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)
I feel like his love, before Agnes pipes up with a laugh, “Well, at least it looks like all the gagging was for a good cause.”
Oliver and I glance over to see Lady Thornfield-Rowe holding up her fork, a slightly cakey ring dangling from the tines. My cheeks start to burn again as I realize that must be what I horked across the table.
Her brown eyes dance as she adds, “Looks like we might be hearing wedding bells again sooner than later, Vivian.”
“Oh, the ring!” The matronly woman in the brown dress, whose name I think is Lady Maybeth, breathes, “Oh, my goodness, you found the wedding ring! Good show, Emily!”
“Thank you?” I say, my voice still a little wheezy as I glance Oliver’s way.
“It’s a holiday tradition,” he explains, looking slightly embarrassed. “Christmas puddings sometimes have treasures baked inside. Coins for wealth, silver wishbones for luck, rings for—”
“Marriage within the year,” Agnes finishes triumphantly. “Looks like you might not be escaping London so easily, Ms. Darling. So, let’s hope the press goes a little easier on you from here on out.”
“Whatever do you mean, Agnes?” Vivian asks, sounding so genuinely confused, it’s clear that she hasn’t seen the pictures.
But judging from the range of expressions at the table—horrified, amused, knowing, second-hand-embarrassed, and even more amused—she’s the only one who hasn’t.
Soon, they’re all staring at us, waiting to see how we’re going to explain ourselves to Olly’s mother, and my cheeks feel like they’ve been set on fire.
Thankfully, Oliver recovers more quickly than I do, offering in a placating tone, “We’ll discuss that later, Mother. I should get Emily outside. She still looks pale. I think a walk in the winter air would do her good.”
I nod quickly. “Yes, thank you, Olly. It would. It really would.”
“Most welcome, but no need to thank me, darling. Your health is my top priority, today and every day,” Oliver says, helping me to my feet. His arm stays firmly around my waist as he addresses the table. “If you’ll excuse us?”
“Of course, dear.” Vivian still looks concerned, but willing to let the moment pass. For now. “But please call me later. I want to know you’re both all right.”
“Of course, Mother,” Oliver says.
“And don’t forget this,” Agnes pipes up as we turn to go.
She holds out the silver ring, now sitting in the center of a crisp dessert napkin. “A souvenir of your holiday,” she says with a smirk.
“Thank you,” I say, collecting the napkin with shaking fingers.
Oliver shoves it into his pant pocket, and we finally make our escape, hustling through the room with a smattering of applause rising in our wake.
Looks like just about everyone saw Oliver’s heroic efforts to help me cough up my pudding.
“Quick thinking, lad,” a male voice calls out. “Good work.”
“And so romantic,” a quivery female voice adds.
“Yes,” another agrees, “such a lucky girl!”
I remind myself that I am lucky and grateful to be alive, even though I’m currently so mortified that I have to make a concerted effort not to sprint for the door.
But by the time we visit the coat check, retrieve our things, and make our way onto the street, my cheeks are nearly back to their normal temperature. The cold December air helps, and I gulp it gratefully as Oliver and I head down the stairs.
“Well, that was terrifying,” I say, clinging to the stone railing. “But honestly? Not as bad as I expected.”
“Agreed.” Oliver keeps a steadying hand parked at the small of my back that I appreciate. “I mean, you almost died, but you didn’t. I’d call that a win any day.”
“Agreed.” I laugh. “And the speeches were great.”
“Nearly as good as the Christmas pudding,” he quips, making me giggle again.
At the base of the stairs, I turn to face him, chest filling with a mixture of happiness, relief, and a tightness I can’t fully explain. All I know for sure is that I’m glad Oliver was there when I was in trouble, and I’m just as glad that he’s here now, when I’m not.
“What?” He reaches up, brushing a wayward lock of hair from my forehead. “What’s going through that busy head of yours, Red? A list of all the reasons British holiday traditions are hazardous to your health?”
Before I can confess that I like British holiday traditions nearly as much as I’m starting to like him, my phone buzzes.
Then buzzes again.
And again.
“Uh oh,” I mutter, stomach dropping as I pull it from my purse. “Maya never texts more than once unless it’s something really…”
The words shrivel and die in my mouth as I scan the list of notifications.
These aren’t texts from Maya. They’re Google alerts from various socials. News feeds. And a British tabloid site promising a “scandalous new scoop.”
Looks like a fresh batch of mortifying photos just hit the internet…