**This book is FREE with a paid bonus short story!**
She's always wanted to date a gentleman - so why does she find herself falling for a rogue?
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Ophelia Prescott is a hopeless romantic, and she's determined to find her own Mr. Darcy during her s...
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Louise hadn't meant to set the drapes on fire.
Admittedly, Louise probably shouldn't have lit a cigarette so close to curtains that she had — just recently — spilled tequila all over. And she certainly shouldn't have dropped the lighter on them in a moment of drunken stupor.
Most crucially of all, Louise really shouldn't have done all of this at her older sister Millie's wedding.
But alas.
Here she was.
She swore colorfully, stamping on the delicate fabric with her heel. Stupid, flammable curtains. What bloody idiot put Italian lace in a barn? They were at a country estate in Devon, for god's sake. Not a castle in Monaco.
"What the hell is going on here?"
Louise spun around and then groaned inwardly. Fabulous. Just what she needed.
Ben sodding Langford.
He was frozen in the doorway, looking offensively handsome in a black suit. His dark, curly hair had pink confetti in it, and he was clutching a glass of fizzy water in one hand. Louise shifted to conceal the curtain.
"Nothing."
"Louise," he said slowly. "Is that curtain on fire?"
"No."
"Then why do I smell smoke?"
Louise could feel a tongue of flame licking at her left calf. She darted in front of it, praying that her dress wasn't particularly incendiary.
"Aren't you meant to be giving a speech?" she prompted. "Like, right now?"
As brother to the groom, Ben was scheduled to give a toast to the happily married couple, which Louise intended to entirely ignore in favour of the champagne bar. And possibly a cute waiter. Maybe both at once, actually.
"I am," Ben said slowly.
"Go on, then."
"Well, I was going to." Ben crossed his arms. "And then I came across a raving pyromaniac in the corridor."
She scowled. "I told you, I didn't—"
Louise cut off with a howl. Pain exploded along her left calf, and she dove out of the way, clutching her foot. She was painfully aware of what she must look like: messy brown curls falling out of their updo, her burgundy dress singed, and heat spreading fast as a lie across her cheeks. Her short stature wasn't helping, either.
She must look like an elf.
Like a tiny, maniacal elf, hopping up and down on one foot.
Ben stared at her. "Holy shit," he breathed. "You actually did set the curtains on fire."
