Chapter 7
BFG Toes and Nipple Woes
Hayley
Today’s outfit is a day gown, basically a less-death-trappy version of yesterday’s monstrosity. Loose sleeves, a higher neckline, and mercifully no boning. I’m dressed in six minutes flat.
Progress.
I didn’t see Tyler at breakfast, which is probably why I made it through my sausage without stabbing someone in the eye with a fork.
Now I’m in the Music Room, where couples are lining up like Tudor Speed Dating meets Strictly Come Dancing, but with more ruffs and less consent, and every single one of them looks unreasonably excited about this mandatory historical foreplay.
The doors fly open and in struts Peacock Pants, wedding coordinator, ringmaster, professional chaos coordinator, in a pair of cerulean trousers so tight they probably need their own NDA.
“Darlings!” he cries, throwing his arms wide as though he’s just stepped onto the West End stage. “Welcome to the most sensual hour of your lives, until the open bar later, obviously.”
Kill me now.
I scan the room for my brooding earl.
No sign of him.
Predictable.
Optional my arse. Everyone’s here, except my assigned partner.
Typical.
Just as I’m mentally composing a scathing speech to deliver to an empty chair, the doors swing open with the subtlety of a soap opera plot twist.
And there he is.
Tyler strides in, freshly showered, sleeves rolled, collar open, hair still damp, and somehow manages to look like a cross between a Renaissance painting and a shampoo advert.
Infuriating.
And unnecessary.
He already looked annoyingly put-together when he left my room this morning, so what exactly required a whole second round of grooming?
He doesn’t apologise.
Doesn’t even glance my way.
Just strolls over as if he hasn’t left me stewing in a room full of gliding couples and five-hundred-year-old patriarchal nonsense, like he’s the main event and we’ve all just been waiting for him to arrive.
“Ready?” he says coolly, already taking my hand and pulling me towards the group like we’re about to be sacrificed to the entertainment gods.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re late.”
He glances down at me with a lazy smirk. “Wow, you can tell the time.”
“I was nearly paired up with Lord Moustache over there,” I mutter.
Tyler follows my gaze to the man in question, whose moustache looks like it’s being held together with Pritt Stick and sheer willpower.
“That would’ve been a disaster,” he says, eyes glinting. “Depending how sensitive you are.”
I give him a look. “Sensitive?”
He leans in, smirk full tilt. “That thing gets anywhere near your face during a turn and trust me, you won’t be making eye contact. You’ll be making a whole new set of noises.”
I blink. “Are you seriously suggesting…”
He grins wider. “Let’s just say one deep dip and he’d be waltzing his way to third base.”
I swat him. “Christ, you’re vile.”
“Shall we dance, milady?”
I resist the urge to trip him mid-bow.
We join the other couples in a wide circle as Peacock Pants sweeps dramatically to the centre of the room, claps twice, and strikes a pose that would make a matador jealous.
“Today you’ll be learning the Pavane,” he announces, voice booming. “A slow, elegant dance of grace, restraint, and pretending you like the person you’re paired with.”
A ripple of laughter moves around the room.
“Step, glide, turn,” he demonstrates, all long limbs and theatrical flourish. “And finish with a delicate hand movement that says, ‘I am refined and dignified,’ not ‘I am shooing away an unfortunate smell.’”
I give it my best shot and shuffle forward, turn half a beat too late, and nearly twat the poor woman next to me with my elbow.
“Elegant and restrained, Lady Hayley,” Tyler murmurs, barely suppressing a grin. “Not drunken swan.”
“Oh, piss off,” I mutter under my breath.
He holds out a hand again, and I reluctantly place mine in his, trying not to notice how warm it is. Or how his thumb brushes, just slightly, across the top of mine like he’s doing it on purpose. Which he probably is.
I copy Peacock’s steps, left foot, right foot, glide.
I manage a full half-turn before stepping squarely on Tyler’s boot with the force of a woman trying to crush a cockroach.
He winces.
“Oh my God. Sorry. Was that your toe?”
I miss the next step entirely and land on his foot again.
“OW!” he yelps, right in my ear.
I jump back, guilt and confusion tangling in my chest. “Maybe if you didn’t have feet the size of the BFG!”
“Maybe if you didn’t dance like you’re trying to air-dry your nipples,” he shoots back, grinning.
