He’s not doing it because he wants to show me respect though. He’s doing it because it’s been drummed into him, and I need to remember that.
“You look dashing this evening, Mr. Lawlor,” he says, offering me an easy smile.
As it happens, I do look dashing. I look dashing as fuck. I’m wearing a black tuxedo I bought for our Bad Bitches Getaway to Las Vegas a few years ago. I was overdressed for that event, but something tells me I’ll fit in just fine at this one.
“You look like a spy,” I reply without hesitation. It doesn’t appear to be a compliment he’s received before, or one he knows how to respond to, so I move swiftly on to the next order of business. “I think you’d better call me Jensen if we want this to work.”
“Yes, quite—and you should call me Alfie.”
“I will, my lord.” When I realize I’ve made a mild ass of myself by referring to him by his title mere seconds after being told not to, I double down and make acompleteass of myself instead. “Though, I’m afraid I don’t really think Alfie suits you.”
I can’t think of any reason for saying it, other than that it happens to have been what I thought the first time a bedraggled omega came visiting late at night and referred to him by the nickname.
His brows raise quizzically, and fuck me, the light is really hitting him in an attractive way tonight. “Oh no?”
“No, not at all.”
He makes a soft, low sound. A gentle rumble that sounds like an inside joke. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t think Jensen suits you either.”
Our car arrives before I have time to argue, and I find myself bundled into the back seat of an extremely luxurious German vehicle with Lord Augustus. It’s a short drive to the venue, a rambling country pile belonging to a wealthy widow who, according to the lord—I mean Alfie—has been afflicted by an irrepressible desire to do good.
To say the event is glitzy doesn’t quite cut it. There are floral arches leading up to the house, an entrance dripping in mirrored surfaces and crystals, staff who appear to have been trained by Buckingham Palace itself, not to mention a bevy of guests who have been polished and styled to within an inch of their lives.
Our names are announced as we enter the ballroom, and the joints in my knees succumb to a very slight knock as the insanity of what we’re doing hits me. I’m assaulted by visions of all the different ways I could humiliate myself in this setting, and more than that, I find myself wondering what earthly reason I could have for putting myself through this.
Fortunately, right then, I spot Lady Ceclia on the other side of the room, looking far from bedraggled. She looks nothing like she did the night I met her, and unfortunately, not having her hair pasted to her face by bad weather suits her rather well. So does not being in the active grip of limerence and obsession. The spectacularly beautiful gown she’s wearing isn’t hurting either.
Her eyes taper when she sees me, and she raises her chin and inhales haughtily, probably attempting to catch Lord Augustus’s scent.
It’s the perfect reminder of why I’m here. I’m here because I’m sick and goddamn tired of being overlooked. I’ve spent my entire life preparing for a night like this. A night when all eyes are on me. A night when I get the guy—real or fictitious.
Lord Augustus offers me his arm as we make our entrance, and I take it, lengthening my neck, looking down, and batting my lashes demurely as I let my free arm trail out to the side theway I used to when I was seven and my favorite make-believe game was calledPrince Of The World.
Lord Augustus whisks me around the room, introducing me to the host and a few others he deems important. His small talk is impeccable. Well-timed, to the point, and sprinkled with just enough self-deprecating humor to make him seem charming despite the fact that I know he’d rather be anywhere other than here. He’s mannered and includes me in the conversation with such ease that a couple of times, I find myself half-believing that I really am his date.
“Not your first time fake dating, my lord?” I tease as he neatly nips a conversation in the bud and spirits me away to mingle with another group.
“What a question.” The corners of his lips tug up. “Doubting my virtue, Mr. Lawlor? I’ll have you know I’m a fake-dating virgin.” He moves his head fractionally closer to mine and lowers his voice. “How about you? Any fake dating in your past?”
I shake my head curtly. “No, but like I said, I’m very well read.”
His head is still close to mine and he releases a soft rumble near my ear before speaking. “Read a lot of the type of books that follow a fake-dating trope, do you?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Not a lot. Just, just a…normal amount. I’ll have you know that most of what I read is extremely highfalutin.”
“Hmm, yes, the book you were reading in the library the other day looked incredibly highfalutin.”
A flush of heat rushes to my cheeks. “Well, yes, but no, but that was…research.”
“Research, you say?” He raises his brows and smiles when he says it.
It’s a slow smile that works magic, curving the glimpse of pink flesh that peeks out from his thick, dark facial hair, and gradually altering his entire face. Even his eyes are affected.Deep shadows flicker and lighten, making him look the way he does when he dances with Gregor early in the morning.
My presence on his arm is having the desired effect. Or at least, it’s havinganeffect. There are more pairs of eyes on us than I can count, all of them tracking Lord Augustus beadily, several of them landing on me with a clear question woven into them.
To the casual observer, the lord seems blissfully unaware of the attention, but he isn’t. He talks to me under his breath when we’re out of earshot of others, warning me when people are approaching and letting me know what to expect from the interaction.
“Disgruntled asshole father and the omega daughter he wanted me to marry approaching from the left,” he murmurs.
