06 | vanity affair

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Andrew sighed, checking his new watch.

His jaw tightened. For god's sake; when he instructed Ophelia to flirt with Tristan, he had imagined that the whole ordeal would take ten minutes. A quarter of an hour, tops. But they were going on forty minutes now.

What the bloody hell was taking so long?

He glanced over at where Ophelia was chatting happily with Tristan. Her red hair fell in waves down her back, the same colour as November poppies. Whatever Ophelia was saying, she must have been doing a bang-up job, because Tristan kept staring at her mouth like a lion looking at a juicy piece of bacon.

And he wasn't alone.

Several other men had joined their table, studying Ophelia with abject fascination. It was enough to make Andrew's skin crawl.

Christ. Did they all have to be so obvious about it?

Someone whistled.

"Who's that?"

Andrew turned. Next to him, Henry Westford was staring unabashedly at Ophelia, a strawberry raised halfway to his mouth. Red juice dripped on to his suit, spattering the obnoxious black-and-yellow print.

He looked like a bumblebee, Andrew thought uncharitably. A bumblebee that had been shot several times in the chest.

"Ophelia," he grunted.

"Fucking hell, mate. She's gorgeous."

"She's alright."

Henry stared as if Andrew had just suggested that swans were just as manky as pigeons, once you looked at them properly.

"I don't suppose you'd introduce me?" he asked hopefully.

"No."

"No bother." Henry popped the strawberry into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "She's in Astor College, right?"

Andrew turned to look at him suspiciously. He and Digby had both moved out after their first year in halls, but Henry had remained at Astor for the last two years, claiming that the convenience of being a five-minute walk from tutorials was too good to give up.

Still.

He hadn't mentioned meeting Ophelia.

"How did you know that?"

"I've seen her around." Henry winked. "I never forget a pretty face."

Andrew ground his teeth. Christ. What was with these men fawning all over her? At this rate, he wouldn't have anything left to teach Ophelia. And that couldn't happen. Not if he wanted to win over Eleanora again.

He glanced at the girl in question.

She was leaning against one of the wooden fence posts, studiously ignoring him as she chatted with a friend. The afternoon light struck her hair just right, making it glow golden. But maybe she had planned it that way. Eleanora knew just how to stand, always.

He sighed, his eyes wandering to the playing field behind her.

He missed that, too. The rush of flying across the field, the sound of hoof-beats, the satisfying thunk of the wooden mallet. Andrew hadn't been on a horse since July, when his father's condition worsened. His mother already wasn't sleeping these days — if Andrew got into an accident, it would shatter her.

The irony of the situation didn't escape Andrew; the two things he desperately wanted were just meters away from him, and yet so far out of reach.

Henry cleared his throat. "They asked you to play today, yeah?"

"I'm not on the team."

"So?"

Andrew kicked at a muddy patch. "Leave it alone, Westie, alright?"

Henry sighed, but didn't push it. A moment later, Digby materialized beside them, muddy but triumphant. He was clutching an open bottle of champagne, already staggering slightly. His cheeks were flushed red.

"Victory!" he crowed.

Andrew smirked. "Have you been tumbling around in the mud, then?"

"You could say that."

"What's her name?"

Digby winked. "A gentleman never tells." He took a large swig of champagne, surveying the crowd. Then he made a choking noise. "Good god. Is that Ophelia?"

Andrew groaned inwardly.

Brilliant.

So they were back to this, again.

He followed Digby's gaze to where Ophelia was now standing at the bar, nodding as a man in salmon-coloured chinos waved his hands exuberantly. Andrew vaguely recognized him from one of his business tutorials. Some loud bloke from Brighton.

Hang on.

He dragged his gaze back to Digby, who was staring openly at Ophelia. This was good, Andrew reminded himself. This was what they wanted. Right?

Henry stole Digby's bottle, taking a swig. "She's fit, right?"

"Nice arse, too," Digby said appreciatively.

Andrew's hands clenched. He had the sudden urge to grab Digby by the collar and throw him into the bar, shattering all of the glass bottles. And possibly some of his bones. That would serve him right. That would—

He blinked.

Woah.

Where the bloody hell had that thought come from?

He tugged at his tie, suddenly discomfited. He was merely looking out for Ophelia, Andrew reasoned, glancing over at her. She was so young in some ways. She didn't know what men could be like. That was all.

She was like a younger sister.

Yes.

That was it.

Mercifully, Andrew was saved from further uncomfortable musings by the arrival of Ophelia herself. She had a yellow daisy tucked behind one ear, and he could smell vanilla, roses and champagne radiating from her flushed skin. He scowled.

"Took your time, didn't you?"

Ophelia blinked. "I— er—"

"Hello, angel." Henry smiled at her. "Awfully rude of Andrew to keep you all to himself." He swooped in, kissing both cheeks. "I'm Henry. Henry Westford."

"Ophelia."

"Nice to see you, Dickens," Digby added.

He snatched the straw hat from her, plopping it unceremoniously on top of his head. Ophelia giggled, and then immediately covered her mouth, as if she was embarrassed by it. Somehow, Andrew admitted grudgingly, that only made it sweeter.

"No book today?" Digby asked.

Ophelia shook her head.

"Did you see me play?"

"Well, I..." She cleared her throat. "That is to say, I..."

She cast a desperate look at Andrew. Andrew stared right back at her, torn between amusement and indignation. Dear god. She had spent the last hour chatting amiably with dozens of men, and this was how she was around Digby?

