I have no idea.
I only know that I’m looking forward to an excuse to perform “pretend affection” for Emily before an audience of my family, friends, and peers far too much….
Chapter Ten
EMILY
I’ve forgotten how to breathe, and it has nothing to do with the shapewear beneath my dress.
Okay, maybe it has alittle bitto do with the shapewear, but I’m not about to complain. Claudette was a genius who picked out the perfect thigh minimizer and waist-cinching bustier.
No, it has much more to do with this “meet the parents at first sight” thing Olly somehow talked me into. Meeting someone’s mother is terrifying enough when your boyfriend is from a normal family and you’ve had time to prepare. But meeting a Dowager Viscountess? Moments before a very important ceremony honoring her eldest child, the Viscount?
Without time to do anything to my hair except coil it into a low bun with tendrils in the dressing room and hope for the best?
Well, needless to say, I’m spiraling.
And gasping.
Maybe even hyperventilating?
“Deep breath,” Oliver murmurs as we hurry up the stone steps of Spencer House, past topiary trees wrapped in white lights that twinkle like champagne bubbles. “You’ve got this.”
The December wind smells like it might snow again soon, and somewhere nearby, carol singers are working their way through “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” London at Christmas is aggressively festive, even at midday. Normally, I’d be enchanted, but right now, all I can think about are the three rules Oliver drilled into me during our four-minute cab ride.
Rule number one: Don’t talk with your mouth full.
I mean, itsoundseasy. I’m pretty sure I mastered that particular aspect of table manners around ten, when my mother threatened to make me eat dinner in the trash can with the raccoons if I didn’t stop spraying breadcrumbs at dinner. But knowing my luck since I landed in London, I’ll probably forget Rule One and give our table a “see food” exhibit during the salad course.
Baby Jesus in the manger, I’m not ready for this kind of trial by high-society fire. Not even close…
We push through heavy doors into sudden warmth and grandeur that takes what’s left of my breath away. Crystal chandeliers cast the large entryway in a warm, golden glow, and massive wreaths hang between oil paintings of stern-looking dead people. The air smells like pine, expensive perfume, and a hint of wood rot.
Or maybe mothballs?
Something in here reeks of humans fighting to hold back the tides of time. It’s a smell I find both delightful and sad, but I know better than to mention that aloud.
That would be a clear violation of Rule Two: Don’t discuss anything personal in public—or at all, really, until you’ve known someone at least six to twelve months.
That one’s trickier.
What counts as personal? I obviously shouldn’t share that smells give me feelings or confess that I cry every time I watchany version of Little Women, especially around the holidays. But what about “I run my own business?”
Is my job too personal? I mean, considering that I started the company? Personally?
How about my favorite color?
The fact that my new shoes aren’t proving nearly as comfortable as I’d hoped?
I wince as we stop in front of the coat check, wishing I’d thought to grab bandages for my heels on the way out the door.
“Just this and two coats, my good man.” Oliver hands the bag containing my other clothes to the elderly fellow behind the desk before turning to help me with my coat. As he slides it off my shoulders, revealing my new frock, the old man’s bushy white eyebrows shoot up in approval.
Well, at least the coat check guy thinks I’ve nailed the assignment.
Hopefully, Oliver’s mother and the rest of the high-society set will agree.
Though, of course, I’m sure they won’t comment directly on the dress, as that would be a violation of Rule Three: Don’t offer compliments. Aristocrats, especially those of previous generations, find compliments gauche and embarrassing.
