Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“Because wearing a wedding gown for no reason isn’t at all over the top?” The corner of her mouth tilts before she looks away again.
“It’s better to be overdressed than under. In most situations.” The latter I add in an undertone, surprised to find myself imagining the fiancée of Mitchell Atherton naked.
Former fiancée, my mind unhelpfully supplies.
How the hell did he capture such loveliness? Curves in all the right places, luxuriant strawberry blonde hair, and soulful brown eyes that, in a blink, can burn like gold-flecked flames. I push the images away. I’m not interested in my nemesis’s sloppy seconds.
We pass the club steward who, like the doorman, is wearing a curiously wide grin. How strange. While always pleasant, the staff at my club aren’t given to an excess of happiness. This isn’t Disneyland.
“Most situations?” my companion teases.
“It wouldn’t do to visit the beach in a three-piece suit.”
“I think you could probably get away with it.” She slides me an appreciative look. “I’m almost offended by how good you look given I’m the one in the fancy dress.”
A surprised bark of laughter bursts from my chest. That was a little more obvious. What a pity she’s not for me.
“Just don’t let the staff know you’re not wearing shoes, or we’ll be shown the door.”
“Something tells me they wouldn’t dare.” True, but I don’t say so. “What is this place?” she whispers as I steer her into the lounge, where dust motes dance in the sunlight. For the first time, I notice how the smell of whisky and old books overlays the scent of beeswax polish. At least the place isn’t busy at this hour.
“It’s my club.” I indicate seats in the bay window overlooking leafy Saint James’s Street.
“You mean, like a gentleman’s club?”
“They prefer private members’ establishment.”
She glances around, taking in the Adam’s era fireplace and the dark paneled walls hung with portraits of long-dead members and frowns at a bronze bust.
“That’s a Samuel Joseph, I believe.”
“It looks like something from Harry Potter,” she says, sitting in one of the pair of oxblood leather chairs I indicate. “Or maybe a museum.”
“It is often full of old relics.”
“More original than poles.”
I pause. “Poles?”
“The kind with half-naked women swinging around them.”
“Ah.”
“Ah.” Her mouth turns up at the corners, her lips pink and lush in between. “Do you have membership to one of those clubs too?”
“I might’ve walked past a place like that once or twice.”
“Only past? Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”
“Who’d be interested?”
“Me.” She lifts her palm upward, a shrug of sorts. “Because then I wouldn’t be the only one embarrassing myself today.”
“You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Debatable.” Her nose wrinkles. She has the most animated face. Odd that it seems to add to her beauty, not detract from it.
“If there’s anyone who ought to feel shame, it isn’t you.”
“When my future holds so many mornings of waking up, seeing your face, and reliving the whole undignified moment again?”
“It’s going to be that kind of friendship?”
“I mean, who just climbs into a stranger’s car?” she blusters on, her cheeks flushing pink. “You didn’t even have candy or kittens!”
“Just enticing lashes.”
“Not helping,” she groans, pressing her hand to her forehead.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll remember the experience differently. You’re the most interesting thing that’s fallen into my lap this year.”
“Don’t be nice to me, Oliver. I’m still running on rage and adrenaline. I can’t believe I threw my beautiful shoes into a bush!”
“I’m a firm believer in forgiving those who’ve wronged us.” Her eyes flash gold as they cut to me. “But not until we’ve evened the score.”
“For a minute, I thought I wasn’t going to like you.”
“You already do like me, Evelyn.”
“What I don’t like is being called Evelyn.” Lowering her tone, she draws out the sound of her name.
“That is not how I sound.” I smile, unable to help myself.
“Isn’t it?”
“Not, Evelyn. It is not,” I say, dropping my tone a little more.
“Everyone calls me Evie.” She adorably scrunches her nose. “Only my mother calls me Evelyn.”
“When you’re in trouble?”
“Oh, I’m always in trouble with Muffy.” As she answers, she rolls her eyes.
“Muffy?” I turn to a harrumph and the sound of crushed paper, Viscount Radler slicing me an unhappy glance over his now-crumpled copy of the Times. As I turn back, I find Evelyn leaning closer, as though she has a secret to share. I resist the impulse to meet her halfway.
“Does that man have muttonchops?” she whispers, delighted.
“Possibly.” Whereas this man has the urge to push his hands into her hair and pluck out the pins to watch it curl around her bare shoulders. It’s good that she sits back. “He’s here so often, he’s almost part of the furniture.”
“I bet you’re wondering why she didn’t help me today. My mother, I mean.”
I make a noncommittal sound, which is better than admitting the truth. I don’t care.