Chapter 13
PIPPA
I’m not sure which is worse, standing here with my eye makeup likely running down my face in front of Chase, who suggested we go on a date. Or Benedict Moss and Marlow closing in on us.
Marlow smells like the high school girls’ bathroom during a dance and Benedict bears the odor of a musty basement.
He says, “Ah, there you are, you flighty little minx. I was hoping you saved a dance for me.”
I’ve already peopled enough for one night and automatically stiffen as though that’ll lessen the impact of the energy required to face this load of creepy rubbish dressed up like nobility.
Yeah, that’s right, Benedict, Freddie gave me your number and by that, I mean he warned me about you, so scram!
Only, I don’t say that because I’m fresh out of verbal word salad. I’ve used up today’s ration of saying things I shouldn’t out loud. I hardly have the energy to speak, no less move.
Marlow’s steely eyes appraise me, then flutter in Chase’s direction. “And I’d hoped Chase was going to ask me to dance.”
“This is perfect. We can relieve you each of your burdens,” Benedict says.
“I’d hardly say Pippa is a burden,” Chase counters, picking up on the subtext more quickly than me. Easy for him, he’s an extrovert and probably feeds off events like these.
Benedict glances down and then smooths his hand along his shirt buttons. “Of course, she’s not, but I would like the pleasure of her company for the remainder of the evening if you can spare her.”
Chase looks at me in a way that seems to ask, Do you want me to clock this guy? Or at least he wears the same expression as Freddie when he’s ready to throw punches.
Benedict lifts onto his toes and puffs his chest. “Come along, Pippa. Let me show you how a real man handles a woman.”
My mouth drops open. Seriously, if I weren’t running on social fumes, I’d come to my own defense. I’d tell Benedict where to hang it and that he can take Marlow with him, but I’m afraid that if I speak, it’ll sound like, Cover summer taco paper.
“A real man?” Chase asks, challenging Benedict.
“Handles a woman?” I manage because that was just wrong.
Benedict takes my hand in his and then walks his first two fingers along my skin before reaching my chin and tipping it toward him.
You know the fight-or-flight response? Usually, you can rely on me to flee.
Chase seems the type to fight. I just learned today that there is a third option.
Freeze. And here I am, a soggy icicle. “I can show you things that are beyond your wildest imagination,” Benedict whispers into my ear.
I flinch, regaining my motor skills.
Beside me, Chase seems to grind his teeth.
In my other ear, he whispers, “I’m doing everything in my power to stop myself from telling him to keep his hands off you.
I feel a deep sense of duty to protect you.
” His tone is a growl, a deep animal-like possessiveness.
Even though he doesn’t say it, the romantic in me hears, If I can’t have her, no one can.
Oh.
I step closer to Chase and out of Benedict’s reach. “My imagination is wild enough as it is. Thank you, but—”
“But I insist,” Benedict says, drawing me toward the ballroom.
I wilt under his clammy-handed touch.
Meanwhile, Marlow has draped herself over Chase like a coat tree. He tries to shrug her off as my parents and the Collinses catch up with us.
“No, thank you,” I say. “I’m done dancing this evening.”
“I promise, you won’t regret it.” Benedict gives me a sharky stare.
“I said no.” I stand firmly, dress drenched, hair a mess, dignity in shreds, social battery about to die, but firmly nonetheless.
“But it’ll be a night you won’t soon forget.”
Chase shifts Marlow aside. “She said no.”
“I think a lady as fair and lovely as Pippa can speak for herself, Chase.” Benedict glares at him.
Mum steps forward. “Benedict, we meet again. Under different circumstances, my daughter might consider your offer, however, as it is, Chase here is courting her.”
“Courting me?” I ask. “What is this, the nineteenth century?”
“A delightful period of history, so I hear,” Dad adds.
“Yes, we’ve arranged their marriage, but want to make sure it’s to their liking,” Mrs. Collins says.
Chase and I exchange a look. One that asks, What’s going on and Did we step back in time and Is this for real?
At least that’s what I’m thinking. The longer our gazes hold, the closer I come to releasing the laughter at the absurdity of this situation.
The same barely contained sensation ripples across his features, confirming that we’re on the same page—or at the very least, reading the same historical romance.
But I’m afraid it’s satire, while, at least based on what he said about a date, he wouldn’t object to a courtship.
But chances are, it would end in laughter at my expense.
