From London With Love

12 | a pitcher of Dorian grey goose

Ophelia twisted in front of the mirror.

She smoothed down her green velvet skirt self-consciously. It was a fairly standard dress — spaghetti straps, a v-neckline, nipping in at the waist — but she still felt exposed. Particularly with her red hair gathered up in a knot.

Still.

Andrew had once stressed the importance of making an entrance to catch Digby's eye, so here she was. Making one.

Ophelia glanced at the clock. She had initially planned to wait fifteen minutes, but her anxiety levels were already spiking after five. She blew out a breath. Oh, screw it; she'd just go to dinner now, then.

She scurried down the stairs.

The dining room was already abuzz with laughter and glasses clinking. She could hear Andrew's booming voice drifting over the crowd, and she smiled. He was always telling a story, wasn't he? Always commandeering the space.

She threw open the door.

Seven heads snapped towards her. Millie wolf-whistled, and Ophelia flushed. Her eyes went to Digby first; he was openly staring at her, and she felt her whole body grow warm as his eyes ran from her toes to her face, lingering on her mouth.

"Dickens," he said hoarsely. "You look..." He shook his head. "Wow."

"Thanks."

"Andrew," Eleanora hissed. "Andrew, sit down."

Ophelia's eyes snapped to him next, and she froze.

Andrew had half-risen from his chair, his dark eyes fixed on Ophelia. There was a haunted look to them. An almost wildness. She had the sudden, terrifying sensation that they were the only two people in the dining room, attached by an invisible golden thread, and her heartbeat picked up.

"Andrew!" Eleanora tugged at his sleeve. "What on earth are you doing?"

He blinked, dazed. "I..."

"Sit down!"

He sat.

"Ophelia." Digby patted the empty chair next to him. "Come join us."

She did so, avoiding looking at Andrew. She could still feel his sharp gaze on her, and it made her skin feel hot and prickly. Digby poured her a glass of champagne, prattling on about the grouse shoot, but she couldn't pay attention.

Not with Andrew looking at her like that.

Dinner passed in a blur of honey-soaked pork chops, wilted greens and winter parsnips, butter-soaked peas, and fresh bread from the market. To Ophelia's irritation, Eleanora insisted on treating Andrew like a five-year-old child, spooning the food on to his plate.

"Here you go, darling," Eleanora murmured. "I expect you must be exhausted from the shoot." She reached for the peas. "And it really is—"

"Oh," Ophelia cut in. "But Andrew hates peas."

She would have thought this was obvious, particularly given how Andrew was staring at the green vegetables as if they had personally murdered his family. Eleanora froze, the silver spoon hovering over his plate.

"No, he doesn't."

She frowned. "Yes."

"No." Eleanora rounded on Andrew. "You like peas, don't you, darling?"

"I..." Andrew fiddled with his tie. "Like is an awfully strong word."

Eleanora's mouth was a thin white line. Ophelia couldn't help but feel a rush of triumph as she smirked at the other girl. She knew it was ridiculous to be arguing over peas, obviously, but still. Take that, sweetheart.