Andrew had never liked dodgems.

Even as a child, Andrew never understood why anyone would want to climb into a motorized vehicle and voluntarily slam themselves at the wall. Or other people. Or the ticket attendant booth, if you were feeling particularly naughty.

But looking at Ophelia now, he understood.

She was laughing, her red hair flying about her face as she careened violently around the ring. Arena? Whatever. Andrew didn't care. All he cared about was the expression of pure joy on Ophelia's face right now.

God, she looked happy.

And beautiful.

He had noticed Ophelia as soon as she walked in, wearing that golden gown. He had never particularly liked the colour yellow — it was a pale, meek sort of thing — and he avoided painting with it wherever possible. But now, he wanted to paint sunrises over Italian vineyards. He wanted to paint sunflowers in July, and goldfinches pecking at a frozen pond in December.

Next to him, Eleanora pulled out a cigarette. Andrew watched as it flared, kissing the darkness with red, smouldering lips. Irritation prickled at him. For fuck's sake; his father was dying of lung cancer. She could at least wait until after the ball.

"Cigarette?" she asked.

Andrew gave her a long look.

"What?" Eleanora pocketed the package defensively. "I only smoke socially." She blew out a stream of smoke. "Anyway, I'm quitting in the summer."

"I thought you quit in January"

She frowned. "It isn't easy to quit smoking, Andrew; I wish you'd be more supportive."

Andrew sighed. This was Eleanora's latest line: be more supportive.

During their trip to Paris last month, Eleanora wished he had been more supportive by shopping along the Champs-Élysées with her for six hours. Or posting an Instagram photo of their love lock on the Pont des Arts. Or skipping pistachio macarons ("Do you know how fattening those are?" Eleanora said, pursing her lips. "You'll regret those in the morning, darling.").

Andrew hadn't even wanted to go to Paris. He hated that he couldn't understand any of the French street signs, and that all of the cafés in the city randomly closed at midday for a few hours. How the hell was one meant to find lunch?

But Eleanora had insisted.

"Paris is romantic," Eleanora told him. "I know we've had issues lately, Andrew, but come on." She kissed his cheek. "Don't you want to fall in love again?"

So Andrew went along with it. He had toted bags up and down the Champs-Élysées, and he had eaten leafy "salade Niçoise" instead of macarons. Hell, Andrew hadn't even complained when Eleanora announced that she had already been to the Louvre a million times before and had no desire to stare at paintings done by "dead white men."

Which, you know, hurt Andrew's heart a little.

Monet was rolling in his grave.

But none of it had worked — Andrew still wasn't in love with Eleanora.

Andrew could remember the moment he realized it. He had woken up early on the last day of their holiday, squinting in the pearl grey dawn. Eleanora was out on the balcony, barefoot, smoking a cigarette. She leaned against the wrought-iron railing and then shivered, wrapping her thin pink robe tighter around her white slip. The noises of Paris — cars shuddering over cobblestones, a policeman's whistle — rose above the street, getting tangled up in her blonde hair.

I could slip out of bed, Andrew thought sleepily. I could go out on the balcony and wrap my arms around her waist. We could watch the sun rise together.

But he didn't.

He didn't want to.

It had been as simple as that; Andrew wasn't in love with her.

He could grow to love her, though, Andrew reasoned. Couples got off to rocky starts; hell, the artist Diego Rivera met Frida Kahlo when he was twice her age and married, and they still managed to make it work. How difficult could it be?

Eleanora just fit in so well with his world; Andrew never had to worry about whether she would feel uncomfortable sitting next to the Minister of Education at a dinner party, or whether she would dress appropriately for Wimbledon. She was just good at these things; it was second nature to her.

Most importantly, his father adored Eleanora, and that meant everything to Andrew.

Andrew sighed, resting his forearms on the fence surrounding the dodgems. There was only one issue to his grand plan. One glaring, catastrophic issue.

Ophelia.

Andrew wrapped his finger around the wooden post. Watching Digby kiss her after dinner the other night had been about as pleasant as shoving pins into his eyes. But what choice did he have? Ophelia didn't want him. She had made that perfectly clear in Scotland, when she had laughed with Digby about sleeping with him for practice.

He swallowed.

No. It was better this way. This was how things were meant to be.

And if Andrew had certain... stirrings when it came to Ophelia, then he could ignore them. He was good at that.

"Andrew?"

He started slightly. Eleanora was looking at him in irritation. Her cigarette was burned to the quick, and she threw it on the ground, grinding it into the dirt.

"Were you even listening to me?"

"Oh." He paused. "No. Sorry."

She sighed, clearly exasperated. "I was asking if you wanted to go back inside. The U.S. Ambassador is sponsoring the charity ball, and I should really thank him. He flew all the way from Washington, you know."

Andrew rubbed the back of his neck. Well, no, actually; he didn't want to go speak to some poncy ambassador. He hated politics — particularly American ones, because he found the whole system confusing. Why was there no House of Commons? And what the hell was a blue state? He couldn't stop picturing Texas experiencing crippling cyanosis.

No.

He didn't want to speak with the ambassador. He wanted to go home, and curl up in bed, and maybe watch bad reality television re-runs with a cup of tea.

Was that so much to ask?

Andrew looked around desperately. If he could just find another activity to suggest instead of speaking to the ambassador — some other form of entertainment—

Inspiration struck.

"What about the dodgems?" he asked eagerly.

"What about them?"

"Let's try them."

Eleanora stared at him as if Andrew had just suggested they climb to the top of Tower Bridge and set fireworks off. "Are you mad? I'm not going on those." She huffed out a breath. "What are we, five?"

"You're right." Andrew was instantly chastened. "No, it was stupid. Forget it."

She peered at him suspiciously. "Are you feeling alright, Andrew? You've been acting strange all night."

"I'm fine," Andrew lied. "I just—"

Mercifully, Andrew was spared a further response by a shrill ringing. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. His mother's face popped up on the screen, and Andrew froze, dread coiling in the pit of his stomach.

"Hello?"

"Andrew?"

He closed his eyes. Oh, god. She was crying.

"It's Father, isn't it?"

"I'm so sorry, my darling," Jane choked out. "It's bad news, I'm afraid." There was a sniffle. "How soon can you come to Cornwall?"

A/N: Hello lovely readers!

Just a short little update today, and because I'm mean, I had to end it on a little cliff-hanger ;)

Only four more chapters and the epilogue to go after this!! Will Ophelia move in with Digby? Will Andrew be able to let Eleanora go with his father taking a turn for the worse? As always, I can't wait to hear your comments!

Affectionately,

J.K.