Chapter 2
Attack of the Brooding Earl
Hayley
“Dinner and a show? Milady has outdone herself,” Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome drawls, his mouth tilting into something dangerously close to a smile.
I blink up at him, still somewhere between rage, humiliation, and the undeniable urge to hurl a tray of cucumber sandwiches directly at his smug face.
“Glad you enjoyed the performance,” I mutter. “I’ll be here all weekend. Try the veal.”
He chuckles, faintly self-satisfied, and it pisses me off more than it should.
Because for one horrifying second, I realise he’s not just hot.
He’s walking thirst-trap hot.
Unacceptable. At least the bastard has the manners to hold out his hand and help me off the floor. Solid. Steady. Not an ounce of sweat.
I barely have time to scrape together a shred of dignity before the human embodiment of a haemorrhoid struts over, plucks an envelope off the table with exaggerated flourish, and presents it like he’s already been cast in The Crown.
“Your assignment,” he declares, voice dripping with theatre, “delivered personally, lest our dear Lady Hayley vanish toward the bar in pursuit of stronger spirits.”
Tyler cracks the seal and pulls out a single sheet of thick parchment. He unfolds it carefully, but I’ve already caught the front of the envelope, addressed to both of us in ridiculous swirling calligraphy.
His mouth twitches. Then, with an elegant, exaggerated bow, he hands it to me.
I stare down at the words, on paper that reminds me of that thing we used to do with lemon juice and ovens in primary school to make it look old:
Lady Hayley Price a wealthy heiress, desperate to escape an unwanted marriage arranged by her controlling family.
Earl Tyler Ashford a once-respected nobleman, disgraced by scandal and ruin, seeking redemption through a secret elopement with Lady Hayley.
Secret meetings must be arranged throughout the weekend to plot your “plans to flee.”
Bonus points if you are discovered in “accidental” public displays of affection.
Failure to remain in character may result in unfortunate accidents, i.e., public ridicule , dramatic fainting spells , or other socially fatal embarrassments.
Why is my first thought about the historical accuracy of the emojis? If Catherine Tate’s ‘Nan’ were here, she’d call this a fucking liberty. Tyler’s voice interrupts my tangent.
“Congratulations, Lady Hayley,” he drawls. “Disgrace, elopement, expectations… can’t say they didn’t match me to the right partner.” His gaze flicks, deliberately, to my chest. “Though from the looks of it, you’ve already nailed the public scandal part.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s a rough edge under his teasing, the kind that sounds a little too much like experience. It makes me wonder what exactly he’s running from.
“Alcohol. Now!”
Tyler doesn’t argue, just plucks two glasses from a passing tray and hands me one like he’s passing out consolation prizes on Love Island.
I down it in a single, graceless gulp. If anyone asks, I’m playing the role of dehydrated camel finally finding an oasis.
Glass still in hand, throat burning, I square my shoulders, fix him with my fiercest glare, and mutter, “Rule number one: don’t be a dick,” clinging to the last shreds of my dignity.
Tyler doesn’t even blink.
“Shame,” he says flatly. “According to our role card, that’s practically my defining trait.”
Before I can decide whether to punch him or lean into this absurd role card and propose marriage, he plucks another glass from the tray and presses it into my hand, like my personal supplier for bad decisions.
I take it without breaking eye contact, drain it, and mutter, “We’re going to need a hell of a lot more of these.”
He just smirks, knowing, infuriating. And before I can even talk myself into a third glass (which, disturbingly, is starting to sound like a solid plan), the overdressed tragedy clears his throat.
“Lords and Ladies,” the peacock plonker bellows, loud enough to rattle the windows, “please assemble for the Grand Entrance.”
I freeze.
Nope. Not ready. Not even close.
Everyone starts shuffling into two awkward lines, men on one side, women on the other, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess what’s coming next.
Tyler turns to me, offering his arm like he’s handing over a death warrant.
I take one wobbly step forward… and immediately lurch sideways, smacking straight into his chest.
Smooth, Hayley. Real smooth.
Without missing a beat, Tyler steadies me, strong hands firm at my waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Which it absolutely is not.
His grip tightens just slightly as he bends low.
“Easy, darling. We don’t want any more scandal before dinner.”
I want to die. Or drown myself in the nearest ornamental fountain. Whichever’s quicker.
Somehow, through divine intervention, I manage to loop my arm through his without taking out any bystanders.
I plaster on a smile that probably looks less ‘besotted’ and more ‘hostage situation’.
Together, we step forward as our names are announced:
“Presenting Earl Tyler Ashford and Lady Hayley Price!”
The polite applause barely covers the sound of my internal screaming.
Of course, we’re the last couple to be announced, which means every pair of eyes in the room is glued to us. And if I had a shotgun, there wouldn’t be a single man left who hadn’t witnessed my accidental one-boob burlesque five minutes ago.
We barely make it three steps into the hall before a shrieking blur of white tulle comes barrelling towards me like a bridal missile locked on impact.
“HAYLEY!”
I don’t even get a breath in before I’m tackled by a tsunami of lace, perfume, and over-caffeinated bridal joy, otherwise known as Lily, my best friend, glowing like she’s permanently in portrait mode. The only reason I haven’t set fire to this entire event and blamed it on a rogue tealight.
She throws her arms around me, nearly knocking me back into Tyler, who, to his credit, steadies us both without spilling his drink.
“You look amazing!” Lily gushes, bouncing on her heels like she’s hooked up to a sugar drip.
“I’m SO happy you’re here! Oh my God, aren’t you dying over the costumes?!”
I fake a smile, because that’s what you do when your best friend is the happiest she’s ever been, even if your lungs are being slowly crushed by boning and velvet. And yes, I giggle internally at ‘boning.’ Grow up? Absolutely not.
“You look beautiful, Lil,” I manage, hugging her back as best I can, keenly aware of my already compromised ribs.
“Mildly unhinged… but mostly beautiful.”
She squeals again and squeezes me tighter, survival now feeling aspirational.
Before she can drag me off toward the refreshments table, I seize my chance.
“Hey,” I say, tugging her a little to the side, away from the growing crowd.
“Quick question.”
“Yeah?”
I glance over my shoulder at Tyler, now deep in conversation with someone who looks suspiciously like a lord who’s misplaced his horse.
“What the actual fuck, Lily? Who is he, and why is he my partner?”
Lily follows my gaze and grins, her whole face lighting up. “Oh, that’s Ben’s cousin, Tyler. He’s the black sheep of the family,” she says, with the same tone most people reserve for announcing a surprise puppy.
“Black sheep?” I echo, sceptical. “He looks more like a wolf that stole a sheep’s invite.”
“Yeah.” She giggles. “Used to be the golden boy, university, sports, perfect everything, until he told his father to shove the family fortune where the sun doesn’t shine and went off to start some business thing instead.”
“What kind of business thing?”
Lily shrugs. “I don’t know. Something very male and mysterious. Boats? Poker? Motorcycles? Illegal swords?”
I blink at her.
She shrugs again. “Ben says he’s fine. Just… not very Ashford anymore.” Her smile turns sly. “You’ll survive. You might even have fun.”
I glance back at Tyler, who chooses that exact moment to look up and catch me staring.
He raises an eyebrow.
Not a full smile, just a sly lift, like he can already tell I’m plotting his demise.
I snap my head back around so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
“Well,” I mutter. “I see no possible way this could go wrong.”
Lily just beams and practically skips away, humming the wedding march under her breath, as if she hasn’t just dropped a casual landmine in my lap.
And me?
I’m stuck with Mr. Broody Black Sheep for the rest of the weekend.
Fucking awesome.