Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
EMILY
I’ve forgotten how to breathe, and it has nothing to do with the shapewear beneath my dress.
Okay, maybe it has a little bit to do with the shapewear, but I’m not about to complain. Claudette was a genius who picked out the perfect thigh minimizer and waist-cinching bustier.
No, it has much more to do with this “meet the parents at first sight” thing Olly somehow talked me into.
Meeting someone’s mother is terrifying enough when your boyfriend is from a normal family and you’ve had time to prepare.
But meeting a Dowager Viscountess? Moments before a very important ceremony honoring her eldest child, the Viscount?
Without time to do anything to my hair except coil it into a low bun with tendrils in the dressing room and hope for the best?
Well, needless to say, I’m spiraling.
And gasping.
Maybe even hyperventilating?
“Deep breath,” Oliver murmurs as we hurry up the stone steps of Spencer House, past topiary trees wrapped in white lights that twinkle like champagne bubbles. “You’ve got this.”
The December wind smells like it might snow again soon, and somewhere nearby, carol singers are working their way through “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” London at Christmas is aggressively festive, even at midday.
Normally, I’d be enchanted, but right now, all I can think about are the three rules Oliver drilled into me during our four-minute cab ride.
Rule number one: Don’t talk with your mouth full.
I mean, it sounds easy. I’m pretty sure I mastered that particular aspect of table manners around ten, when my mother threatened to make me eat dinner in the trash can with the raccoons if I didn’t stop spraying breadcrumbs at dinner.
But knowing my luck since I landed in London, I’ll probably forget Rule One and give our table a “see food” exhibit during the salad course.
Baby Jesus in the manger, I’m not ready for this kind of trial by high-society fire. Not even close…
We push through heavy doors into sudden warmth and grandeur that takes what’s left of my breath away.
Crystal chandeliers cast the large entryway in a warm, golden glow, and massive wreaths hang between oil paintings of stern-looking dead people.
The air smells like pine, expensive perfume, and a hint of wood rot.
Or maybe mothballs?
Something in here reeks of humans fighting to hold back the tides of time. It’s a smell I find both delightful and sad, but I know better than to mention that aloud.
That would be a clear violation of Rule Two: Don’t discuss anything personal in public—or at all, really, until you’ve known someone at least six to twelve months.
That one’s trickier.
What counts as personal? I obviously shouldn’t share that smells give me feelings or confess that I cry every time I watch any version of Little Women, especially around the holidays. But what about “I run my own business?”
Is my job too personal? I mean, considering that I started the company? Personally?
How about my favorite color?
The fact that my new shoes aren’t proving nearly as comfortable as I’d hoped?
I wince as we stop in front of the coat check, wishing I’d thought to grab bandages for my heels on the way out the door.
“Just this and two coats, my good man.” Oliver hands the bag containing my other clothes to the elderly fellow behind the desk before turning to help me with my coat. As he slides it off my shoulders, revealing my new frock, the old man’s bushy white eyebrows shoot up in approval.
Well, at least the coat check guy thinks I’ve nailed the assignment.
Hopefully, Oliver’s mother and the rest of the high-society set will agree.
Though, of course, I’m sure they won’t comment directly on the dress, as that would be a violation of Rule Three: Don’t offer compliments. Aristocrats, especially those of previous generations, find compliments gauche and embarrassing.
Not to mention overly personal, which could be considered a double violation of both rules two and three.
Rule three is the one that’s really going to kill me.
I love a compliment! I’m a bit of a compulsive complementarian, in fact, but I’ve never worried about it too much before. A sincere compliment, discreetly delivered, is the ultimate social lubricant, and genuine praise always brightens someone’s day.
Or, at least it does in New York.
In London, apparently, a compliment is considered an act of aggression, one that obligates the receiver to waste precious energy rebuffing the compliment in order to reaffirm their own modesty.
Therefore, I will have to remember to suppress my “love your dress” habit, while simultaneously meeting my fake boyfriend’s Dowager Viscountess of a mother in a room full of fancy strangers who have all seen photos of me humping Oliver against a lamppost like a horny cat.
Brilliant.
The thought is enough to make my pulse spike with panic as we sweep into a ballroom filled with tables draped in fine linen and topped with elegantly festive centerpieces.
I suppose there’s always a chance that these people haven’t seen the pictures.
