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)
“Why do I even need a ring?” I whisper hiss, leaning in as Mr. Jones leaves. “And why isn’t he worried I’ll stuff all these jewels in my pockets?” I gesture to the velvet tray holding at least a dozen rings.
“He must be expecting me to keep an eye on you.”
“You,” I scoff. “What makes you think he’d trust you?”
“Money,” he whispers with wide-eyed glee.
“Exactly the reason people won’t trust you.” Why I won’t trust you.
“Don’t worry. I’d visit you in prison.” He reaches for the tray, his fingers spread wide as though ready to grab.
“You’re not stealing anything,” I say, slapping his hand away. “I don’t even want a ring. I have no idea why we’re even here.”
“To give people lots to talk about, of course.”
“I don’t see how wearing a ring will help unless you also want me to wear a pin that reads, ‘Oliver bought this ring for me.’”
His fingers are soothing on the backs of my hands. “Just trust me.”
“About as far as I can throw you,” I mutter, making him smile. “Just so you know, when this is over, you’re getting it back.”
As Mr. Jones clears away the tray and sends off my lucky-bag ring, champagne arrives on a silver tray, and Oliver touches the rim of his glass to mine. “Here’s to getting what you want.”
“Yeah,” I return flatly. “And not what you deserve.” The story of my life, I think as I take a sip, ignoring the way his eyes stay on me. I get a ring, but what I need is to get out of here. Get this experience over with, get my visa, and get my life back on track.
I pretty much guzzle my champagne, and judging by the tiny-looking gift bag that appears on the table, Oliver paid for the gaudy bauble by sleight of hand.
“I hope you’ll come back to visit us again,” Mr. Jones says as we leave the room, and my panic seems to lessen. “Perhaps for one of our afternoon soirees. We call them ‘tea and tiaras.’”
“Tiaras? Like a princess?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder to see Oliver’s mouth lift in a slow grin.
“Princesses wear crowns, not veils.” His tone strokes like a caress. Our inside joke.
“Princesses do indeed wear crowns,” sings a high-on-his-commission Mr. Jones. “But they also wear tiaras. In fact, anyone can wear a tiara.”
“Oliver would look fabulous in one.” I snicker quietly. Mr. Devil of a Man. You are due some payback.
“You think so? Perhaps we should take a look at them.”
“Oliver, no. I was joking!”
“Not for me,” he says in the tone of obviously.
“When am I going to wear a tiara?”
“Indulge me,” he says, taking my hand again.
Dammit. I nearly escaped. At least headwear isn’t dangerous.
The room is blue and gray, with tones of silver and gold. And so many twinkling stones. I’m drawn to where dozens of tiaras twinkle iridescently from nooks set in the wall.
“The Lotus Flower Tiara,” Mr. Jones begins, noticing my interest in a tiara festooned with pearls. “A replica, of course. The original was a necklace gifted to Queen Elizabeth, the queen mother, by her husband, the then-future George VI.”
He had me at queen, not that I’m into the royals, but I do love history. And this country has so darn much.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It was made here at Garrard, and then remodeled into the design you see today. Would you like to try it on?”
“Oh, no?” I hold up my hand. “I’m fine.”
“Do it,” Oliver whispers tauntingly in my ear.
“No.” I whip around to find him standing too close, his blue eyes blazing, goading me on. “I’m not—”
“Lift it down, Mr. Jones. I’m sure Eve would love to try it on.”
“Stop making decisions for me,” I whisper, conflicted. Of course I want to try on the damn thing, but I don’t want or need his permission.
“When will you next get the chance to try on a piece of history?”
Does he know? Did I mention my love of old stuff to him?
“Not an actual piece of history,” Mr. Jones puts in. He already has the thing in his hand.
What the heck. My fingers pull at my silky scrunchy, tightening it, hoping it’s not too messy. I reach out for the tiara, when I find it being passed into Oliver’s out-held hands.
“Allow me.”
Something inside me twists needily as he sets it on my head. He’s too close. It feels wrong, more dangerous than before. I spin away to face the mirror, finding myself blinking slowly into a face I don’t recognize. I’m not some girl from the backwoods, but I’ve never been impressed by baubles and trinkets. I’m practical. Low key. Yet here I stand, in the middle of moneyed Mayfair, wearing diamonds on my head and loving it.
“All that glitters,” I whisper.
“Isn’t gold.” In the mirror, Oliver appears behind me, his eyes not on the diamonds and pearls but on my hair. “It’s champagne, with threads of copper, amber, and ruby red.” His gaze meets mine in the mirror when he adds, “It needs no adornment because it’s beautiful. Just like you.”