Peacock gasps, one hand over his heart. “Children, please! This is the Pavane, not WWE SmackDown!”
The room chuckles, heat climbs my neck, and I focus very hard on resisting the urge to ‘accidentally’ step on Tyler again.
We resume. The music swells, a lilting, haunting melody that makes me feel like I should be coughing delicately into a lace handkerchief while awaiting my tragic fate in a tower somewhere.
The couples glide forward in perfect synchronicity. Tyler guides me with annoying ease, his hand warm and steady against the small of my back, fingers curling just enough to remind me he’s there.
I keep my eyes trained on the floor, determined not to look at him. Not at his face. Not at his mouth. Not at anything that might make me forget I’m supposed to be focusing on not maiming him again.
“You’re getting the hang of it,” he says, voice lower now, sincere in a way I’m not prepared for.
My head snaps up. “I am?”
“Yeah.” His mouth quirks. “You’ve only tried to knee me in the balls twice this round. That’s a record.”
And damn it, a grin slips out before I can stop it.
Tyler grins back, lazy, devastating. It’s not his usual smirk; it’s relaxed, completely disarming. It throws me, this version of him, all boyish edges and unexpected softness, and for a terrifying second I forget how to breathe.
And then he twirls me.
No warning, no hesitation, just a smooth, sure spin that makes my skirt flare and my heart trip over itself. He twirls me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like I’m someone he’s meant to hold.
And worst of all?
I giggle.
Not a polite laugh. Not even a dignified snort. An actual, ridiculous, caught-off-guard giggle that bubbles up before I can stop it.
The second I realise what I’ve done, I slap a hand over my mouth like I can shove it back in.
“Did you just…?” Tyler’s eyes light up, wicked and delighted.
“Nope.”
“You did.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You giggled.” His grin goes full wolfish. “Like an actual schoolgirl.”
“Shut up or I’ll Pavane you in the bollocks.”
He throws his head back and laughs, a deep, rumbling laugh that feels entirely too intimate, the kind of sound you’d want to hear against your throat in the dark.
Peacock Pants claps his hands, the sound cracking like a gunshot.
“Closer, darlings,” he trills. “The Pavane was not a dance for strangers. We want longing! We want tension! We want Elizabethan eye-fu… Well, you get the idea.”
Oh good. Nothing says ‘romance’ like being ordered to slow-dance with the human equivalent of a bad idea.
Tyler doesn’t even hesitate. His palm presses more firmly against my back, guiding me forward until there’s almost no air left between us.
Heat rolls off him in waves. I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the flex of muscle under his shirt. And then… his breath.
Right at the base of my neck.
A warm exhale that sends my entire spine into mutiny, lighting me up from the inside out.
I swallow hard and fight the urge to shiver. Barely.
I don’t dare look up.
Don’t do it.
Do not look at him.
But of course, I do.
He’s already looking down at me, and for once there’s no smirk waiting to meet me. No lazy grin.
Just heat.
Watching.
Like he’s waiting for something to happen.
We both move to speak at the same time, the sound of our voices colliding in the tiny space between us. He stops.
Nods once, slow. “You first.”
“I just…” I hesitate. “I was a bitch this morning. Sorry.”
His brows lift, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I’m still not saying you’re a saint or anything, but… thank you. For the coffee. It was nice. And I guess you didn’t deserve the verbal flamethrower.”
He just watches me, face unreadable, like he’s waiting to see what else I’ll admit.
I shift, uncomfortable. “What were you going to say?”
For half a second, something in his expression changes, softens. A flicker of something real, something vulnerable. Then it’s gone, locked away behind that stupid grin.
He leans in, close enough that I hold my breath.
“You’re standing on my BFG feet again, milady.”
I freeze. My stomach swoops. I don’t know why I expected anything else.
I step off his foot with all the dignity I can muster, glare heavy with warning, and spin away.
“Excuse me,” I announce brightly, sweeping past Peacock, who makes an encouraging little oooh noise like he’s front row at a melodrama. “I need to go powder my nose. Or throw myself in the moat. You know, whatever people did before therapy was invented.”
And I don’t just walk out.
I strut. Chin high, skirts swishing, like the ghost of Anne Boleyn herself is marching me out in solidarity.