Chapter 31
EVIE
Oh, Lord. What am I getting myself into?
Well, Kensington Palace. The actual palace.
I guess if you’re going to be a fake fiancée, it might as well be in a royal residence.
If my mother could see me now, she’d be in raptures. Actually, if my mother was here, she’d probably be under arrest for trying to break into the part of the palace where the royal family lives. Any of them. She’s ... something else, my mom. She’s not a social climber, but she is obsessed with status, good breeding, appearances, and all that hooey. That she can trace her family’s ancestry way back to America’s Founding Fathers is a point of pride to her. Get her near actual royalty, and God only knows what she’d be responsible for.
Maybe shouts of Marry my daughter! Somebody! Anybody royal will do!
We pass through a security checkpoint, Oliver’s driver following the path to the designated parking lot. Once we arrive, Oliver rounds the car while I sit like a woman of good breeding. In other words, one who’s forgotten what her hands are for.
“Thank you.” I place my hand in his as, knees together, I slide out of the car. Without letting go, Oliver lifts it seamlessly to the crook of his elbow.
“You hate that, don’t you?” Humor loiters in the quirk of his lips as we make our way to a marquee denoting the entrance.
“Being handed out of the car like a china doll?”
“I think it’s the waiting you object to over anything else.”
“I’ve got hands,” I murmur, biting back the offer to demonstrate. To throw hands.
“You’re always moving.” His eyes skate over me. “Even your face is rarely static.”
I scrunch my nose, then frown as I point to my face. “Are you trying to say I could regularly frighten small children with this?”
In answer, he gently knocks his shoulder with mine. “It’s endearing.”
You can’t trust a thing he says, I remind myself, ignoring the instant glow his words create. I might’ve allowed myself to forget for a moment or two back in the hotel bar, but he was quick to remind me of the man he is.
“I’ll tell you the truth. You just have to know the right questions to ask.”
Who the hell does he think I am? Frickin’ Yoda?
The line into the building is covered by a marquee roof, though it doesn’t take long before Oliver is handing over our invitations, which are exchanged for a pair of bright-blue peacock feathers.
“What’s this for?” I run my fingers along the length of the one he hands me.
“Take a guess.”
“Not to tickle your ass,” I retort.
“It’s for entry into the exhibition. Not that kind of exhibition,” he adds, taking in my expression. “There are fashion and jewels on display in the palace’s staterooms. The feathers are color coded to match a viewing time.”
“Oh.” I guess I should’ve paid attention at security, but I was too busy listening in to other people’s conversations. Apparently, there are newspapers and magazines here to cover the event. The Guardian , Vogue , Grazia , and Tatler , but I heard no mention of Una whatsherface or the City Chronicle , thankfully. It sounds like an eclectic mix of attendees are expected: celebrities, members of the aristocracy, fashion designers, artists, and philanthropists.
With his hand at the small of my back, Oliver leads me into the former home of kings and queens, princes and princesses. While I’m not sure who lives here now, the event is being held in some of the public rooms.
“This is ... modern.” I state the obvious as we clear the marquee and enter what is, effectively, a huge garden room. Decorated in creams and gold, the tasteful palette allows chandeliers to sparkle and mirrors to gleam as huge arrangements of white flowers and foliage add to the general air of opulence. There are barmen dressed in velvet frock coats, and waitresses wearing dainty gold tiaras. And the guests? They are a stylish and, in some cases, an avant-garde bunch—cocktail dresses and evening gowns, velvet dinner jackets, and jeweled lehenga in a profusion of colors and styles.
I was so determined not to allow Oliver to dictate my outfit tonight, but when I slipped this dress on, I immediately knew I wouldn’t be wearing anything else. It fits like it was made for me, but I guess that’s the beauty of working with a stylist.
“Is this the kind of thing you regularly get invited to?” I find myself asking. I was relieved Oliver didn’t pick the dress. I’m also very happy not to be wearing my boring little black one.
“Invited? Yes. Attend. Not so much. We’re only here to pin down Lord Bellsand.”
