Chapter 14
Too Gouda to Be True
Hayley
The Ballroom is somehow even more extra than I imagined.
Candlelight flickers from wrought-iron chandeliers, throwing long, dramatic shadows that make the whole place feel one thunderclap away from a séance. The walls are lined with tapestries depicting smug-looking stags and swords far too big to be historically necessary.
And in the middle of it all stands a monument to dairy so excessive it should have its own postcode: a cheese display that could qualify as a UNESCO site. Bries. Blues. Cheddars stacked like ancient ruins. The Eiffel Tower of lactose.
Tyler, of course, looks like he was born here. Velvet jacket, noble jawline, that aloof air of a man who probably owns half the wine in Burgundy.
We’ve just cleared the danger zone of the fromage fountain when a voice rings out, unmistakably triumphant:
“Ah-ha! Lovers reunited!”
Peacock.
He sweeps into view like a runway model possessed by a 16th-century drama queen, all feathers, perfume, and dangerous levels of jazz hands.
“I have searched the halls for you two star-crossed sweethearts!” he declares, producing two envelopes with the ceremony of a man presenting the Magna Carta. “Tonight’s performance awaits!”
“Performance?” I blink.
He clutches his chest like I’ve just run him through with a breadstick. “Each couple has been assigned a scene from our most noble manuscript: The Passionate Hearts of Anne and Henry.”
He pauses for dramatic effect, sweeps a hand towards the heavens, and announces,
“You, my dears, are Act III, Scene Two, the infamous ‘Reunion of Lovers Beneath the Stars!’”
Tyler coughs lightly, like he’s trying not to laugh.
“That sounds… intimate.”
“It is.” Peacock beams. “So much gazing. So many declarations. And… a very tasteful amount of touching.”
Before either of us can respond, he sweeps away, leaving us clutching our envelopes like they might self-destruct.
Tyler cracks his open first. I follow.
We read in silence, slowly, as though the words might change if we stare hard enough.
Then:
“Oh God,” I mutter.
“Yup,” Tyler says on an exhale.
Our eyes meet over the top of the parchment like we’ve just realised we’ve been cast as the leads in a very horny school play.
“This is definitely written for a married couple,” I say, flipping to the second page. “There’s a reconciliation kiss. A moment of shared longing. And apparently a stage direction where Henry ‘cups Anne’s face tenderly’ and ‘whispers his vow into the crook of her neck.’”
Tyler arches an eyebrow. “I’m not whispering anything into your crook.”
“I don’t even have a crook,” I hiss. “What even is a crook? And why is it always being whispered into?”
He smirks. “You’re asking the wrong earl.”
I look down at the script again. “This was not in the brief! I signed up for snacks and sarcasm, not Tudor foreplay with a script.”
Tyler folds his paper with the smug neatness of someone who always makes sure the group project gets finished, preferably with minimum effort on his part and maximum credit at the end.
“We could just… wing it?” he offers. “Edit as we go. Cut the crook bits.”
I snort. “Right. And what happens when we have to kiss?”
A pause.
He looks at me, not teasing. Not smirking.
Just… unreadable.
“I guess we’ll improvise.”
Tyler gestures vaguely in the direction of what I assume is the bar, and slips away before I can think of a comeback.
I stare down at my script, trying to focus on the words and not the fact my pulse is suddenly doing its own Pavane.
When I finally glance up, I spot him, not at a bar exactly, but at a makeshift ‘tavern’ set up with tankards and fake hay bales, and yes, they are actually serving mead. On the one occasion I desperately need wine.
Tyler’s standing with someone.
My stomach drops. It’s her.
The guillotine-laugh woman from the maze, inching close enough that she could steal his drink before he even picks it up.
Her hand brushes his sleeve, casual, over-familiar, like she’s done it a thousand times before.
His jaw tightens, just slightly. But he doesn’t pull away.
My stomach twists. Mead or jealousy, I can’t tell.
I glue my eyes to the script, pretending to care deeply about crooks and vows while silently hoping someone spills an entire flagon of whatever medieval piss-booze they’re serving down her back.
A few minutes later, Tyler returns with two tankards of mead, calm and collected, just as Peacock claps his hands for attention and announces that the show is about to begin.
The first couple take the stage, none other than Her Flamingoness and her husband.
Bernard and Brenda Feather, as I’ve learned since the welcome dinner, are yoga instructors from Devon. Their surname Feather is almost too perfect. It makes my secret flamingo nickname for Brenda feel spookily accurate. Somewhere deep inside me, a petty little voice crows, “Nailed it.”
Brenda launches into her lines with a surprisingly good posh accent.
Bernard, meanwhile, decides this is the perfect time to demonstrate his Warrior Pose flexibility, dropping into a lunge so low I’m half-convinced we’re about to see his codpiece file a missing persons report.
It’s less ‘high-brow history,’ more Horny Hamlet.
One guest coughs awkwardly. Others are just fanning themselves with their scripts.
