03 | bride and prejudice

Background color
Font
Font size
Line height

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."

He had no idea why he felt the need to justify himself to Ophelia, but he did. Not that it made any difference. She continued to frown at him.

"Wow," she said. "Romantic."

"It is," Andrew said, pausing. "Was. Whatever." He dug his hands into his pockets. "Apparently, I'm not attentive enough."

"I'm sure that the cheating helped, too."

Ophelia's face was deadpan. Andrew couldn't help it; his lips twitched. Good lord, had she actually just said that to him?

"Why are you with her, anyway?"

His smile disappeared. What was this, a tell-all interview? Anyways, Andrew had to be with Eleanora. He had to marry her by the end of this year, more to the point, and he wasn't about to explain why to a complete stranger.

"You can go back inside, now." He jerked his head towards the pub. "You don't need to skulk in the shadows anymore."

"I wasn't skulking."

"Fine. You were eavesdropping."

She scowled. "You're the one that came gallivanting into my alleyway."

"Your alleyway?"

"Well, I found it first." She cast a wary glance towards the door. "Anyways, I can't go back in there. At least, not yet."

Andrew paused. She was curling a strand of red hair around a finger, and the act of it was oddly mesmerizing. A sort of drugging hypnosis.

"Why not?"

She looked at him. "Because I just love dingy alleyways."

Clearly, Ophelia's main form of communication was sarcasm.

"Fine," Andrew said. "We'll go in together, then." He grabbed her arm, dragging her towards the door. "I know plenty of good dingy alleyways in London, so we can stop briefly in the pub and then we can—"

"Stop!"

Ophelia let out a little shriek. Andrew ignored her, continuing to pull her towards the door. She twisted in his grip. Sharp pain radiated through his hand, and he yelped, dropping her immediately.

"Did you just bite me?"

She wiped at her mouth, looking grimly satisfied. "You're lucky I didn't do a lot worse."

"Christ." Andrew hugged his hand to his chest. "Has anyone ever told you that you have freakishly strong teeth?"

"I drink a lot of milk."

Andrew blinked. This was such a weird conversation; he really had no idea where it was going next. Ophelia sighed, leaning against the wall.

"There's a man," she confessed. "That's why I can't go back in there."

"A man?"

"He's flirting with my friend. But I met him at the library earlier, and he was reading Kant, and not many men read German philosophical treatises, so naturally when I saw that Digby was reading one—"

"Digby?" Andrew asked incredulously. "The bloke with the glasses?"

"Do you know him?"

Christ. Did he ever.

Andrew had known Digby Fitzwilliams since they were toddlers, running around his parents' lawn in nappies. Not that he remembered said incident. But there were plenty of embarrassing photos of them together over the years: gleefully riding bikes around Andrew's childhood ballroom, catching frogs in a pond, nicking a CCF kit and abseiling out one of the windows at Eton so they could go drinking in the local town...

Yes, he knew Digby quite well.

Which was why he was surprised that Ophelia would want to date him.

He surveyed her carefully. She didn't strike him as Digby's usual type, particularly if she was the type of girl that read Kant. He knew for a fact that Digby only took his copy of "The Critique of Reason" to the library to impress women.

Which was working, clearly.

"You don't want to date Digby," he told her.

"Why not?"

"Just trust me."

"No offense," Ophelia huffed, "but I don't." She crossed her arms over her chest. "And from what I've observed, Digby is the perfect gentleman."

Andrew snorted. He would describe Digby as many things, but "the perfect gentleman" certainly wasn't among them.

"He's not into girls like you," he said.

Ophelia's eyes narrowed. "Girls like me?"

"Sure." Andrew shrugged. "Quiet. Unassuming. Secretly harboring romantic notions." Her dark eyes flickered dangerously, but it only spurred him on. Like throwing kerosene on a fire. "How did I do?"

It was the wrong thing to say.

"What about you, then?" Ophelia's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Oh, wait, let me guess; you're just some posh English twat with a trust fund that plays polo on the weekend and owns a holiday house in Capri."

Andrew winced. Partially because it was true, and partially because the phrase "posh English twat" just didn't sound right in a North American accent.

"Rodeo," he said.

She blinked. "What?"

"I don't play polo," Andrew told her. "At least, not anymore; I compete in rodeo events." He leaned against the wall. "Bareback riding, to be exact."

He had the brief satisfaction of seeing surprise flicker across her face. She recovered quickly, though.

"Whatever." Ophelia spun on her heel. "Enjoy my alleyway."

"Is that an innuendo?"

Ophelia shot him a rude gesture over her shoulder. Andrew smirked. For being a romantic, she sure didn't have the fragile disposition of Victorian heroines; at least, not after she opened her mouth.

She certainly would have been helpful in winning over Eleanora, though. Eleanora was always watching "Pride and Prejudice" and banging on about how Andrew never helped her into a carriage, which was stupid considering that the last carriage died out in—

Andrew froze. Hang on. That wasn't a bad idea.

"Wait!" he called.

To his surprise, she actually did. Albeit reluctantly.

"Yes?"

"What if we helped one another?"

Her dark eyes narrowed. "I'm not sleeping with you."

"No, not that." Andrew couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice. "What if I helped you get Digby? Taught you how to win him over?"

"And why would you do that?"

"Because," he said, "you could help me get Eleanora back."

Her mouth popped open. It was just a small movement, but Andrew's eyes darted to her plump bottom lip. A jolt of electricity went through him. Okay, so he found her attractive; but he was a red-blooded man, wasn't he? He had eyes.

"No," she said.

His heart plummeted. "No?"

"No." She shrugged. "I'm not interested."

"But I—"

Andrew's phone trilled. He cursed softly, fumbling in his pocket. An image of his Mum — blonde, grinning in her gardening gear — flashed up on his screen. Well, shit. He'd have to take this, then. He was terrified to miss any of his parents' calls these days, with everything going on.

He glanced up, frustrated.

"Look, just think about it, alright? I'll be at Lady Windermere's tomorrow morning. It's a café in Chelsea. Excellent tea."

"I won't be there."

"Well, just in case."

Andrew punched the button to accept the call. Ophelia didn't glance back as she pushed through the door, flickering like a red shadow.

A/N: Surprise! It's a chapter from Andrew's perspective ;)

The poor dude isn't exactly off to the best start with Ophelia, but at least he answers calls from his mother, right?

Can't wait to hear your thoughts!

Affectionately,

J.K.


You are reading the story above: TeenFic.Net