“Who?”
He sends me what Jane Austen might call a speaking glance. Like I’m a ye olde worlde dumbass.
“The man with the house is a lord?”
“An earl, actually.”
My stomach flips. I thought he said we’d have common interests! I glower his way but then realize I’m wasting my time. The man has no scruples. Besides, glowering all night isn’t going to get me my visa or help Nora.
“What do I call him? I’m not curtsying or kowtowing, no matter how badly you want this house.”
“He’d probably find that hilarious,” Oliver says, lifting his hand to acknowledge someone across the space. “I expect he’ll insist on Mandy.”
“Mandy. His name is Mandy?” My tone? You are shitting me.
“It’s short for Armand.” With a murmured thanks, he lifts two flutes of champagne from a passing tray, pressing one into my hand. “He’s very informal. I really do think you’ll like him.”
“That sounded like a backhanded compliment.”
“I thought we’d called a truce this evening.”
Something in his tone tugs at me, which is just ridiculous. I’m not feeling sorry for him! Oliver Deubel is no one’s idea of a Romeo.
“Fine. I’ll try better, but just for tonight.”
“Thank you,” he says, his fingers brushing my cheek.
“So, this earl. Lord Bellsand. You don’t like him?”
“I do, actually. It’s his sentimentality, his lack of business sense that has been the problem. Ah, there’s Fin.” I turn to where his friend holds court—the drop-dead gorgeous blond, glass in hand. Seeing us, he excuses himself from the fashionistas and philanthropists.
“Eve!” He greets me with kisses to both cheeks. “How are you, beautiful?”
“Knock that off,” Oliver grumbles.
“I’m good,” I reply, completely ignoring him as I touch Fin’s arm.
“I’m glad to see you’re still putting up with this devil.” He taps the rim of his glass to Oliver’s shoulder. Oliver’s expression is still ... weird. Grumpy. Milk-curdlingly bleak.
“Oh, it’s a struggle,” I offer happily. I’m playing my part. I’m not sure what part Oliver is playing. “With Olly, every day is a struggle.”
My nickname seems to pull him back to us. In a blink, he turns all suave and sleek. He lifts my hand to his lips, his thumb sliding over the statement-piece ring like a subtle reminder.
“A struggle to keep your hands off me, more like.” His gaze sweeps over me, bold and possessive.
“That’s true. Sometimes I want to squeeze you so hard and never let go”—thanks to my heels, it’s easier to press my lips to his ear as I whisper—“of your windpipe especially.”
“It only seems kinky the first time, darling.”
“Hey, enough of that,” Fin playfully complains. “No PDAs. You’ll make a single guy jealous.”
“We can’t seem to help ourselves.” Oliver grins. Two–one to him.
“Well, try harder,” Fin says flatly, lifting my hand from Oliver. He says nothing about the ring. “You look stunning this evening.” His eyes move over me appreciatively, encouraging me to do a little twirl. I giggle because it’s silly but all in good fun. Fin is a flatterer, and I get the sense he knows how to treat (if not keep) a girl.
“Thank you, Fin. You can pay me all the compliments you like.”
“You never say that to me,” Oliver puts in, aggrieved.
“Maybe I’m just treating you mean.”
“It’s keeping him more than keen,” Fin says with a chuckle. “If you ever get sick of this one ...” He throws a thumb in Oliver’s direction.
“It won’t be you she comes looking for,” my so-called beloved retorts.
“No, ’cause it’ll be me.” Matt arrives by my side and bestows on me a one-armed hug, I guess because his other hand is occupied with a plate brimming with food. “How are you, Eve? Want a little nibble?” He offers me his plate.
“For fuck’s sakes!” Oliver complains.
“Food, man,” Matt protests.
“I’m good,” I answer with a soft laugh.
“Looking good, too, I see.”
“Will you two stop ogling my date?”
“Ah, shut your face. How is it,” Matt continues, “that out of the three of us, you’re the one with the date?”
