Meeting him in person, I can now add the following points to my list:
Has gentle brown eyes, around which crinkles form when he smiles as he’s doing right now
Has tousled dark hair that looks like it doesn’t often get brushed
Has much more stubble than in the pictures online
“Hi, I’m Emily,” I lie, shaking his hand and trying to be cool and collected, like I’m not a crazy person who rants about toilet disasters all the time. “Nice to meet you… uh… Lord Dashwell.”
“Tom, please,” he corrects. “Nice to meet you too, Emily.”
Lady Meade had emailed me following our first meeting with a time and date to come to their house to meet her daughter, and had also asked if I could let her know what name I’d be going under for the operation. She highlighted again the importance of the secrecy element in my employment and mentioned she wouldn’t even be telling her husband, who, she assured me, would be horrified at the idea. The only people in on it would be Leslie Thompson, Lady Meade, Lady Cordelia, and me.
Together, we’d decided my name would be Emily Taylor. Ifwe went with anything unusual, people would be more surprised that they hadn’t heard of me. Surely, at some point, Cordelia had met an Emily and potentially talked about her—guests, therefore, might think “Emily” rings a bell.
As discussed with Lady Meade, my story goes like this: I met Cordelia just a few years ago at an art gallery, when we were both admiring the same painting. We then stayed in touch, becoming close friends. My parents have retired to Australia, I don’t have any siblings, and, after a variety of temporary jobs working out what I wanted to do, I’m now an in-house corporate-events planner. I’m not much of a going-out person.
Simple, believable, and, most important, not that interesting. People ask fewer questions about you when everything you give up willingly is boring.
“So, Emily, you’re here for wedding chat, then?” Tom asks, his dark brown eyes watching me intently.
“Yes. It’s very exciting!”
“Don’t let my sister boss you around,” he says, with a knowing smile. “And remind her that a wedding is supposed to befun.For some reason she’s in a very bad mood this morning, despite the lovely family dinner we had last night. So I’m going in to the office, even though I was thinking of working from home today and hanging around here.”
“You’ve been told to make yourself scarce, have you?” I chuckle.
“I believe her exact words were ‘Fuck off.’”
“Oh! Right.”
“I hope she didn’t force you to take the day off work just to come here to chat about her wedding,” he says. “Not that I’d put it past her.”
“I’m working from home today. As long as I log on, it’s fine.”
“Well, I won’t get in your way. I’m sure she’s looking forward to seeing you.” He steps aside, letting me come up the steps tothe door. “I’ll see you at the engagement party. If Jonathan still wants to go ahead with the wedding that is, poor guy.”
He shoots me a grin, then heads off down the road, shoving his hands into his pockets as he goes. I watch him for a moment. He’s not what I expected at all. He seems so easygoing and warm, the opposite of his intimidating, restrained mother. Even the photos of him that I’ve seen in magazines and online seem completely at odds with the guy I’ve just met—he’s usually pictured at posh events, in smart suits, wearing a serious expression. But just then, he was so smiley and relaxed, in jeans and a loose shirt.
I guess just being the son of a marquess doesn’t mean he goes around wearing a three-piece suit and a monocle all the time.
“Emily?”
Spinning round, I see Lady Meade waiting in the doorway.
“Lady Meade, hi!” I say hurriedly, praying she doesn’t think I was perving on her son, considering I was staring at his back as he walked away.
“Come in,” she says, holding the door open. “Now that Tom’s gone, it’s just Cordelia and me in the house, but I thought I should get used to calling you Emily.”
“It’s a good idea,” I reply, my eyes widening as I take in the beautiful hallway of her house.
I’d dressed up for the occasion, wearing the smartest black dress I own and taking way too much time to do my makeup, but I still feel too scruffy to be in a place like this. The polished wooden floor is impossibly shiny, glinting in the light from the strikingly large crystal chandelier hanging above our heads from the high ceiling. Heavy gold-framed portraits of important-looking people from the past, in wigs and ball gowns, line the wall of the red-carpeted staircase straight ahead, and on the antique table by the door there are a vase of white roses, an elaborate gold table lamp, and a black leather guest book. It feels like I’ve walked onto a London set forDownton Abbey.
“Cordelia is in the kitchen,” Lady Meade says, her voice a little strained. “Please do come through.”
I follow her along the hall, the clacking sound of her heels echoing through the silence of the house, and enter into a huge, shiny kitchen with French windows opening onto a tasteful, landscaped garden. Sitting at the island in the middle, Lady Cordelia is flicking through a magazine. She looks up as I come in, and our eyes meet.
If looks could kill, I’d have died on the spot.