No wonder she needed help.

"She was rather busy," he said dryly.

"Oh." Digby's face fell. "Right. Well, we won."

"How nice," Ophelia said politely. "I'm sure you were great."

She didn't sound particularly enthused, though, and Andrew turned his snort into a hacking cough. Digby looked crestfallen. Absolutely bloody devastated, really. Which was good. There was nothing Digby loved more than a challenge.

Andrew smirked.

Didn't hurt that it was hilarious to watch, too.

"You should come to the next match," Digby said casually. "Watch me play." He placed the straw hat back on her head. "I know the bartender. Good mate of mine, actually. He can supply you with unlimited champagne."

Ophelia hesitated. "Maybe."

Andrew couldn't contain a chuckle this time. Oh, dear lord. He knew that Ophelia was only being coy because she was shy around Digby, but it was working perfectly. He couldn't have trained her better if he tried.

Henry — who had now drained the bottle of champagne — was complaining loudly about wanting a burger, and it wasn't long before he was tugging a reluctant Digby towards the food trucks. Ophelia immediately whirled to face him.

"Well?" she demanded. "How did I do?"

"Passable."

"Passable?" She whacked Andrew in the chest with her hat. "Do you know how many men I had to listen to drone on about hedge funds?"

"Did Tristan bring up his holiday home?"

"Which one?"

"Tuscany."

"The one with the vineyard?" She wrinkled her nose. "God, I had no idea it was possible to make wine sound so boring."

Andrew grinned. Part of him felt sorry for Digby that he didn't get to see this side of Ophelia — the brash, outspoken part — but another part of him was oddly relieved. It was a secret between them. At least, for now.

"Okay," Ophelia said. "Now it's your turn."

Andrew's smile dropped. "Pardon?"

"Go speak to Eleanora!"

"And say what?"

Ophelia pursed her lips, studying the leggy blonde leaning against the fence. Then her eyes lit up. "Go tie up her shoe."

"What?"

"See?" Ophelia tilted her head. "Her lace is undone."

Andrew, bewildered, followed her gaze to where Eleanora's tanned lace was indeed dragging in the muddy grass like some sort of bizarre snake. He frowned. Come to think of it, why did some wedges have laces? It hardly seemed necessary. And it looked bloody painful.

He shook his head. "Why the hell would I do that? She's twenty-two years old, for god's sake. She should know how to tie up her own shoe by now."

Ophelia gave him the sort of despairing look that an older dog might give to a puppy that had just peed all over the Italian carpet. "Yes, obviously she's capable of doing it herself. That's not the point."

"What is, then?"

"You're choosing to help her; that's what makes it romantic."

Did it? Andrew didn't think so. But then again, what did he know? He had once taken a girl named Daphne for a romantic horseback ride in the countryside, and she had shouted at him for paying the horse more attention than her.

Women were mad.

Completely barmy, really.

"Go." Ophelia gave him a little shove. "Now."

Andrew sighed, stalking across the lawn. He desperately wished that he had a glass of champagne in his hand — or rather, several in his stomach — but he had driven today. One was his limit.

"Eleanora," he called.

She turned around. She didn't look surprised to see him; merely irritated.

"You," she said coolly. "What do you want?"

Andrew braced himself. Then he dropped to one knee in the mud. Eleanora's eyes flew wide, and her manicured nails gripped the champagne glass.

"Andrew!" Eleanora hissed. "If you're about to pull out a ring — in this dirty field, of all places — then I swear to god, I will—"

"Relax."

Andrew went to work on her shoe, tying it up with deft fingers. Thank god for his years of hanging around in the stables; he was good with knots, now. He let his hands linger on her bare skin, and by the time he had risen to his feet, Eleanora was staring up at him with glazed eyes.

"I— thanks."

"No problem." Andrew kissed her cheek. "You look lovely, by the way."

He turned around, striding towards the table. He was halfway there when delicate footsteps sounded behind him.

"Wait!"

Bingo.

"I..." Eleanora faltered. "Well, I don't suppose you'd want to get coffee sometime this week, would you?"

Andrew smiled inwardly.

"Sure." He shrugged. "I can make time."

Andrew stared down at the watercolor in front of him.

Merlot red and chocolate swam off the page, blending with lighter shades of cinnamon, green apple and peach. His hands were covered in the stuff. They looked almost like an artwork themselves; one of Monet's pastoral landscapes.

He just couldn't understand it; he hadn't painted in years, and now this?

He was going mad. Clearly.

Andrew sighed, crumpling up the drawing. He could never get it quite right. Never capture it exactly how it appeared in his head. He pitched the offending paper into the bin, wishing fervently that they had a fire in the flat. That way, he could destroy all of the evidence.

Rose and cloying vanilla filled the room. Andrew crossed to the window, flinging it open. But the suffocating scent refused to disperse, and he began to wonder if it existed only in his mind, a swirling vortex of flowers, chaos and yearning for something that he couldn't quite understand.

A/N: Well, well, well — what could Andrew possibly be painting? ;)

In other news, I'm going through a bit of an English Regency/Victorian phase at the moment (I've literally binged "Bridgerton," "Sanditon" and "Belgravia" all within the last month — oops) so if the dialogue begins to sound like something Darcy would say, then that's probably why. But hey, at least Ophelia would approve!

What does everyone think of Henry so far? He's actually related to another character we met in previous books... any guesses who it might be?

Affectionately,

J.K.



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