat where Henry VIII once courted Anne Boleyn. Feels fitting really, half the people at this wedding will probably lose their heads by Sunday.
I shift the bodice of doom again and swear I feel a rib crack. Stupid castle. It’s annoyingly beautiful, ivy crawling up ancient stone walls, heavy oak doors, rose gardens straight out of an overhyped Netflix series that gets cancelled just as you’re getting into it.
Honestly, I’m five minutes away from torching the gift table, calling it performance art, and letting everyone believe I’m part of the entertainment.
I want to go home.
Before I can inhale another corset-crushed breath, I’m ushered towards the check-in table by a man in an equally ridiculous outfit, cock-shrinking tights, a velvet doublet and an actual feather in his hat, looking for all the world like a peacock who accidentally got cast inPuss in Boots.
“Lady Hayley, I presume?” he proclaims.
What gave me away? The sweating, the scowl, or the desperate Prosecco eyes? Then again, of course he knows who I am. They’ve probably given him a full briefing on every guest, and I’m the one withdisaster risk: highstamped on my file.
“Yep, that’s me, I guess. Any idea where the bride is?”
“Lady Lily is otherwise engaged.” His chest’s puffed and bottom clenched like he’s holding in both a fart and the weight of the monarchy. “You must follow me immediately. The other women arealreadyenjoying light refreshments.”
Translation: I’m late, the good stuff’s gone, and I’ll be lucky if there’s anything left that isn’t purely decorative.
Dude doesn’t smile once. Apparently, staying in character means pretending women have no rights and tea cures all trauma. Not that there was any tea in Kent in 1510; they’d have been knocking back ale or wine.
Lucky bastards.
Where the fuck is the Prosecco?
He herds me through a side door, where several women in picture-perfect, Pinterest-worthy costumes are nibbling on what’s left of the snacks.
“Hayley!”
Emma waves from across the room, draped on a chaise like she’s auditioning forBridgerton, her gown suspiciously free of sweat stains, makeup still immaculate, looking like a Tudor Barbie promotional poster. Of course.
“You survived check-in?” I mutter, collapsing beside her and yanking at a lacy frill currently strangling my shoulder.
“Just about.” She grins, all teeth and zero sympathy. “Although I nearly throttled the butler when he called memiladywith a straight face.”
