Chapter 3
Shellfish Behaviour
Hayley
Imake a strategic escape before dinner, otherwise known as Operation: Pee Without a Crowbar and a Prayer.
The toilets are across the courtyard in a side building that almost certainly doubled as a plague ward back in the day.
Inside, it’s all rustic wood and exposed beams, like a medieval escape room designed by Gwyneth Paltrow, but absolutely not prepared for a size-sixteen arse trussed up in full velvet cosplay.
I eye the dress situation in the mirror.
Right. This is going to be a problem.
After several failed attempts at hitching up the period-drama parachute, I come to a horrifying realisation: the only way to pee is to face the loo like I’m about to slow-dance with it.
Which is how I end up straddling a porcelain toilet, starring in some bizarre Henry VIII meets Magic Mike crossover nobody ordered.
Dignity: absolutely deceased.
By the time I’m done, I’m sweating, emotionally scarred, and convinced I may never get out of this dress without the fire brigade and a pair of industrial scissors.
I emerge from the cubicle only to realise the entire party has been seated while I was re-enacting the fall of the British Empire in a toilet stall.
I hurry back across the courtyard, cheeks burning, praying I can sneak to my seat unnoticed.
No such luck.
Everyone is sitting.
There are candles. Music.
And one very smug earl watching my every step.
I slide into the only empty chair left, right next to Tyler, of course, and attempt to act like nothing happened.
Until I catch him staring at me with a smirk that’s practically audible.
“What?” I snap under my breath.
He tilts his head.
Not the boob again. Not a split seam. Not…
“You’ve got…”
He gestures vaguely at my backside.
“…a bit of toilet paper. Sticking out. Like a tail.”
I freeze.
Oh my God.
No.
Not again.
I twist to check, and sure enough, a strip of loo roll is caught in the back of my dress.
Tyler plucks it free with the delicacy of someone handling a priceless artefact, clearly revelling in the honour of humiliating me.
“Good news,” he drawls. “You’re officially the most memorable thing about this wedding.”
I grit my teeth.
“Fuck off, Ashford.”
He just smirks, infuriatingly calm.
And then, because the universe clearly hates me, he leans in.
Close enough that I feel his breath at my ear when he murmurs, “Now, now. That’s not very polite, is it… milady?”
I sit bolt upright, cheeks blazing.
Tyler just settles back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself.
Before I can come up with a retort biting enough to wipe the smug off his face, the woman opposite clears her throat, loud, theatrical, like she’s Clare Balding about to announce Best in Show.
She’s dressed in a gown so aggressively pink it looks like she mugged a flamingo, clutching her character script with the desperation of a woman three glasses of Prosecco deep.
Which, to be fair, is about my level. The only difference being, I haven’t turned up dressed like Barbie’s divorced aunt.
And then she speaks, in that weird BBC-announcer voice nobody uses anymore unless they’re narrating a documentary about damp castles:
“Milord Ashford,” she trills, every syllable stretched within an inch of its life, “we are simply delighted to make your acquaintance!”
Beside her, a man squeezed into a brocade waistcoat beams proudly, all beer belly, red cheeks, and the sweaty dignity of a man whose plate has never met a salad.
“Indeed!” he booms. “Might I enquire as to your intentions with the Lady Hayley?”
Oh. My. God.
They’re in character.
They’re really in character.
I turn to Tyler, praying for rescue.
He just lifts his wine glass casually, watching me drown without lifting a finger.
“Fear not,” he drawls, perfectly straight-faced. “Her virtue is entirely safe… for now.”
I choke on my water, spluttering like a drunk trying to blow out birthday candles.
The pink flamingo woman claps her hands delightedly, as if he’s just announced a surprise proposal. Somehow the entire table leans in, turning dinner into an amateur dramatics hostage situation.
I mouth “I hate you” at Tyler across the rim of my glass.
He winks back like the smug bastard he is.
I try to act casual as the first course arrives, some delicate, suspiciously slimy thing nestled on a fancy plate.
It’s probably meant to be prawn mousse, but honestly, it looks like the ghost of seafood past, pale, gelatinous, trembling if you so much as breathe on it.
I jab at it a little too enthusiastically with my fork.
