Chapter 7 #2
“I’m sure you’re right,” I say, before adding idly, “Speaking of society functions, my mother’s looking for someone to do the floral design for our New Year’s Eve party at Swallow House.
” She isn’t, actually. We never do flowers for the New Year’s event, not since Edward and I both grew quite serious about sustainable holiday decorating in our teens.
Shipping a massive load of blooms in the dead of winter isn’t environmentally responsible.
But we can make an exception. Just this once…
“It isn’t a massive event, but the royal family always stops by for dinner before they’re off to their other engagements.
And when they do, I’d be happy to mention who did the centerpieces for the table.
I hear they haven’t decided who’s doing the flowers for the princess’s wedding summer after next, so… ”
Belinda’s hands go completely still, and I’m sure dreams of being the lucky florist who lands the next royal wedding dance behind her eyes.
“I mean, if you would have time to fit in a few centerpieces and something for the entry hall.” I examine my nails with studied casualness.
“I know you’re very busy. What with all the holiday parties and events and crushing the dreams of accident-prone, but very hardworking, very apologetic Americans… ”
She wrinkles her nose. “Subtle, Featherswallow.”
“No, just hopeful, darling,” I counter. “I’ve never seen a woman so broken up about tripping over her own feet. And that’s all it was, Bel. Just a silly accident.”
Belinda sighs, setting down her stem as she turns to face me fully for the first time. Then, with the air of someone making a great and noble sacrifice, she pulls out her phone.
“Fine. One last chance. One. I’ll shoot her an email, offering her another opportunity for a consultation.” She types quickly, her thumbs flying with impressive speed. “But if she destroys anything else, I’m billing you personally.”
I grin, some of the tension easing from my chest as I thank her.
Profusely.
“I’m serious,” she adds as she finishes the email and sends it on its way with a final tap to her screen. She sets the phone down before pinning me with a stern finger, “If she’s late or pushy or shows the slightest sign that she’ll be difficult to work with, I’m done.”
I nod, sobering. “Understood. But I’m sure she won’t be. Emily’s delightful. Completely delightful. Once you get to know her, of course.”
“Clearly, you think so.” Her lips hook up in a knowing smirk. “But try and keep your enjoyment of her ‘delights’ indoors from now on, all right, Oliver? I don’t know about you, but if shots of me snogging by a lamppost were all over social media, my mother would be having a meltdown.”
“My mother doesn’t pay much attention to social media.
Or any media at all, really,” I say, before adding with a dry smile, “But my grandmother has texted a dozen times.” I lift my cell as I back toward the door.
“Speaking of, I should get back to her before she sends the mounted police to fetch me. As for the New Year’s Eve party, I—”
“I’ll have sketches to you by early next week, and you can forward them to your mother.” She waves me off. “Go on. Call your grandmother and beg forgiveness for being a slag.”
She softens the words with a laugh, which I appreciate.
I have no shame about being a slag, but I’m grateful that I’m no longer on Belinda’s shit list. She really is the best florist in London.
As I step outside, the cold hits me afresh.
The sight of another text and two missed calls from my grandmother increases the chill.
Her meddling makes my mother’s attempts at matchmaking seem quaint by comparison.
Her mother, the Dowager Baroness Plimpton, is a shameless bully who steamrolls through her grandchildren’s lives with zero apology.
When you’re on her good side, she can be an invaluable ally and fantastic, silly fun.
But get on her bad side…
Bracing myself for another charm offensive, I tap her contact, booming a warm, “Grandmother! Happy Christmas, how are you?” when she answers.
“Oliver. Good gracious! Finally!” Her voice carries the kind of authority that once commanded diplomatic missions and now leads the Corgi Appreciation Society with zero tolerance for shirking or shenanigans. “I was beginning to think you’d been kidnapped. Or worse, were avoiding me…”
“Never, Grandmother. Simply had some business to attend to.”
“I imagine you did.” Her tone shifts to barely contained delight.
“I’ve seen the photographs, darling. Everyone has.
Lady Prescott called to ask if you were having some sort of breakdown, and the duke next door is convinced you should join his support group for wastrels who can’t handle their liquor. ”
I close my eyes with a wince. “I’m so sorry, Grandmother. Truly, I never—”
“What on earth are you apologizing for, child? Honestly, I couldn’t be more delighted.
” She lets out a musical laugh that stops me in my tracks.
“What a gorgeous creature. She’s absolutely stunning, Oliver.
And so refreshing! None of that skin-and-bones-lugging-a-designer-handbag nonsense you usually parade about.
This is a real woman with real appetites and a genuine passion for my grandson.
And I, for one, think that’s fantastic. When do I meet her? ”
“Oh, well, I—” I clear my throat as I duck into a small pocket garden for privacy. The snow is already melting, but still deep enough that I’m alone on this crystal-clear morning. “She’s in town on business, so I’m not—”
“Business is well and good, but a woman has to eat,” Grandmother cuts in. “Bring her to dinner. Tonight. I’ll have Deirdre make that lamb with mint that you like.”
“I’d love to, but things are a bit more complicated than that, I’m afraid.”
She sighs. “Everything’s complicated with your generation.
