Chapter 28 Andrea #2
“I just wanted to run through a few details for tonight. The welcome dinner starts at seven sharp—black tie. It’s being hosted by Le Comte and La Comtesse de Lavigne, with the Stewarts co-hosting.
” She glanced up, assessing. “That means count and countess. They’re very traditional, though thankfully the evening’s more champagne and canapés than state dinner, so you should be all right.
” A faint exhale escaped her. “Let’s keep everything elegant. No surprises.”
“Of course.” What did she think I was going to do, get drunk and vomit on the host? “I’ve seen Bridgerton, I know how to address a duke.”
“No dukes in attendance.” Her smile was ice. “Your gowns should be hanging in the wardrobe. Liam had them pressed and sent up ahead of time.”
I don’t know why they hadn’t just shipped me over with the luggage too—pre-ironed and ready for inspection. She probably would have done it if she’d thought she could get away with it.
She hesitated, then brushed an invisible speck from her sleeve. “I’m sure you’ll manage beautifully. You’ve always struck me as, well … adaptable. In every sense.”
The way she said it, it didn’t sound like a compliment. A sharp, subtle sting that wouldn’t leave fingerprints, just an invisible bruise.
Was she jealous? I’d never picked up that there was anything between her and Liam. And anyway, this thing was fake, so why would she be? But maybe my instincts were off. Maybe they had something going on behind the scenes.
I’d certainly missed all the signs with Rudy. And the other ones.
Not that Liam was my boyfriend.
But there was something odd about how she was behaving. I’d done everything they’d asked. Signed the papers, agreed to all their weird clauses.
So why did she seem to dislike me so much?
“Anything else I should know? I would hate for something not to be elegant.” The tang of sarcasm didn’t escape her.
Bonnie looked down and pursed her lips before raising her chin again to look me in the eye. “No, Andrea. But please, just remember why you’re here.”
She gathered her tablet, gave a stiff nod that managed to feel like a dismissal, and slipped out. I was left with the sense I’d just been politely put in my place.
I grabbed a plate of snacks and the etiquette guide, then shuffled into the bedroom in my socks, sinking back onto the bed. Part of me wanted to hurl the thing off the balcony, but another part—the smaller, more pathetic one—wanted to prove her wrong.
Why did I care what Bonnie thought? Or what anyone thought, for that matter? I hated that I did.
I opened the guide and forced myself to read, swallowing the irritation that rose with each bullet point about titles and posture. My chest was still tight from earlier—the petty line I’d tossed at Liam like a grenade still echoing in my head. When would I ever learn to shut up?
But I didn’t have time to spiral. I had to focus.
Bonnie thought a salesgirl from Datchet would never cut it—that I’d trip over the silverware and humiliate him. That everyone would take one look and see what I was—a placeholder in borrowed clothes.
Did Liam think the same? He hadn’t seemed that way when he was with me in Oxford.
I kept reading, the paper whispering under my fingers.
They were only people—people with wealth and entitlement—but people all the same.
You’ve got this, Andrea. This is for Eliza’s future … and to keep a roof over our heads. It’s just a script to learn, no biggie.
Still, my hands were shaking as I turned the page, the words swimming in front of me. I blinked hard and tried to clear the tears.
Never say “toilet.” “Bathroom” or “washroom” are coy. One “uses the loo,” preferably without announcing it.
Shit. All these years and I’d been peeing wrong.
Serviettes are for children’s parties. In polite company, we use napkins.
I thought it was the other way round. Was she trying to trick me? I made a mental note not to refer to anything made of cloth, just in case.
Settees are council house. Sofas are acceptable. “Couch” is for Americans—avoid.
Wow. Did people really care about this sort of thing? Did Liam? No, I was sure I’d heard him say “couch.” Maybe I was just too common to notice? Thank God I was a sofa girl already. Who knew I was secretly so posh?
“Pardon?” indicates middle-class striving. Simply say “what?” and let breeding do the rest.
I thought “pardon” was polite? Crap, this was a minefield.
If unsure which fork to use, wait. Someone more socially adept will go first.
But what if I sat next to someone who wasn’t socially adept? Or was everyone here trained in all this? I’d just stay close to Liam all night, to be on the safe side.
In Britain, men wear dinner jackets. “Tuxedo” suggests America, or that one is trying too hard.
I was glad I wasn’t American trying to navigate this. You’d be categorized as classless on a secret scorecard before you even opened your mouth.
Backgrounds should be implied, never explained.
Ambition is admirable only once achieved.
Confidence is attractive; effort is not.
Self-control is simply good manners.
Above all, never let them see you trying.
It was like some sort of dystopian wall art from Buckingham Palace. There were pages and pages of this. How could she have whipped it up so quickly? My fingers slid down the pages. I wasn’t sure if I was more horrified or fascinated.
Then, at the end—
Never mention Didcot Park Community School. If questioned, refer to the county of Oxfordshire. Vague is better than humiliated.
What the hell was Didcot Park Community School? I grabbed a pen and underlined it. Maybe I’d better check. The aristocracy seemed to have so many codes and rules, and none of it made sense.
I looked at the time—already past five. Not long to get dressed, assuming Liam needed at least half an hour to use the room, too. I’d shower and wash my hair, and—what was it Monish always said about difficult sales pitches? Visualize success.
Really—that was all this was, another pitch. I could handle it. It would be fine.
The bathroom was still steamy when I came out twenty minutes later. I’d wrapped the big fluffy towel around my head and grabbed a robe from behind the door.
I crossed to the bed and sat down again, the mattress dipping slightly under my weight, and picked up the guide from where I’d left it.
There was a rap on the door, sharp and annoyed.
God, would that woman leave me alone?
“Come in,” I yelled. I was done with standing on ceremony for her.
The door opened slowly, and Liam walked in. He saw me sitting on the bed and stopped, like he shouldn’t have been there.
“Oh,” I said. “I thought it was Bonnie.”
“Sorry, I can come back,” he said, easing out the door.
“No, Liam, please … don’t.”
He stopped and looked at me, like he was waiting for me to decide something. I slipped off the bed and walked toward him, still wet and warm from the shower.
The look in his eyes caught me mid-step, and I became aware of everything—the damp heat still clinging to me, the robe, how near he was. His gaze tracked over my skin, then pulled back, a fraction too late.
As if I wasn’t already hot enough.
I stopped behind the sofa, ten feet between us, like the distance mattered. “I’m sorry about what I said.”
“Oh—right.” He kept his eyes fixed on mine.
“It was mean of me, and you didn’t deserve it.”
“I didn’t give it another thought.”