Maybe they’re too important or rich or old to be online as much as the rest of us…
That hope is quashed three steps in when a woman at a nearby table squawks, “Oh my, is that her? The American by the street lamp?” I glance over to see an old woman wearing enough diamonds to feed a small country clutching her bejeweled neck with a delightfully scandalized expression.
Her companion, an even more ancient woman wearing nearly as many baubles, leans forward, squinting at my dress. “Oh, that’s her, all right,” she says, not even bothering to lower her voice as she adds, “But she’s prettier in person than in the pictures. Much less busty.”
My face burns as we move deeper into the room.
Busty?
I was wearing a jacket in those pictures. A Nan Baylor suit jacket, no less! One of the many modest Nan Baylor jackets Maya enjoys teasing me about because they’re so “middle-aged, middle management” coded.
Why so much hate and judgment for my poor suit set?
And why aren’t the old biddies in here obeying rules two and three?!
By the time we reach table nine—front and center, where everyone can stare at the horny young people on display—I’ve caught several whispers about my hair (fabulous, frizzy, and “obviously from a bottle”) and my chances of “landing a Featherswallow.”
All parties agreed my chances aren’t good. Even if he has brought me to a family event and pulled out the seat next to his mother.
By the time I’ve settled into my chair beside the Dowager Viscountess Vivian Featherswallow, I’m certain my cheeks are Jolly Saint Nick on a Bender red.
“Mother,” Oliver says, leaning past me to press a kiss to her pale cheek. “I’d like you to meet Emily Darling from New York. Emily, this is my mother, Vivian.”
“Oh, call me Viv,” the elegant blonde says as she warmly clasps my hand. “All Oliver’s friends from his school days do. How lovely to meet you, Emily.”
She’s not at all what I expected. After all Oliver’s talk of “cardinal sins” and “making her cranky,” I’d expected a fussy, Lady Grantham sort.
Honestly, she reminds me more of the “hippies” in the Hamptons.
The ones who are obscenely wealthy, but do their best to hide it, and are much more concerned with feeding their family organic food than wearing the latest fashions.
Vivian’s pale blue dress is gorgeous, but clearly far from brand new, and she’s wearing mismatched earrings—one pearl stud and one dangly Art Nouveau silver swirl.
Whether that’s on purpose or simply because she forgot to choose between the two when she was getting dressed, I instantly decide she might be a kindred spirit, after all.
“Lovely to meet you, Viv,” I say, smiling as she releases my palm with a light squeeze.
Fighting the urge to compliment her on her dress or her excellent work raising a very charming, so far very decent man, I add, “Thank you so much for making room at the last minute. It’s so nice to be a part of honoring Edward’s accomplishments.
I was so pleased when Oliver invited me. ”
Vivian beams. “Oh, I was, too! Oliver so rarely brings a plus one, and we’re thrilled to have you.
” She introduces me to the rest of the table—two Ladies and an Honorable, I greet with full titles, as expected at a first introduction—before motioning to a formidable-looking woman with deep smile lines around her brown eyes.
“And of course, Lady Agnes Thornfield-Rowe, a dear family friend.”
“So nice to meet you, Lady Thornfield-Rowe,” I say.
“Agnes, please. The other’s too much of a mouthful.” Agnes chuckles in a way that makes me suspect she knows all my dirty, Oliver-humping secrets. “And I’m charmed, Ms. Darling. It’s always fascinating to meet one of Oliver’s friends from the real world.”
“Partner, actually,” Oliver corrects with a winning grin. “We’ve been dating for a few months now, and have decided to make things official.”
Vivian’s blond brows lift, and a flash of something—disapproval? Irritation?—flashes behind her eyes before her expression smooths into another warm smile. “Why, what lovely news! Love makes the holidays even more special.”
“It really does,” Oliver murmurs, gazing at me with a smitten expression that makes me want to kick him beneath the table.
Pretending to be a couple to get the press to leave us alone is one thing; faking some kind of deep, romantic attachment is another.
The first feels like an acceptable falsehood; the second feels…wrong. And the superstitious part of me is pretty sure faking true love is a good way to ensure the universe never gives you a shot at the real thing.
And I want the real thing someday.
I want it more than I realized before last night, when a certain charming Brit reminded me how good it can feel to share a night out with someone who makes you laugh and think and come your brains out.