“Salty,” he murmurs.
I genuinely contemplate stabbing him with my fork.
“You’re such a pig,” I hiss under my breath.
He leans in, wine glass balanced effortlessly between his fingers, and murmurs back, “No, milady. I believe that’s the next course.”
As I attempt a desperate salvage operation on what’s left of my pride, I shift awkwardly in my chair, tugging and wrestling at my bodice under the table,Mission Impossiblestyle.
Which is when disaster strikes.
One rogue hand ricochets off the stubborn bodice. I’ve tugged too hard, missed the fabric entirely, and my palm lands squarely in Tyler’s lap.
I freeze. Because in my panic, I’m now stuck at the world’s most awkward angle, boobs practically to my chin, face hovering inches from his shoulder, hand still way too close to somewhere it absolutely should not be.
Kill me now.
Tyler doesn’t even flinch. If anything, his mouth twitches like he’s enjoying this a little too much. He bends closer, voice pitched low enough to make me want to combust.
“Need a hand there, milady?”
A beat. His gaze dips, just briefly to his lap, before lifting again.
Then, softer, smugger: “I’m good at the moment, thank you. We are in public, after all.”
I shoot him a look that could curdle milk, cheeks flaming.
He just sips his wine like nothing happened.
Just when I think it can’t get any worse, the human flamingo pipes up again.
“I simply must have a flat white tomorrow,” she announces loudly, still clinging to her fake posh accent like it’s a life raft. “If I have to drink one more cup of weak English breakfast tea, I shall simply perish!”
Tyler sets down his wine glass, deadpan as ever.
“Ah yes. The ancient art of rebelling against British tea.”
I snort water up my nose.
Because of course I do.
I mop my face with my sleeve, utterly defeated, and send a silent prayer to the gods of mortification that dessert involves heavy drinking and a swift death because, let’s face it, if one more thing lands in his lap, I may have to marry him out of sheer obligation.
Clink,clink, clink.
Mr. Peacock Pants himself taps a spoon against his glass, radiating the smug delight of a man born for this exact spotlight.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he trills. “Before we retire for the evening, it’s time to announce your first official weekend challenge!”
Oh no.
“Tomorrow afternoon, you will be participating in the Castle Maze Race. Find the centre, retrieve your special token, and return before your rivals.” He flourishes the wordtokenwith all the gravitas he can muster.
Tyler tilts his head towards me and whispers, “So… treasure hunt or thinly veiled excuse to get lost and misbehave in the shrubbery?”
I flip him off under the table.
“And tomorrow evening,” Peacock continues, “the Great Hall will host a masked ball. All couples must perform one traditional dance before dinner is served.”
