10. Lili
Lili
" S on of a biscuit!" The words escaped under my breath as I felt the delicate clasp on my vintage necklace—Mama's only good jewelry—snap. The pearls scattered like tiny marbles across the marble floor, pinging and rolling in every direction. Some disappearing under tables, others being stepped on.
I should've known this would happen. When Lady Victoria had announced this morning that Edward would be escorting me to tonight's Children's Hospital Charity Auction—not exactly a request, more like a royal decree—I'd been nervous enough.
The fact that several of Edward's colleagues would be there, sizing up Daphne's "little friend," had made it worse.
Edward appeared at my side with that efficiency that probably came from years of handling crises, already dropping to one knee to gather the pearls within reach. "Don't worry," he murmured, his voice steady and reassuring. "We'll find them all."
"Easy for you to say," I whispered, watching a particularly perfect pearl disappear under the hem of some socialite's evening gown. "That necklace is the only thing Mama has that's worth more than sentiment. Her Mama gave it to her on her wedding day."
"Then we'll make sure you go home with every one," he said firmly, pressing several rescued pearls into my palm. The warmth of his touch sent an unwelcome flutter through my chest.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer's voice boomed over the crowd, "please welcome Edward Grosvenor and his guest, Miss Lili Anderton."
All eyes turned toward us—Edward rising gracefully from his crouch while I stood there clutching a handful of pearls, my cheeks burning hot enough to cook an egg.
Three hundred of London's most prominent citizens suddenly focused on the American girl collecting her grandMother's jewelry off the floor.
"Breathe," Edward murmured, offering me his arm with the kind of calm confidence that suggested pearls on the floor was just another Tuesday for him.
Edward looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine spread for "How to Be Impossibly Handsome While Supporting Charity." His perfectly tailored tuxedo probably cost more than my monthly salary, and not a single dark hair dared to be out of place.
The charity auction was being held in the ballroom of some fancy hotel whose name I couldn't pronounce without butchering at least three consonants.
Crystal chandeliers cast everything in golden light, and even the air smelled expensive—a mixture of fresh flowers, fine perfume, and what I could only assume was the scent of old money.
I'd been to plenty of events back home—church fundraisers, school auctions, the occasional chamber of commerce dinner where they served cheese cubes on toothpicks and called it sophisticated. But this was another level entirely.
"You're squeezing my arm rather tightly," Edward observed quietly as we made our way to our table.
"Sorry." I loosened my death grip, trying to channel some of that southern charm Mama always said would get me through anything. "I'm just not used to rooms where the napkins are worth more than my grocery budget for a month."
"That's actually quite possible," he said with a hint of amusement. "The Meridian Hotel doesn't believe in subtlety."
Our table was near the front—of course it was—and populated with what I could only assume were Edward's colleagues from the firm.
They all had that same polished look. Expensive suits, perfect posture, and the kind of confidence that comes from never having to check a bank balance before ordering wine.
"Edward, my boy!" A distinguished gentleman with silver hair and a voice that could narrate nature documentaries rose to greet us. "And you must be Daphne's friend we've heard so much about."
"Lili Anderton." I extended my hand, trying to project more confidence than I felt.
"Sir Malcolm Pemberton," he said, shaking my hand with the firm grip of someone accustomed to closing deals. "And these are my colleagues—Davies, Thompson, and Mrs. Chen."
Each introduction came with polite smiles and subtle assessments. I could practically see them cataloging everything about me—my accent, my Texan drawl, the way I tucked a stubborn curl behind my ear when nervous, the small pile of rescued pearls clutched in my other hand.
"So fascinating to have a fresh perspective," Mrs. Chen said, settling back into her chair with the kind of smile that looked painted on. "I understand you work in... television?"
The way she said "television" made it sound like I performed surgery with rusty spoons in my spare time.
"Shopping channels, actually," I said, straightening my shoulders. "I help people find products that make their lives better. Gardening tools, mostly."