“I’m sure neither of you will be going home alone,” Oliver mutters.
“A scurrilous accusation!” Matt complains like an old maid.
“One that lands like an arrow,” Oliver bites.
“Don’t begrudge us poor bachelors our little pleasures.”
“My pleasure isn’t little,” Fin puts in. And if I wasn’t laughing before, I am now.
“Honestly, have you seen the state of him?” Matt jerks his head toward a smiling Fin. “Fat chance of him finding love, dressed in a green suit. A green suit!” He gives a slow, sorrowful shake of his head.
“It’s black, not green.” Fin sounds wounded. “Who the fuck would wear a green suit?”
“You, clearly,” Oliver drawls.
“I suppose he does have enough cheek for two arses,” Matt says, which I take to mean Fin doesn’t give a stuff for anyone’s opinion, because he sure as heck doesn’t look like a chipmunk. “God love him, he shouldn’t be allowed to go clothes shopping himself.” With a pitying glance, he adds, “He’s also color blind.”
“Defective,” Oliver adds.
“I wasn’t alone. My tailor was there.”
“No.” Oliver’s gaze flicks over him critically. “That thing is off the rack.”
Fin swears, and I laugh again, and so begins our evening.
For all the fancy setting, once the opening speeches are over, the night is quite informal. Guests mill around table settings, chatting and laughing before moving on.
The food is buffet style, but quite upscale. There’s a lobster and oyster bar set on mounds of glittering ice, and another offering smoked salmon, beluga caviar, and a whole host of other things, none of which I find myself hungry for. I’m too nervous to eat.
What am I supposed to say? Hey, I hear you’ve a house for sale. Wanna sell it to me and my hunk over here? I promise I won’t install feature walls or shabby chic the whole damn place.
“Get off!” Matt slaps Fin’s hand away, shielding his plate with his body as Fin chomps on a piece of chicken. Or, according to the server, poussin in jerk seasoning served on a bed of fried plantain. “Watch him,” he warns. “He’s light fingered. He’d steal the eyes out of your head.”
Fin begins to laugh, coughing a little as he swallows the piece of pilfered chicken.
“Serves you right. Choke, you bastard. I’ll write your eulogy. Phineas choked the chicken often enough ,” Matt begins in sonorous tones, “ but in the end, the chicken got its own back. And that is how he met his sad end. ”
“I will be castrated by paper cuts before you read my eulogy,” Fin retorts.
“Sounds like a painful way to go, but you do you,” Matt retorts.
“When my time comes, I plan on being in my own bed with a bellyful of whisky and a maiden’s mouth around my”—he halts briefly, his gaze sliding my way—“nether regions as I disappear into the darkness from whence I came.”
“He came, and he went.” Matt presses his hand to his chest and gives a sorrowful shake of his head.
“You guys are too funny,” I say, chuckling again.
“Yes. They’re hilarious.” An unamused Oliver offers me his hand, and like a good little fake girlfriend, I stand.
“See you guys around.”
“Are you off to have a look at the posh frocks?” Fin asks.
I look to Oliver. Are we?
“Would you like to?”
“Who doesn’t love fashion?”
“Him,” Matt pipes up, nodding toward Fin and his green suit.
“I’d love to look.” If Oliver had mentioned the exhibition much earlier, things might’ve gone much easier for him. “If you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t,” he answers like a good boyfriend would.
“We’re pretty good at this,” I say as we walk away. I find my thoughts to have mellowed a little. Blame the dress, the champagne, or the other side of Oliver I see when he’s with his friends.
“It’s not hard.” His fingers tighten on mine. “I like you. A lot.”
“I guess I must be drunk, then.”
“Because you don’t like me?”
I sigh, because I know what’s coming next. There are parts of me you like. And he’d be right, but I can’t afford to think of them. “You’re like Jekyll and Hyde.”
His smile seems out of place, considering what I’ve just said. “Can we talk about this later? The man we’re here to meet is just ahead.”
Oh, hell.
I just know this is not going to end well.