Not to mention overly personal, which could be considered adoubleviolation of both rules twoandthree.
Rule three is the one that’s really going to kill me.
I love a compliment! I’m a bit of a compulsive complementarian, in fact, but I’ve never worried about it too much before. A sincere compliment, discreetly delivered, is the ultimate social lubricant, and genuine praise always brightens someone’s day.
Or, at least it does in New York.
In London, apparently, a compliment is considered an act of aggression, one that obligates the receiver to waste preciousenergy rebuffing the compliment in order to reaffirm their own modesty.
Therefore, I will have to remember to suppress my “love your dress” habit, while simultaneously meeting my fake boyfriend’s Dowager Viscountess of a mother in a room full of fancy strangers who have all seen photos of me humping Oliver against a lamppost like a horny cat.
Brilliant.
The thought is enough to make my pulse spike with panic as we sweep into a ballroom filled with tables draped in fine linen and topped with elegantly festive centerpieces.
I suppose there’s always a chance that these people haven’t seen the pictures.
Maybe they’re too important or rich or old to be online as much as the rest of us…
That hope is quashed three steps in when a woman at a nearby table squawks, “Oh my, is that her? The American by the street lamp?” I glance over to see an old woman wearing enough diamonds to feed a small country clutching her bejeweled neck with a delightfully scandalized expression.
Her companion, an even more ancient woman wearing nearly as many baubles, leans forward, squinting at my dress. “Oh, that’s her, all right,” she says, not even bothering to lower her voice as she adds, “But she’s prettier in person than in the pictures. Much less busty.”
My face burns as we move deeper into the room.
Busty?
I was wearing a jacket in those pictures. A Nan Baylor suit jacket, no less! One of the manymodestNan Baylor jackets Maya enjoys teasing me about because they’re so “middle-aged, middle management” coded.
Why so much hate and judgment for my poor suit set?
And why aren’t the old biddies in here obeying rules two and three?!
By the time we reach table nine—front and center, where everyone can stare at the horny young people on display—I’ve caught several whispers about my hair (fabulous, frizzy, and “obviously from a bottle”) and my chances of “landing a Featherswallow.”
All parties agreed my chances aren’t good. Even if hehasbrought me to a family event and pulled out the seat next to his mother.
By the time I’ve settled into my chair beside the Dowager Viscountess Vivian Featherswallow, I’m certain my cheeks are Jolly Saint Nick on a Bender red.
“Mother,” Oliver says, leaning past me to press a kiss to her pale cheek. “I’d like you to meet Emily Darling from New York. Emily, this is my mother, Vivian.”
“Oh, call me Viv,” the elegant blonde says as she warmly clasps my hand. “All Oliver’s friends from his school days do. How lovely to meet you, Emily.”
She’s not at all what I expected. After all Oliver’s talk of “cardinal sins” and “making her cranky,” I’d expected a fussy, Lady Grantham sort. Honestly, she reminds me more of the “hippies” in the Hamptons. The ones who are obscenely wealthy, but do their best to hide it, and are much more concerned with feeding their family organic food than wearing the latest fashions.
Vivian’s pale blue dress is gorgeous, but clearly far from brand new, and she’s wearing mismatched earrings—one pearl stud and one dangly Art Nouveau silver swirl. Whether that’s on purpose or simply because she forgot to choose between the two when she was getting dressed, I instantly decide she might be a kindred spirit, after all.
“Lovely to meet you, Viv,” I say, smiling as she releases my palm with a light squeeze. Fighting the urge to compliment her on her dress or her excellent work raising a very charming, so far verydecentman, I add, “Thank you so much for making room at the last minute. It’s so nice to be a part of honoring Edward’s accomplishments. I was so pleased when Oliver invited me.”
Vivian beams. “Oh, I was, too! Oliver so rarely brings a plus one, and we’re thrilled to have you.” She introduces me to the rest of the table—two Ladies and an Honorable, I greet with full titles, as expected at a first introduction—before motioning to a formidable-looking woman with deep smile lines around her brown eyes. “And of course, Lady Agnes Thornfield-Rowe, a dear family friend.”
“So nice to meet you, Lady Thornfield-Rowe,” I say.
“Agnes, please. The other’s too much of a mouthful.” Agnes chuckles in a way that makes me suspect she knows all my dirty, Oliver-humping secrets. “And I’m charmed, Ms. Darling. It’s always fascinating to meet one of Oliver’s friends from the real world.”
“Partner, actually,” Oliver corrects with a winning grin. “We’ve been dating for a few months now, and have decided to make things official.”
Vivian’s blond brows lift, and a flash of something—disapproval? Irritation?—flashes behind her eyes before her expression smooths into another warm smile. “Why, what lovely news! Love makes the holidays even more special.”
