“I imagine you did.” Her tone shifts to barely contained delight. “I’ve seen the photographs, darling. Everyone has. Lady Prescott called to ask if you were having some sort of breakdown, and the duke next door is convinced you should join his support group for wastrels who can’t handle their liquor.”
I close my eyes with a wince. “I’m so sorry, Grandmother. Truly, I never?—”
“What on earth are you apologizing for, child? Honestly, I couldn’t be more delighted.” She lets out a musical laugh that stops me in my tracks. “What a gorgeous creature. She’s absolutely stunning, Oliver. And so refreshing! None of that skin-and-bones-lugging-a-designer-handbag nonsense you usually parade about. This is a real woman with real appetites and a genuine passion for my grandson. And I, for one, think that’s fantastic. When do I meet her?”
“Oh, well, I—” I clear my throat as I duck into a small pocket garden for privacy. The snow is already melting, but still deep enough that I’m alone on this crystal-clear morning. “She’s in town on business, so I’m not?—”
“Business is well and good, but a woman has to eat,” Grandmother cuts in. “Bring her to dinner. Tonight. I’ll have Deirdre make that lamb with mint that you like.”
“I’d love to, but things are a bit more complicated than that, I’m afraid.”
She sighs. “Everything’s complicated with your generation. In my day, when a man was photographed ravishing a woman against a lamppost, he proposed, and we set about planning the wedding. Oh, your girl would be a lovely winter bride! Redheads pop so beautifully against freshly fallen snow. Though, of course, you’d have to plan the ceremony for farther north to be sure you?—”
“Different times, Grandmother,” I cut in before she can book the venue.
“Better times, if you ask me.” She sighs dramatically. “Certainly, simpler ones. Oh, all right. She’s working, fine. But she’ll be at the party with you on Saturday, of course. There’s no way you can show up alone or with another woman.” She sniffs. “If you did, I might be forced to assume the duke has a point.If you’re kissing one woman like that on Monday night and out with another by Saturday… Well, it wouldn’t reflect well on your character, Oliver.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” I agree, properly chastised.
My grandmother’s no fool—she knows that modern dating culture, even for the aristocracy, is the furthest thing from classy or refined—but she expects her grandsons to keep their scandalous behavior out of the gossip rags.
I’ve let her down, and must do my best to make amends.
Luckily, our agendas are aligned this time around. She wants Emily at her party; I want Emily back by my side, enjoying the holidays.
I just need to find a way to make both our Christmas wishes come true…
“And I’m not getting any younger, darling,” Grandmother continues, her voice suddenly trembly and thin. “This could be my last Christmas, and I so desperately want it to be a good one.”
I shake my head, a wry smile twisting my lips. “You’re terrible.”
“I am not!” she objects, her words once again steady and strong.
“Yes, you are. You’re nowhere near your deathbed bed and manipulation is beneath you. I’ll issue the invitation for Emily to join me as my plus one right away. And if she isn’t able to make it, I’ll come alone. I promise.”
“Oh, she’ll be able to make it! Of course, she will. What else is there to do in London this time of year except go to parties? Though I will still expect you to wear your punishment sweater. You lost a bet, and rules are rules.” She makes a puckering sound. “Kiss, kiss, darling. And don’t worry about the beastly people on the internet or the rest of the tongue waggers. They don’t know you like I do. You’re clearly smitten with this woman,and I think it’s lovely. High time you found a lady who could match your spark and fire. See you soon.”
She rings off before I can respond, leaving me standing in the melting snow by the garden’s silent fountain, pondering her words of wisdom.
Emilydoesmatch my fire.
And Iamsmitten with her after a single night.
If the world knew just how smitten, I’m guessing a lot of this ugliness would go away. The certainty that Emily’s just another notch on a randy aristocrat’s bedpost seems to be driving the bulk of the cruelty. And the British tabloids love any excuse to pile on a random American tart in a tight skirt.
But what if she wasn’t random?
What if we made it clear we’re together? A proper couple?
The press would likely report the news that the Viscount’s little brother has an American girlfriend with their usual disdain for anyone they deem “unsuitable,” then quickly grow bored, once Emily and I proved to be as yawn-inducing as every other aristocratic pairing. They’d get sick of snapping photos of us at high society events or volunteering to serve food at my mother’s charity, and move on to the next scandal.
Emily’s reputation would be saved, and I’d be back in Grandmother’s good graces. Not to mention I’d have the perfect excuse to spend more time with a certain redhead.
Surely, once the internet heat is turned down, Emily would relish the chance to spend more time together. Her laughter last night was real, and I can’t help feeling she could use more happy, carefree nights in her life.
Yes! This is it. The brilliant plan I should have known would come to me, sooner or later.
And there’s no time like the present for putting it into motion…
