**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?
***
Ophelia Prescott is a hopeless romantic, and she's determined to find her own Mr. Darcy during her s...
She sat on the pavement, breathing in and out. Candy-coloured red buses whizzed by, and she could hear the ding of bicycles. Her head was throbbing. She had the feeling that if she poked it with a wrought iron fence, liquid would spurt out.
A wave of nausea hit her.
Ophelia gripped her empty shopping bag, pinching the bridge of her nose. She couldn't remember the last time that she had a flu, but she must have picked something up on the flight from Canada. Stupid planes. Stupid germs.
And stupid her.
What had she been thinking, trying to go to Tesco?
She sighed, massaging her temples. Good lord. She had been willing to die for bananas and a box of chocolate digestives. That had to be a new low.
Get up, she told herself firmly. Walk back to your halls.
Slowly, her feet complied.
Ophelia stumbled back towards Astor College, narrowly avoiding a collision with an irritated florist. Her ears were ringing, and black spots danced in front of her vision. Oh, god, this was bad. This was really bad. What if she lost consciousness? What if she collapsed in the middle of the road?
There would be no dashing John Willoughby to help her.
More likely, Ophelia thought wryly, she would be run over by a car. Or trampled under the feet of impatient London commuters.
Brilliant.
Mercifully, Ophelia reached her bedroom, collapsing unceremoniously on the bed. The white ceiling swam above her, shifting like summer clouds.
She needed paracetamol.
Stat.
Ophelia picked up her phone, groaning as the white light blinded her. But who could she call? Digby was away on a boys' holiday in Ibiza, and Louise was stuck in classes all day. There was Millie, Ophelia supposed, but she had young children; it hardly seemed fair to call her and demand that she drive over with drugs.
She sighed, pausing as her eyes landed on a familiar name.
No. She couldn't do it.
Her head gave a painful throb, and Ophelia winced. Oh, screw it. Dignity? She'd never heard of her. She hit the dial button.
He picked up on the first ring. "Ophelia?"
"Hi."
"Are you alright?" he demanded. "You sound weird."
"I need a favour." She closed her eyes. "How fast can you get paracetamol to my room?"
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Andrew was panicking.
He sprinted through Astor College, shoving aside terrified first years. Several people turned to stare as he jabbed the lift button repeatedly, although Andrew suspected that this had less to do with his occasional appearances in a tabloid and more because he looked certifiably deranged. He gripped the package of paracetamol tightly.
