“On behalf of my fiancée… we thank you for being part of this unforgettable celebration. Let the festivities begin!”
Polite applause.
Somewhere in the back, a cork pops, and I consider sprinting towards it.
The crowd begins drifting towards a long table covered in wax-sealed envelopes, like Hogwarts letters, but from hell. The shuffle gives me just enough room to slink sideways towards the tray of drinks glinting in the corner.
Prosecco. Glorious, blessed, bubbly Prosecco.
If I can just reach it before the first round of historical improv…
I’m one step away from deliverance, which, of course, is when the universe yanks the rug. In this case, the hem of my dress. My shoe snags, and physics signs my death warrant.
In the split second before impact, all I can do is register the disaster as gravity drags me down and I hit the polished stone floor with all the grace of a tranquillised hippo.
A loud, theatrical cough slices through the room. Not a cough, really, more a one-man symphony of disapproval.
Mr Peacock Pants. Obviously.
I scramble upright, cheeks blazing, and realise the entire Ballroom has gone silent.
Not good.
A few women cover their mouths in delicate horror. Several men fight back smirks. And Emma is flapping her hands at my chest like she’s directing air traffic.
I follow her gaze. And there it is.
One of the girls, my right boob, to be precise, has staged a daring escape for freedom and is practically waving to the nobility.
Great. Just great.
This is why I don’t do costumes. Or weddings. Or life, apparently.
I yank the budget bodice back over my traitorous body part, shoving it into place like I’m foiling a prison break, and wonder if public humiliation qualifies as a medical emergency.
Peacock Pants coughs again, somehow louder, somehow more judgemental, and gestures stiffly to the man standing directly in front of the Prosecco.
Tall. Broad. Dark hair. Black period suit that somehow doesn’t look ridiculous, like Jonathan Rhys Meyers inThe Tudors, if you gave him a protein shake and a permanent scowl.
“Your assigned partner for the weekend, milady,” Peacock intones.Arsehole
“Earl Tyler,” he adds, with a flourish.
Fuck. My. Life.
Chapter 2
Attack of the Brooding Earl
Hayley
“Dinner and a show? Milady has outdone herself,” Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome drawls, his mouth tilting into something dangerously close to a smile.
I blink up at him, still somewhere between rage, humiliation, and the undeniable urge to hurl a tray of cucumber sandwiches directly at his smug face.
“Glad you enjoyed the performance,” I mutter. “I’ll be here all weekend. Try the veal.”
He chuckles, faintly self-satisfied, and it pisses me off more than it should.