Benedict doubles down, taking both my hands. I shuffle back, knocking into a very hard surface before realizing it’s Chase’s chest. Grabbing for him so I don’t fall over, I blurt, “If you’ll excuse me.”
Our hands come together and don’t let go as I hurry around the corner, picking up the pace before stopping in an alcove when I’m confident I’m in the clear.
It’s official, I’ve reached maximum capacity. I’ve breached the threshold for socializing and avoiding creepy baroque suit-wearing men. I press my hand to my forehead and pace two steps in one direction and then the other. “I need to get away. Time to think. A break from people.”
“Do I count as people?” Chase asks.
Noticing that he’s also here, because I dragged him along, I say, “Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m on the edge of overwhelm.”
Chase gently grips my upper arms and holds my gaze. His palms are rough. His fingers strong. There’s nothing unwelcome about his touch. I dare a glimpse at his blue eyes. He blinks a few times and takes several deep breaths as if encouraging me to do the same. Mercifully, things slow down.
If his face were a slideshow, I’d be watching him swipe through several expressions—like he had an idea, wrestled with it, then landed on an answer, but I’m not sure what it is or the original question.
At last, I draw a deep breath.
“Pippa, I’m sorry. That was intense. Forget about Benedict, though.”
“And marry you?” I blurt because that’s where things were left off with our parents.
“Yes, no. I don’t know,” he repeats, but the sincerity in his eyes sends a different message. “You don’t have to do anything.”
“Except embarrass myself in front of everyone.”
“Pippa, it’s like you’re waiting for something to go wrong.”
“Because it always does. Have you been with me for the last several hours? It’s been one disaster after another.
It’s only a matter of time before I do something like trip and fall, breaking your hand and ruining your football career, or somehow causing the ceiling to cave in, or, or, or—” I sputter, really truly running out of gas.
Chase glances up. “How would you cause that to happen?”
“You don’t know me and my tendency toward bad, weird, unfortunate luck.”
“But the whole time we were dancing, nothing bad had happened.”
I rock back on my heels, considering this. He kind of has a point. “Just while we were dancing. Before and after are different stories.”
With a wink that threatens to agree to our mothers’ wild courtship idea, he says, “Perhaps I’m your good luck charm.”
“Do you eat Lucky Charms cereal? If so, let me caution you now against choking hazards.”
“Pippa,” Chase says gently.
“Chase,” I answer with a tremble in my voice because I’m just about spent.
“Pippa,” he repeats, rubbing his thumbs on my shoulders slowly, calmingly, and draining away all the tension that builds up inside when I’m out among what Mum and Dad would call “the people.”
“Chase?” My voice is a barely there croaky whisper.
Before he answers the question that amounted to his name, our parents parade toward us, signaling the end of the moment, of the night. Thank goodness, because I cannot be trusted to make rational decisions right now.
He leans down and whispers, “Let this be my comeback story of redemption...and if I have anything to say about it, there will be a giant vanilla cake on our wedding day, but no sponges, promise.”
At least that’s what I think (Hope? Fantasize? Imagine?) he says, but I could’ve misheard because Mrs. Collins and my mother cluck like a pair of hens.
Cluckety, cluck, cluck.
And with that, the next fifteen minutes of goodbyes are a blur. I think I wave at Chase as he exits with his parents, but he becomes a fading figure as I zone out and tune out, no longer able to process the chatter and my surroundings.
As the car brings me from the Smythe’s back to my parents’ place in London, the world comes back into focus. The driver is a quiet companion and I slowly recharge. But I still experience a sense of exhausted disconnection. It also feels like I’ve traveled back in time.
Dancing with Chase at the soiree wasn’t a date per se, but it wasn’t me biting into a sponge, him ruffling my hair like a little kid, or teasing me with my brother.
I try Phoebe three times so I can recap the night with her, eager to pick apart the minutiae of Lady Libby the Love Liaison’s choice for my future husband, but she must be “in the library studying.” However, I’m beginning to wonder if she has a beau of her own.
The next morning, I depart early for Concordia and check my father’s newspaper to be sure of the date because the previous evening comes back to me with a surreal, moving picture quality. Plastered across the front is the headline Bruisers Shock Fans Under the Full Moon.
“Good morning, Phillipa. That young man made quite the splash,” Dad says, pointing to the paper.
“He’s Freddie’s best friend. How could he not?”
“Phillip has never been in the newspaper.” As if Dad missed the memo, he rarely calls my twin, Freddie. Likewise, I’ll always be Phillipa. The man operates in his own sphere.