Ophelia had never been this brazen before.

Never.

It was like the tequila had possessed her; she slid her hands up under his shirt, feeling along the ridges of hard muscle. Andrew shuddered. His hands gripped her hips, and he made a pained noise at the back of his throat.

Ophelia nipped at the sensitive skin just below his ear.

"Do you concede?" she murmured.

He looked up at her with black eyes. "Will you stop if I say yes?"

"Yes."

"Then no," he growled. "I don't concede."

Before Ophelia had a chance to fully process what was happening, Andrew flipped her over, pinning her to the ground. She gasped as his lips found her neck, kissing a light trail down to her collarbone. Teasing her.

His mouth found her ear. "Do you concede?"

"No," she panted.

"I'll have to try harder, then."

Andrew redoubled his efforts. She tilted her head back, her eyes fluttering closed. Spicy cologne and sharp tequila clung to his clothes, and the combination was intoxicating. She was drowning in it. Dissolving.

They had played cards earlier, she thought dizzily, but they were playing a more dangerous game, now. One with higher stakes.

And Ophelia was determined to win.

She shoved at his chest, hard. Andrew fell backwards, his mouth popping open in surprise. Ophelia straddled him, pressing their bodies flush together. She kissed him slowly — almost languidly — letting her tongue sweep his mouth. Then she bit his bottom lip.

Andrew made a choking noise.

"Where the hell did you learn to do that?"

Ophelia smirked. "Conceding?"

"No."

Andrew wrapped his arms around her waist, climbing to his feet. Ophelia saw something fall to the ground — her shirt? — and then her back collided with the wall. Andrew looked at her with hooded eyes. He was being gentle with her, though, she realized. Careful. His hands shook slightly, as if he was restraining himself from touching her.

His lips found her neck. "Admit it."

"What?"

"I'm a better kisser."

"No."

"Go on." He nipped at the skin. "Say it."

She groaned, her head falling back. She had to remind herself that they were play-acting, that none of  this was real, that falling for this version of Andrew was as bad as  falling for the fictional Mr. Darcy.

But god, it was difficult.

Particularly with the way he was kissing her neck.

She buried her hands in his hair, reveling in the feeling of the silky strands. Andrew made a noise, pushing her harder against the wall. Unfortunately, this had the side effect of knocking her off balance, and Ophelia instinctively flailed, throwing a hand out.

Glass shattered.

She froze. Andrew stilled, too, his forehead buried against her chest.

"Are you alright?"

She nodded. "The lamp," she said breathlessly. "I think I hit it."

Ophelia untangled her hands from his hair. She could feel her heartbeat rocketing — or maybe it was his — and both of their breaths came in harsh gasps. Slowly, Andrew let her slide down the length of his body, setting her back on the ground.

"Right." He cleared his throat. "The lamp."

They both stared down at the broken glass on the floor. Andrew crouched down, carefully picking up some of the larger shards.

A wave of exhaustion hit Ophelia. She could already feel the adrenaline seeping from her bones, leaving profound regret in its wake, and she sunk on to the bed. Oh, god. She didn't want to deal with this now. Not yet.

Andrew's expression was unreadable. "Ophelia?"

"Let's clean it up in the morning."

He paused, a piece of glass in his hand. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Andrew dumped some of the glass into the bin, wiping his hands clean on his chinos. She shrugged on her thin pajama top, and she couldn't help but notice that he turned away. As if the sight embarrassed him.

She rolled over, facing the wall. "Good night, Andrew."

"Sweet dreams, Ophelia."

Ophelia awoke with a splitting headache.

Early morning light filtered into the room, and Ophelia groaned,  rolling over to bury her face in the pillow. Oh, god. What had she done?  The previous night came back in flashes. Cards. Tequila shots. And then  Andrew, sleeping on her floor—

She bolted up.

Oh, god. Andrew.

He was sitting in a chair, his legs propped up casually on her desk.  Ophelia watched, transfixed, as he turned over another page in the  newspaper. He was holding a fresh cup of coffee in one hand, although  his blond hair was still rumpled from sleep.

And what they had done last night.

Her cheeks flushed, and she yanked the sheets up to her chest. Oh, god. What the hell had she been thinking?

"Morning," Andrew said cheerfully.

She nodded to the coffee. "Where did you get that?"

"The kitchen." He pointed to a cup on her bedside table. "That one's for you."

"Oh. Right. Thanks." She massaged her temples. "What time is it?"

"About one."

"In the afternoon?"

"Well," Andrew said dryly, "it certainly isn't one in the morning."

Right. Fine. That made sense. Ophelia twisted around slowly,  examining the room with mounting trepidation. Broken lamp. Rumpled  sheets. Bruises on her neck. Yup, it had definitely happened; it wasn't  just a fever dream.

Well.

Crumbs.

She cleared her throat. "About last night—"

"What about it?"

Andrew's eyes were still scanning the newspaper. Ophelia swallowed, wishing desperately for pain meds. And water. And also a time turner that went back 24 hours.

"Shouldn't we talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about," Andrew said breezily. "We were pissed. You were half-naked in bed. And I'm a man with working vision." He turned the newspaper. "You still want to be with Digby, don't you?"

Ophelia nodded.

"Good. And I still want to marry Eleanora. So—"

"You what?"

Ophelia's voice shot up to a level that only canines could understand. Andrew frowned, setting down his newspaper. "Good god," he said mildly. "I didn't even know human beings could make that sort of noise."

"You're going to ask Eleanora to marry you?"

"I should have thought that was obvious."

"Um, no." Ophelia twisted her hands in the sheets. "It's not, actually."

Dear god. They weren't even in their mid-twenties yet. Besides, didn't couples move in together first? And get a dog? And argue over whose turn it was to do the washing, and whether to buy whole milk or skim milk?

She stared at him. "But why?"

Andrew's phone buzzed. He dove for it immediately, his eyes scanning the text. His mouth flattened into a grim line.

"Ah, hell."

"What?" Ophelia sat up straighter. "What is it?"

"We've made the tabloids, apparently."

"What?"

"See for yourself."

He tossed her his phone. Ophelia caught it automatically, scanning the article. The picture had obviously been taken at the polo match; she was pushing back a strand of red hair, beaming up  at Andrew, who had a hand placed on the small of her back. He was  looking down at her fondly. Almost exasperatedly.

Why was that, again?

Ah, yes. Ophelia had been about to trip over a picnic basket, and Andrew had watched and laughed at her. The asshole.

Still, Ophelia could see how someone might get the wrong idea. And  indeed, the snappy headline above them read, "Lord Andrew Continues to Play — Off  the Field This Time!"

Her eyes snapped up. "You're a lord?"

"Did I forget to mention that?"

Yes. He had, actually. She supposed it made sense, now that she was thinking about it; hadn't Andrew asked her if she was a journalist that first night?

"Oh, my god," Ophelia moaned. "I can't believe this." She threw the phone back at him. "This is a complete disaster."

"Really? I think my hair looks rather good in it, actually."

"This isn't funny, Andrew!"

"No," Andrew sighed. "You're right; I suppose it's not." He stared  down at the phone, his brow creasing into a v. "And there's one more  thing."

"What?"

"My parents want to meet you," he said. "Now. This weekend."

A/N: Happy Wednesday!

Well, as most of you predicted, Andrew and Ophelia aren't going to run out and buy a house and a golden retriever just yet... there's much more to go! As always, thank you for your lovely comments on the previous chapter — it really does make my day.

Why do you think Andrew's so set on marrying Eleanora? Any guesses?

Affectionately,

J.K.