From London With Love

03 | bride and prejudice

Andrew was having a bad night.

He should have known as soon as his watch — a rather expensive model — snapped off his wrist and tumbled into a South Kensington sewer. But Andrew had soldiered on anyways, patiently putting up with Henry's incessant munching on chips and Digby flirting with everything wearing a skirt.

But then Eleanora had come to the pub.

Andrew hadn't expected a row, honestly; he really had thought the flowers would fix things. But Eleanora had been gagging for a screaming match, and now, the most humiliating moment of his life had just been witnessed by a stranger in an alleyway.

Bloody brilliant.

"Again," he growled, "who the bloody hell are you?"

The girl merely stared at him. Andrew was beginning to suspect that she might actually be mute. Or just really, really thick.

"Don't make me ask a third time."

More silence.

"For god's sake," he snapped. "Are you gone in the head?"

She frowned. "Do you always shout at strangers?"

He paused. An American accent — interesting. Hopefully she was just a tourist, drinking in some of the English pubs on her way to Amsterdam or Barcelona. That way, Andrew would never have to see her again.

But then again, she probably wasn't.

"Who sent you?" Andrew demanded.

"Sent me?"

"Which newspaper sent you?"

Comprehension dawned on her face. "You think I'm a journalist?"

"Well, aren't you?"

She had the audacity to snort. Actually snort at him. "No offense," she said wryly, "but I have no idea who you are, so you can't be that important."

Andrew blinked, taken aback. Well, damn. He couldn't remember ever being spoken to like that before. He didn't know what to do.

The girl stepped into the pale yellow light, and Andrew's breath caught. Her skin was almost unnaturally fair, and there was a heart-shaped mole on her cheek. But it was her auburn hair that caught his eye; it was pulled up into a nest of curls, glowing like the embers in a fire. Like Titian had painted it himself.

She also looked very, very familiar.

He frowned.

He had definitely seen her before, although Andrew couldn't quite put his finger on where. It did nothing to calm his nerves.

"Wait." He clicked his fingers. "You're a singer, aren't you?"

"Er, no."

"A model?"

She looked horrified. "Definitely not."

"What's your name?"

At least then, Andrew would know who to sue if the pictures of his and Eleanora's little row became public.

"Ophelia," she said reluctantly. "Ophelia Prescott."

Andrew frowned. Nope. Didn't ring any bells. Then again, she could be lying to him; it wouldn't be the first time that had happened.

"Well, Ophelia Prescott," Andrew said, "I'm going to ask you to forget what you just witnessed." He stared down at the smeared cigarette. "Particularly the end bit."

"Which bit? The arsehole comment?"

Andrew scowled. "I'm not a complete bellend, you know; I'm a good boyfriend to Eleanora, for the most part. I compliment her, and buy her expensive gifts, and I took her to Paris for her birthday last year."