I Love an… Earl (Eden Era #1)

Chapter 1

Corsets Are a Crime Against Humanity

Friday Afternoon

Hayley

Ilove an earl.

Said no woman who’s ever worn a corset.

It’s taken me approximately three years to trudge a hundred metres downhill, in a dress designed by Satan, clutching an invitation to my best friend’s Tudor-themed wedding and wondering why I agreed to participate in this circus and the role I now have to clown my way through.

And as if that isn’t enough, I’m sweating through a rented empire-waist monstrosity. And before you start, yes, I know: wrong century, historically inaccurate, blah blah blah.

My boobs are the only rebellion I’m focused on, one deep breath away from a full-scale jailbreak, so please don’t send me angry ye olde fan mail.

I LOVE AN EARL

That’s not me speaking. That’s the role printed on my wedding homework, complete with character description. And little else.

Of course I’m here alone. Which means I’ll probably be paired with some creepy uncle who thinks double-dipping the hummus is foreplay and coffee breath counts as cologne.

Behind me, tourists snap photos of the moat where Henry VIII once courted Anne Boleyn. Feels fitting really, half the people at this wedding will probably lose their heads by Sunday.

I shift the bodice of doom again and swear I feel a rib crack. Stupid castle. It’s annoyingly beautiful, ivy crawling up ancient stone walls, heavy oak doors, rose gardens straight out of an overhyped Netflix series that gets cancelled just as you’re getting into it.

Honestly, I’m five minutes away from torching the gift table, calling it performance art, and letting everyone believe I’m part of the entertainment.

I want to go home.

Before I can inhale another corset-crushed breath, I’m ushered towards the check-in table by a man in an equally ridiculous outfit, cock-shrinking tights, a velvet doublet and an actual feather in his hat, looking for all the world like a peacock who accidentally got cast in Puss in Boots.

“Lady Hayley, I presume?” he proclaims.

What gave me away? The sweating, the scowl, or the desperate Prosecco eyes? Then again, of course he knows who I am. They’ve probably given him a full briefing on every guest, and I’m the one with disaster risk: high stamped on my file.

“Yep, that’s me, I guess. Any idea where the bride is?”

“Lady Lily is otherwise engaged.” His chest’s puffed and bottom clenched like he’s holding in both a fart and the weight of the monarchy. “You must follow me immediately. The other women are already enjoying light refreshments.”

Translation: I’m late, the good stuff’s gone, and I’ll be lucky if there’s anything left that isn’t purely decorative.

Dude doesn’t smile once. Apparently, staying in character means pretending women have no rights and tea cures all trauma. Not that there was any tea in Kent in 1510; they’d have been knocking back ale or wine.

Lucky bastards.

Where the fuck is the Prosecco?

He herds me through a side door, where several women in picture-perfect, Pinterest-worthy costumes are nibbling on what’s left of the snacks.

“Hayley!”

Emma waves from across the room, draped on a chaise like she’s auditioning for Bridgerton, her gown suspiciously free of sweat stains, makeup still immaculate, looking like a Tudor Barbie promotional poster. Of course.

“You survived check-in?” I mutter, collapsing beside her and yanking at a lacy frill currently strangling my shoulder.

“Just about.” She grins, all teeth and zero sympathy. “Although I nearly throttled the butler when he called me milady with a straight face.”

“Shame you didn’t follow through.” My smile doesn’t reach my eyes.

Emma isn’t really my friend, not properly. I only know her from the disaster of a hen party, where she spent most of the night crying in a kebab shop over an ex named Gavin.

The man with her today, judging by the matching rings on their fingers, is very much not the man she was lamenting about. I might have been drunk, but I distinctly remember Gavin being described as six foot and blonde, and this man is short and ginger.

Mmm.

Out of everyone here, she’s the only vaguely familiar face, which sucks.

I have no idea what I did in a past life to deserve this weekend.

Everyone else is paired off, smug with the irritating confidence of people who know they’re not sleeping alone tonight.

And then there’s me: the spare part, the one with no plus-one, wedged on a chaise with a woman I barely know, pretending this is exactly where I want to be and not silently planning my escape route.

I close my eyes, dreaming of the moment I can rip off this historical straitjacket, when Emma leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “So, have you met your partner yet?”