In my day, when a man was photographed ravishing a woman against a lamppost, he proposed, and we set about planning the wedding.
Oh, your girl would be a lovely winter bride!
Redheads pop so beautifully against freshly fallen snow.
Though, of course, you’d have to plan the ceremony for farther north to be sure you—”
“Different times, Grandmother,” I cut in before she can book the venue.
“Better times, if you ask me.” She sighs dramatically.
“Certainly, simpler ones. Oh, all right. She’s working, fine.
But she’ll be at the party with you on Saturday, of course.
There’s no way you can show up alone or with another woman.
” She sniffs. “If you did, I might be forced to assume the duke has a point. If you’re kissing one woman like that on Monday night and out with another by Saturday…
Well, it wouldn’t reflect well on your character, Oliver. ”
“No, it wouldn’t,” I agree, properly chastised.
My grandmother’s no fool—she knows that modern dating culture, even for the aristocracy, is the furthest thing from classy or refined—but she expects her grandsons to keep their scandalous behavior out of the gossip rags.
I’ve let her down, and must do my best to make amends.
Luckily, our agendas are aligned this time around. She wants Emily at her party; I want Emily back by my side, enjoying the holidays.
I just need to find a way to make both our Christmas wishes come true…
“And I’m not getting any younger, darling,” Grandmother continues, her voice suddenly trembly and thin. “This could be my last Christmas, and I so desperately want it to be a good one.”
I shake my head, a wry smile twisting my lips. “You’re terrible.”
“I am not!” she objects, her words once again steady and strong.
“Yes, you are. You’re nowhere near your deathbed bed and manipulation is beneath you. I’ll issue the invitation for Emily to join me as my plus one right away. And if she isn’t able to make it, I’ll come alone. I promise.”
“Oh, she’ll be able to make it! Of course, she will.
What else is there to do in London this time of year except go to parties?
Though I will still expect you to wear your punishment sweater.
You lost a bet, and rules are rules.” She makes a puckering sound.
“Kiss, kiss, darling. And don’t worry about the beastly people on the internet or the rest of the tongue waggers.
They don’t know you like I do. You’re clearly smitten with this woman, and I think it’s lovely.
High time you found a lady who could match your spark and fire. See you soon.”
She rings off before I can respond, leaving me standing in the melting snow by the garden’s silent fountain, pondering her words of wisdom.
Emily does match my fire.
And I am smitten with her after a single night.
If the world knew just how smitten, I’m guessing a lot of this ugliness would go away.
The certainty that Emily’s just another notch on a randy aristocrat’s bedpost seems to be driving the bulk of the cruelty.
And the British tabloids love any excuse to pile on a random American tart in a tight skirt.
But what if she wasn’t random?
What if we made it clear we’re together? A proper couple?
The press would likely report the news that the Viscount’s little brother has an American girlfriend with their usual disdain for anyone they deem “unsuitable,” then quickly grow bored, once Emily and I proved to be as yawn-inducing as every other aristocratic pairing.
They’d get sick of snapping photos of us at high society events or volunteering to serve food at my mother’s charity, and move on to the next scandal.
Emily’s reputation would be saved, and I’d be back in Grandmother’s good graces. Not to mention I’d have the perfect excuse to spend more time with a certain redhead.
Surely, once the internet heat is turned down, Emily would relish the chance to spend more time together. Her laughter last night was real, and I can’t help feeling she could use more happy, carefree nights in her life.
Yes! This is it. The brilliant plan I should have known would come to me, sooner or later.
And there’s no time like the present for putting it into motion…
I pull out my phone, pulse picking up as I see how quickly the morning has flown by.
I have less than an hour before the charity luncheon, but this can’t wait.
Every minute we delay is another minute Emily spends marinating in nasty internet bile.
If I delay too long, she’ll have convinced herself I’m the worst thing that ever happened to her, and I can’t let that come to pass.
Even if we never spend another night together, I don’t want the online annihilation of an innocent woman on my conscience. Especially at Christmastime.
Especially this Christmas, when it would already be so easy to give up, crawl under the covers, and pronounce the world a miserable place, barren of joy, basic human decency, or holiday spirit.
But I can’t give in that easily.
I have to fight. For Emily. For myself. And for a reason to believe that there’s actually something worth celebrating in a world without my father in it.
The walk to Mayfair passes in a determined blur, my thoughts racing as I compose my arguments and counterarguments. By the time I reach the hotel, I have my strategy sorted.
Catching my reflection in the golden elevator doors at the back of the lobby, I straighten my collar. I look like what I am: a man of privilege on his way to a charity luncheon.
I can’t help that.
I am a man of privilege, but it’s what I do with that privilege that counts. Hopefully, today, I can employ it to ease the suffering of a lovely young woman.
Of course, Emily might not want saving. She made it pretty clear this morning that she wanted nothing more to do with me or my lying, lamp-snogging, fifth-in-line-to-the-throne face.
But people don’t always know what’s best for them. Sometimes they need a nudge in the right direction from someone with a clearer perspective.
I exit the lift with the confidence of a man on a mission of righteousness.
Emily Darling doesn’t know it yet, but she’s about to become my girlfriend.
I simply refuse to take no for an answer.