“Of course.” After a few false starts, I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. I’m still a little worried about Benedict. He looms at my side, stone-faced and brooding.
“You’ll do beautifully. And Lady Ursaline will vouch for you.”
“She’s here?” I ask, just as her voice booms in the foyer. “Good. I like her.”
“She approves of you.” Daniel opens the door a crack and peeks out. “All right, duckies. Into the fray.”
“Remember: underwear,” I whisper to Benedict as he escorts me out. His lips twitch. Win.
Me, I’ve decided to play Katherine Hepburn tonight. A shorter, curvier version.
Daniel tugs me aside for a debrief after a half hour, under the pretext of handing me some champagne. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good. Lady Ursaline’s helping.” I sip the bubbly drink as fast as I can. Hobnobbing makes me super thirsty.
“Excellent. I knew the old dragon would come through.”
“How come she gets to say whatever she wants, and I don’t?”
Daniel shrugs. “Benefit of being a peer. When you’re born into five generations of royalty, you can do what you want.”
“Doesn’t seem fair.”
“You’re doing fine.” He captures the champagne glass before I can guzzle the rest. “But I do have a bit of advice.”
I sigh. “Yes?”
“Tone down the accent.”
“Whenever I talk to people, I pretend I'm Katherine Hepburn,” I admit. “Too weird?”
“Yes. Please stop. And don't tell anyone that.” He pulls out his phone and checks it. “Your name is trending in the news.”
“Great.”
“It was bound to happen. It’s mostly positive or neutral. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Except,” he holds up a finger, “less Katherine, and more Audrey.”
For the rest of the night, I channel soft-spoken ingenue. It works marvelously.
I also ignore Benedict. Not obviously. But as soon as he joins a conversation, I find a reason to move on. I follow Lady Ursaline, and she’s only too happy to introduce me to everyone she knows. It doesn’t take long for Benedict to catch on. I sense his frustration when I give him the slip for the third time. He stalks me slowly, back and forth across the room. The hair on the back of my neck stands up in warning. I’m being hunted. When his presence is a ball of brooding tension, a duke-shaped nuclear reactor ready to explode, I excuse myself a final time and slip into a side room for a breather. A minute later, Benedict’s footsteps follow.
“Miss Beaumonde.”
“Why, hello, Your Grace. Fancy meeting you here.”
He strolls right up, parks himself close. “I’m imagining you naked. Why do you think that is?”
“You have an active imagination?”
“I’m sure that’s not it.” He teases a stray strand of my hair back from my face. I hold my breath as his finger traces my ear, down my neck, and starts to play with the strap on my shoulder.
My thoughts escape me, slippery as fish. “Perhaps,” I half gasp, “it’s the same reason I’ve been imagining you naked all night.”
His finger drifts along my collarbone. “You are entirely naughty.”
“Or imaginative.” I turn slowly and put my back to him, pretending to study the artwork on the wall.
“I should teach you a lesson,” he growls, coming up behind me. Despite myself, my heart jumps.
I press my behind into him. Mina’s right—he has a very impressive flagpole. “Don't make promises you don't intend to keep.”
He draws me close and escorts me to the next room, where he whirls me around.
“Careful, Benny dear,” I mimic Lady Ursaline’s accent. “You’ll rumple my dress.”
“Don’t call me that.” His hands close on my shoulders. “You’re ignoring me. I’d like to know why.”
“No reason.” I give him a saccharine smile. “Sugar plum.”
“No.”
“Sweetie pie.”
“I think not.”
“Tickly-poo. Babycakes.”
His dark eyes flash. “You’re dangerously close to crossing a line, Miss Beaumonde. Choose your next words wisely.”
I think a moment, then lean close, holding his eyes. “Pookie.” Our mouths are so close, I can feel his breath puff against my lips.
“That’s it,” He hauls me against him. I stifle my glee, but can’t help grinning like a fool. “You, me, tonight. You’re getting what you deserve.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that, Your Grace?” I lift my arms and cross them behind his neck.
“Ahem, lovebirds,” Daniel trills, wafting through the room. “Not too much alone time this soon. People will talk.”
Benedict draws back, but not before I run my nails up the back of his neck, ruffling his hair.
“Next time,” he promises darkly, and stalks after Daniel. The duke’s tie is askew, and a few tufts of hair are sticking up in the back. Not much, but it’s a start.
A half hour later, Lady Ursaline is introducing me to another boring diplomat when a prickle on the back of my neck tells me someone is looming behind me. I turn, and there’s Benedict.
He takes my hand. “Darling, I simply must steal you away.”
“Of course, honey bun. If y'all will excuse me,” I singsong to the guests who are now smiling behind their champagne at our ridiculous romance.
“You are incorrigible,” Benedict says, sweeping me into a waltz.
“Not true. I’m entirely corrigible. One hundred percent.” I sigh like a woman basking in the arms of her love.
“Daniel thinks you’re acting strangely.”
“I’m not acting strangely. I’m acting like Audrey Hepburn,” I tell him. “Earlier, I was channeling Katherine. And before that, at the press conference, I was Grace Kelly.”
“I see.”
“It’s all an act.” I keep my voice down. “And we’re both in on it. You make an excellent Cary Grant.”
“Thank you,” he says gravely. Exactly like Cary Grant would answer if you gave him a compliment.
The music changes and our steps slow.
After a while, I muse, mostly to myself, “Why would I be Frankie, when I could be someone more glamorous?”
“I don’t know,” he sounds equally thoughtful, “I’ve grown fond of the original Frankie. Although,” his voice deepens, “she is quite naughty.”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” I say in a very proper tone.
He waltzes me to a corner, where he presses me close with a firm hand on the small of my back. His lips find my ear. “I’m serious. You’re getting what you deserve. Tonight.”
“You never did tell me what exactly I deserve.”
“A lesson in manners.”
“Can’t. I’m teaching Elvis to rap. I’ll be up all night.” I arch backwards, exaggerating my posture as we turn together so each move ‘accidentally’ rubs my breasts against his chest.
Benedict’s eyes narrow as he studies me. “You’re a rare parrot teacher.”