By the time Brenda reaches “quivering loins,” Bernard ad-libs a dramatic dip so low she nearly face-plants into the Brie.
“Steady on, Bernard!” another voice calls when he nearly loses his balance.
The room breaks into applause, whether it’s for the performance or for Brenda’s miraculous recovery, I can’t tell.
I chew a sliver of Manchego and try to decide whether I’m drunk, nervous, or just lactose-intolerant. Possibly all three.
Tyler sips his mead beside me, ridiculously calm, which is impressive considering one of the bridesmaids is giving him the kind of glare usually reserved for exes who left with the dog and the coffee machine.
Peacock steps forward, clapping his hands in glee.
“And now! The moment we’ve all been waiting for…Act III, Scene Two! ‘The Reunion of Lovers Beneath the Stars!’”
I swallow hard.
After sitting through what feels like hours of other people’s panting, dipping, and near-cheese-related fatalities, my nerves are officially frayed. My palms are sweaty, my script is damp, and my stomach is staging a coup against the Stilton.
Tyler, of course, looks entirely unfazed.
I choke slightly on a cracker. Tyler tosses back the last of his drink like a man accepting his fate.
Peacock steps forward with a grin so sickly it should come with a health warning. “Take the stage, sweethearts!” he cries, gesturing grandly.
We shuffle forward under the flicker of torchlight, scripts in hand. My cheeks are already hot, not in the cute, romantic way, but in the blotchy, ‘three layers of Spanx and a bad decision’ way.
Tyler, of course, looks completely at home, like he was born for this exact moment, moonlight, audience, and all.
He clears his throat and begins, his voice steady and smooth, wrapping around the first line like he actually means it.
Though time hath kept us parted long,
My heart hath beat for thee alone.
Through tempest, war, and thorned regret,
I come to claim what I have known.
There’s a wolf whistle from somewhere in the back. Possibly from Bernard.
Tyler steps closer.
His gaze meets mine.
Thou art the light that banished night,
The flame that thaws my soul’s lament,
He’s looking at me, not the page. His voice quieter now.
The only truth I ever knew,
My stomach flips. This is acting. Obviously. So why does it feel like my dress is getting tighter?
I glance down at my script and read my line, my voice a little too breathy:
Then take this heart, my long,lost love,
And vow it shall not break again…
Someone coughs pointedly. There’s a snigger. But I barely hear it.
Because Tyler’s hand finds mine.
Our eyes lock.
And for a brief, aching second, there is no room. No audience. No cheese tower. No bloody Bernard.
Just him. Just me.
His hand reaches for my face, his eyes drop to my lips. And then he leans in.
Oh shit.
Oh fuck.
He’s going to kiss me.
Tyler freaking Ashford is about to kiss me in front of an audience and a wheel of Camembert the size of a car tyre.
“Abort!” I whisper-shriek.
Too late.
I panic and step back, fast. My foot catches the hem of my dress. I flail and go down hard. Gasps ripple through the crowd. I twist, reaching for anything to stop myself. The room spins in horror as I realise what I have grabbed.
The top three tiers of the artisan cheese tower slide, no, topple, in slow motion.
The Brie hits first. Then the Manchego. Then the goat’s cheese explodes like a creamy grenade.
“Oh my God!” someone gasps.
Tyler’s hand flies to his mouth as he tries to suppress a laugh. Unsuccessfully.
Peacock screams and dives to catch a wheel of Wensleydale like it’s a newborn child.
The entire room erupts into chaos. Someone yells, “Save the Stilton!”
I’m rooted to the spot, covered in soft cheese and humiliation. Tyler leans down to where I’m now crouched in a puddle of Camembert and shame, one knee to the floor like he’s proposing through the dairy carnage.
He drops his voice, lips near my ear.
“Well… that was Gouda.”
I glare up at him. “I hope you trip over a Cheddar and die.”
His mouth twitches. “Only if you deliver the eulogy.” He leans in even closer, and adds with a conspiratorial whisper in my ear, “In iambic pentameter.”
Before I can throw a wheel of Brie at his smug, beautiful face, a gloved hand appears between us.
“Lady Price,” comes a deep theatrical voice.
I blink up, and there he is: the man from the maze, this time in a perfectly tailored navy doublet, mask gleaming gold under the torchlight. His blond hair catches the glow and looks like it was styled by angels with excellent taste.
He bows low, the picture of courtly drama. “I leave you alone for a few hours and you declare war on the dairy kingdom. Permit me the honour of rescuing thee from thy most… pungent tragedy.”
I blink again. The room is still spinning, a blur of flickering candlelight, spilled wine, and slightly trampled Gouda.
I take his hand, because standing on my own suddenly feels impossible and Tyler’s attention is impossible to ignore.
The stranger sweeps me up, spins me once, and whisks me towards the dance floor, entirely unconcerned by the cheese smeared down my dress, leaving Tyler crouched amid crushed Camembert and something that almost looks like regret.