The thing slithers off my plate in a majestic, quivering arc and lands squarely on Tyler’s pristine black trousers.
Dead centre.
A perfect, glistening splatter. White. Viscous.
And for one horrified heartbeat, my brain supplies the absolute worst comparison imaginable.
No.
Nope.
Not going there.
Except… now I’ve gone there.
I’m staring at Tyler’s lap like I’ve just committed a sex crime with shellfish, and the harder I try not to think it, the louder my brain screams “cum joke.”
Brilliant. I’ve managed to rebrand shellfish as smut.
Tyler looks down, raises an eyebrow, and drawls, “At least buy me dinner first, milady.”
I make a noise somewhere between a squeak and a dying pigeon.
People at nearby tables turn to look.
Before I can even think of apologising or calling an Uber and fleeing the country entirely, Tyler casually sweeps the offending blob off his trousers, holding it up between two fingers with all the menace of a Bond villain and none of the shame.
He inspects it for half a second.
And then, with the slow, deliberate smugness of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, pops it into his mouth.
Chews once.
Swallows, smirking.
“Salty,” he murmurs.
I genuinely contemplate stabbing him with my fork.
“You’re such a pig,” I hiss under my breath.
He leans in, wine glass balanced effortlessly between his fingers, and murmurs back, “No, milady. I believe that’s the next course.”
As I attempt a desperate salvage operation on what’s left of my pride, I shift awkwardly in my chair, tugging and wrestling at my bodice under the table, Mission Impossible style.
Which is when disaster strikes.
One rogue hand ricochets off the stubborn bodice. I’ve tugged too hard, missed the fabric entirely, and my palm lands squarely in Tyler’s lap.
I freeze. Because in my panic, I’m now stuck at the world’s most awkward angle, boobs practically to my chin, face hovering inches from his shoulder, hand still way too close to somewhere it absolutely should not be.
Kill me now.
Tyler doesn’t even flinch. If anything, his mouth twitches like he’s enjoying this a little too much. He bends closer, voice pitched low enough to make me want to combust.
“Need a hand there, milady?”
A beat. His gaze dips, just briefly to his lap, before lifting again.
Then, softer, smugger: “I’m good at the moment, thank you. We are in public, after all.”
I shoot him a look that could curdle milk, cheeks flaming.
He just sips his wine like nothing happened.
Just when I think it can’t get any worse, the human flamingo pipes up again.
“I simply must have a flat white tomorrow,” she announces loudly, still clinging to her fake posh accent like it’s a life raft. “If I have to drink one more cup of weak English breakfast tea, I shall simply perish!”
Tyler sets down his wine glass, deadpan as ever.
“Ah yes. The ancient art of rebelling against British tea.”
I snort water up my nose.
Because of course I do.
I mop my face with my sleeve, utterly defeated, and send a silent prayer to the gods of mortification that dessert involves heavy drinking and a swift death because, let’s face it, if one more thing lands in his lap, I may have to marry him out of sheer obligation.
Clink, clink, clink.
Mr. Peacock Pants himself taps a spoon against his glass, radiating the smug delight of a man born for this exact spotlight.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he trills. “Before we retire for the evening, it’s time to announce your first official weekend challenge!”
Oh no.
“Tomorrow afternoon, you will be participating in the Castle Maze Race. Find the centre, retrieve your special token, and return before your rivals.” He flourishes the word token with all the gravitas he can muster.
Tyler tilts his head towards me and whispers, “So… treasure hunt or thinly veiled excuse to get lost and misbehave in the shrubbery?”
I flip him off under the table.
“And tomorrow evening,” Peacock continues, “the Great Hall will host a masked ball. All couples must perform one traditional dance before dinner is served.”
A murmur goes around the room.
“To help prepare,” he adds cheerfully, “there will be an optional dance lesson at ten a.m. sharp in the Music Room.”
Optional.
Which, let’s be honest, means mandatory, especially if you’re me and your last attempt at choreography involved tequila and a broken heel.
“For those wishing to continue the evening, the library will be open for after-dinner drinks. If you prefer to retire early, room keys are available at Reception in the East Wing.”
He beams like this announcement alone deserves a standing ovation.
I waste no time. If I can get to bed without another scandal, I’ll call it a win.