Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
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 watch any 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.
Not to mention overly personal, which could be considered a double violation of both rules two and three.
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 precious energy 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 many modest Nan 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 he has brought 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.”