I groan. “God, no. Why? What’s wrong with him? Talks about Bitcoin? Still lives with his mum?”

She just smiles, slow and evil.

“Let’s just say… you’re not ready.”

Before I can demand answers, Peacock returns, glaring like I’ve brought dishonour on this estate and King Henry himself is on his way to behead the entire wedding party.

“Ladies, your presence is requested in the Ballroom by His Lordship and Her Ladyship, who wish to greet their esteemed guests.”

Seriously? Still no Prosecco?

We trail behind Peacock Pants into the Ballroom, which, I have to admit, is stunning. High ceilings, chandeliers dripping with crystals and enough flowers to bankrupt a small country.

Looks stunning…feels like a goddamn greenhouse. The air is heavy with roses and sweat, like Yankee Candle’s latest scent: Heatstroke at a Costume Party.

Wait! Bubbles!

Actual Prosecco flutes winking at me from a silver tray hiding in the corner.

Thank God.

Except no one’s serving them yet.

Instead, Lily’s husband-to-be, Ben, steps forward and clears his throat like he’s about to launch a TED talk on this medieval misery.

Jesus Christ. A speech? Before I’ve had so much as a sip?

He clears it again, louder this time, like he’s presenting closing arguments at a murder trial in hell’s botanical garden.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, all self-importance. “Or rather, lords and ladies, as you shall be known this weekend…”

I bite back a groan. Oh God. He’s doing a voice.

“Welcome to Hever Castle. Over the next three days, you will step back in time to an age of feasting and festivities and, if our esteemed wedding coordinator has his way, entirely too many rules about how to hold a goblet.”

I contemplate swan-diving into the moat.

“Throughout the weekend,” Ben continues, “you will remain in character wherever possible. Each of you has been assigned a title, a partner, and a role to play in our immersive wedding celebration. Please interact, mingle, and, above all, embrace the spirit of the era.”

He beams, convinced he’s just invented the concept of fun.

“The most authentic performance wins a prize.”

I blink. A prize? Unless it’s a time machine to the day this invitation arrived, when I could’ve made up an excuse and saved myself, I’m not interested.

“On behalf of my fiancée… we thank you for being part of this unforgettable celebration. Let the festivities begin!”

Polite applause.

Somewhere in the back, a cork pops, and I consider sprinting towards it.

The crowd begins drifting towards a long table covered in wax-sealed envelopes, like Hogwarts letters, but from hell. The shuffle gives me just enough room to slink sideways towards the tray of drinks glinting in the corner.

Prosecco. Glorious, blessed, bubbly Prosecco.

If I can just reach it before the first round of historical improv…

I’m one step away from deliverance, which, of course, is when the universe yanks the rug. In this case, the hem of my dress. My shoe snags, and physics signs my death warrant.

In the split second before impact, all I can do is register the disaster as gravity drags me down and I hit the polished stone floor with all the grace of a tranquillised hippo.

A loud, theatrical cough slices through the room. Not a cough, really, more a one-man symphony of disapproval.

Mr Peacock Pants. Obviously.

I scramble upright, cheeks blazing, and realise the entire Ballroom has gone silent.

Not good.

A few women cover their mouths in delicate horror. Several men fight back smirks. And Emma is flapping her hands at my chest like she’s directing air traffic.

I follow her gaze. And there it is.

One of the girls, my right boob, to be precise, has staged a daring escape for freedom and is practically waving to the nobility.

Great. Just great.

This is why I don’t do costumes. Or weddings. Or life, apparently.

I yank the budget bodice back over my traitorous body part, shoving it into place like I’m foiling a prison break, and wonder if public humiliation qualifies as a medical emergency.

Peacock Pants coughs again, somehow louder, somehow more judgemental, and gestures stiffly to the man standing directly in front of the Prosecco.

Tall. Broad. Dark hair. Black period suit that somehow doesn’t look ridiculous, like Jonathan Rhys Meyers in The Tudors, if you gave him a protein shake and a permanent scowl.

“Your assigned partner for the weekend, milady,” Peacock intones. Arsehole

“Earl Tyler,” he adds, with a flourish.

Fuck. My. Life.