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)
Who the hell does he think I am? Frickin’ Yoda?
The line into the building is covered by a marquee roof, though it doesn’t take long before Oliver is handing over our invitations, which are exchanged for a pair of bright-blue peacock feathers.
“What’s this for?” I run my fingers along the length of the one he hands me.
“Take a guess.”
“Not to tickle your ass,” I retort.
“It’s for entry into the exhibition. Not that kind of exhibition,” he adds, taking in my expression. “There are fashion and jewels on display in the palace’s staterooms. The feathers are color coded to match a viewing time.”
“Oh.” I guess I should’ve paid attention at security, but I was too busy listening in to other people’s conversations. Apparently, there are newspapers and magazines here to cover the event. The Guardian, Vogue, Grazia, and Tatler, but I heard no mention of Una whatsherface or the City Chronicle, thankfully. It sounds like an eclectic mix of attendees are expected: celebrities, members of the aristocracy, fashion designers, artists, and philanthropists.
With his hand at the small of my back, Oliver leads me into the former home of kings and queens, princes and princesses. While I’m not sure who lives here now, the event is being held in some of the public rooms.
“This is . . . modern.” I state the obvious as we clear the marquee and enter what is, effectively, a huge garden room. Decorated in creams and gold, the tasteful palette allows chandeliers to sparkle and mirrors to gleam as huge arrangements of white flowers and foliage add to the general air of opulence. There are barmen dressed in velvet frock coats, and waitresses wearing dainty gold tiaras. And the guests? They are a stylish and, in some cases, an avant-garde bunch—cocktail dresses and evening gowns, velvet dinner jackets, and jeweled lehenga in a profusion of colors and styles.
I was so determined not to allow Oliver to dictate my outfit tonight, but when I slipped this dress on, I immediately knew I wouldn’t be wearing anything else. It fits like it was made for me, but I guess that’s the beauty of working with a stylist.
“Is this the kind of thing you regularly get invited to?” I find myself asking. I was relieved Oliver didn’t pick the dress. I’m also very happy not to be wearing my boring little black one.
“Invited? Yes. Attend. Not so much. We’re only here to pin down Lord Bellsand.”
“Who?”
He sends me what Jane Austen might call a speaking glance. Like I’m a ye olde worlde dumbass.
“The man with the house is a lord?”
“An earl, actually.”
My stomach flips. I thought he said we’d have common interests! I glower his way but then realize I’m wasting my time. The man has no scruples. Besides, glowering all night isn’t going to get me my visa or help Nora.
“What do I call him? I’m not curtsying or kowtowing, no matter how badly you want this house.”
“He’d probably find that hilarious,” Oliver says, lifting his hand to acknowledge someone across the space. “I expect he’ll insist on Mandy.”
“Mandy. His name is Mandy?” My tone? You are shitting me.
“It’s short for Armand.” With a murmured thanks, he lifts two flutes of champagne from a passing tray, pressing one into my hand. “He’s very informal. I really do think you’ll like him.”
“That sounded like a backhanded compliment.”
“I thought we’d called a truce this evening.”
Something in his tone tugs at me, which is just ridiculous. I’m not feeling sorry for him! Oliver Deubel is no one’s idea of a Romeo.
“Fine. I’ll try better, but just for tonight.”
“Thank you,” he says, his fingers brushing my cheek.
“So, this earl. Lord Bellsand. You don’t like him?”
“I do, actually. It’s his sentimentality, his lack of business sense that has been the problem. Ah, there’s Fin.” I turn to where his friend holds court—the drop-dead gorgeous blond, glass in hand. Seeing us, he excuses himself from the fashionistas and philanthropists.
“Eve!” He greets me with kisses to both cheeks. “How are you, beautiful?”
“Knock that off,” Oliver grumbles.
“I’m good,” I reply, completely ignoring him as I touch Fin’s arm.
“I’m glad to see you’re still putting up with this devil.” He taps the rim of his glass to Oliver’s shoulder. Oliver’s expression is still . . . weird. Grumpy. Milk-curdlingly bleak.
“Oh, it’s a struggle,” I offer happily. I’m playing my part. I’m not sure what part Oliver is playing. “With Olly, every day is a struggle.”
My nickname seems to pull him back to us. In a blink, he turns all suave and sleek. He lifts my hand to his lips, his thumb sliding over the statement-piece ring like a subtle reminder.
“A struggle to keep your hands off me, more like.” His gaze sweeps over me, bold and possessive.
“That’s true. Sometimes I want to squeeze you so hard and never let go”—thanks to my heels, it’s easier to press my lips to his ear as I whisper—“of your windpipe especially.”