"How… practical," Davies murmured, his smile lacking genuine warmth. Thompson nodded with the kind of understanding that passed between people accustomed to dismissing entire categories of existence. "And I suppose someone has to sell to that demographic."
The casual dismissal hit me like a slap, but I kept my smile bright. Bless their hearts, they probably thought they were being subtle.
Edward's jaw tightened—a tell I was beginning to recognize—but before he could say anything, the lights dimmed and the auction began.
The auctioneer was a professional, working the crowd with the skill of someone who knew exactly which buttons to push to get wallets open. Vacation packages, jewelry, artwork, wine collections—each item was presented with just the right amount of exclusivity and urgency.
I watched the whole process with professional interest, noting how he built excitement, created competition between bidders, and made each purchase feel like both a steal and a noble contribution to charity.
This was exactly what I did every night at 2 am—except, instead of selling luxury to people who could afford to bid more than most folks' annual salary on a whim, I was selling garden tools to insomniacs.
"Fascinating, isn't it?" Edward leaned over to murmur in my ear, his breath sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine. "The psychology of luxury purchases."
"It's all about making people feel special," I whispered back. "Like they're not just buying something, but joining an exclusive club."
About halfway through the evening, right as they were about to auction off a weekend at some fancy spa, disaster struck.
The microphone let out a screech that could shatter crystal, the overhead screen flickered and died, and the sound system gave one last heroic wheeze before cutting out entirely.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer said, his voice barely carrying past the first few tables, "we seem to be experiencing some technical difficulties."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd like water through a broken dam. People checked their phones, chairs scraped as folks craned their necks to see better, and I could practically feel the energy draining from the room like air from a punctured balloon.
The spa package, which had been climbing toward a respectable ￡8,000, suddenly felt as exciting as watching paint dry. The auctioneer gestured frantically at someone off-stage, probably trying to figure out when the show could go on.
I watched the auctioneer's growing panic, the restless shifting of three hundred wealthy people whose good mood was evaporating by the second. This wasn't my world, wasn't my event, wasn't my problem. I should sit quietly like the good little American guest and let the professionals handle it.
But damn if that professional didn't look like he was about to cry.
And that's when something clicked in my brain. That moment when you see a problem you know you can fix, even if fixing it means stepping way outside your comfort zone.
"Oh, hell no," I muttered, standing up so fast my chair scooted backward.
"Lili?" Edward caught my wrist. "What are you doing?"
"Saving this trainwreck." I kicked off my heels under the table and dumped the rescued pearls into his palm. "Hold these. And maybe my dignity while you're at it."
The auctioneer saw me coming and looked like he was about to panic. I climbed the steps to the small stage, my stockings silent on the polished wood, and gently took the dead microphone from his hand.
"Well, this is a pickle, isn't it?" I called out, my voice carrying clear to the back of the room thanks to years of theater training in high school and projecting over power tools at work.
"Y'all paid good money to be here tonight, and so far you've been watching British folks be polite about something that would have my Mama using words she learned in the Navy. "
A few chuckles from the crowd. Good. Work with what you've got, Mama always said.
"Now, I know y'all are probably thinking, 'Who's this girl, and why is she interrupting our civilized evening?'" I moved across the stage like I was in my element, because somehow, impossibly, I was.
The heavy silk of my dress whispered against the floor, and I could smell the fresh flowers from the arrangements, the lingering notes of expensive perfume from the crowd.
"But here's the thing—I sell stuff for a living.
Day in, day out, I get on television and convince people they need things they didn't know they wanted.
And right now, what y'all want is to give some money to charity and feel good about it. "
The crowd was settling, paying attention. I could see Edward at our table, looking like he was watching a small-town girl wrestle a tornado. Pride warred with something darker in his expression—something that looked suspiciously like guilt.
"So let's talk about this spa weekend." I gestured to the enlarged photo that was still displayed on the dead screen.
"The Marina Bay Resort. Four days of being pampered like the royalty y'all probably are.
Massages that cost more than most people's mortgage payments.
Food so fancy it has more syllables than my college degree. "
Laughter. Real laughter this time.