The phone clicked dead, leaving Abby to stare into her shadowed room, dazed by the last two conversations. Well, of course.
Slamming her head back into the pillow, Abby tried counting records until she imagined hurling them, one at a time, at his narcissistic head.
With dawn slicing through the east window, she gave up trying to fall asleep and succumbed to the idea of returning his phone.
With a quick call to Raify to see if she’d watch the store, Abby caught the bus across town to Channel 13 studios and walked onto the bustling sound stage of Love Match. In the center of the hangar-like structure, stood a cozy living room with a fake fireplace and fake flowers, maroon circular couches, and a glass-top coffee table.
At the front desk, she was told to ask for Holly Reinhold, a task that proved difficult with everyone telling Abby to be quiet every time she started to ask the question.
When she’d almost given up, she saw a young woman wearing a headset and holding a clipboard in her hand. She appeared agitated, speaking into her headpiece and shaking her head at five-second intervals. Dark circles smudged the delicate skin under her eyes, and a coffee stain painted her slim, lavender button-down. Taking a gamble, Abby ambled to where the woman stood.
“Are you Holly Reinhold?” she asked.
“Oh, thank God,” the woman exclaimed, a smile brightening her pale freckled face. “Where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you!”
Confused, Abby stepped back. “Who’s been waiting for me?” Her heart skipped a beat at the thought that it was Edmund. However, already preoccupied with whoever was talking to her in the headpiece, Holly ignored her.
After a few silent nods, the woman smiled and motioned for Abby to join her, twisting back to make idle conversation.
“I don’t remember you, but to be honest, we screened so many women, everyone just seems like one big blur.”
Abby sent the woman a confused smile, but continued to follow her around a few cameras and crew, their attention settled on the illuminated living room behind a fake bay window. As Edmund emerged from a brocade curtain and settled down in one of the circular chairs beside Will, the audience clapped. Abby faltered upon seeing Edmund again, believing he’d never looked so miserable in his life. Dressed in an ivory white button-down, a dark gray suit, no tie, every light brown hair in place, she also thought he never looked so attractive.
“Tell us about yourself, Lord Rushwood,” Will asked, with an overindulgent smile.
Curious to see what Edmund had to say, Abby stepped closer, only to have Holly pull her back.
“You’ll meet him soon enough,” she said, and scrunched her features as if to assess Abby better. “I have to say you are one of the prettiest.”
“Thank you,” Abby said, her insides jumping with unexplained nervousness.
“Someone should have informed you what to wear, however.”
Abby glanced down at her attire. She had taken extra care to pick out her clothes this morning, ditching a pair of jeans and worn T-shirt for something more…appealing. Her choice had nothing to do with seeing Edmund again, she told herself a dozen times.
Again, they started moving until Holly stopped Abby behind a royal blue curtain and out of sight of Edmund or Will.
“I think you need this more than I do,” Holly said, untwisting a seashell pink and white flowering scarf from around her neck and placing it around Abby’s shoulders. “It goes better with your white blouse and pink skirt, anyway. Oh, and remember. You’re the twelfth one.”
“Twelfth one what?” Abby asked as the woman turned her around and shoved her through a tiny opening in the heavy curtain. A blinding light smacked Abby in the face, rendering her motionless for a few seconds.
As her heart rammed against her ribcage, masculine hands lifted her into a tall chair and then let go. After a few moments of seeing spheres of white light, she was able to discern her surroundings.
Two feet in front of her was a sheer mauve drape, held in place on each side of her, by two rice paper panels. She didn’t have to spend too much time thinking before realizing she’d been mistaken for another woman and propelled into the role of one of Edmund’s hopeful contestants.
“It’s now time to find the Love Match for our special guest, Lord Edmund Rushwood.”
“Oh God, please don’t let this be happening,” Abby prayed as the sound of a small audience applauded.
“Since we’ve tripled the contestants in this special series of the show,” Will continued in an annoying voice that grated on Abby’s last anxious nerve, “we hope you join us every day for the next few weeks to see how this all unfolds.”
Run, you fool. Only Abby didn’t run. She didn’t even move. As a cold wave of realization swept over her, she knew part of her wanted to stay and see if, somehow, she and Edmund did have a chance together. As she sat arguing with herself, Will explained to the audience how to grade each contestant on a scale from ten to one, ten being the highest score. Apparently, only seven out of the twelve contestants would move on to the dating round and have a chance to meet ‘the incredible, sexy, and handsome’ Lord Rushwood face to face.
“Now, is everyone ready?”
Abby shook her head as the audience answered him with claps and whistled responses.
“Just so you know, we’ve decided to keep the ladies hidden so that both Lord Rushwood and you, our audience, are persuaded more by answers than appearance. As well, all formal introductions will wait until the seven final contestants have been chosen.”
Abby lifted her hand to her locket and clung to it for dear life.
“Edmund, are you ready to pose your first question?”
A heavy silence followed Will’s prompt, followed by several intermittent whispers. She jumped when she heard Edmund clear his throat.
“Contestant number one, when we go on our first date, are you most likely to plan everything well in advance or are you willing to let the night take us where it leads?”
To Abby, his words sounded rehearsed and forced.
“Oh, I have to plan everything well in advance. I don’t like surprises,” said the first with nervous enthusiasm.
“Thank you…for that answer. Contestant number two, what is your response?”
“Well, I’d probably like to plan everything, unless you prefer to have someone who is much more spontaneous.”
Edmund showed his frustration by sighing a little too loudly into the microphone.
The question and answers continued until it was Abby’s turn. She froze, of course, unsure how to reply without him finding out her identity.
“Do you need me to repeat the question?” he asked after too much time passed, his tone dripping with annoyance.
Abby scoffed and made a face in the direction where she knew Edmund sat.
Fine. She’d give him an answer and pray she didn’t make a fool out of herself. “It depends on what we’re doing,” she said, attempting to disguise her voice.
When she expected him to move on, he called her back for more questioning.
“That doesn’t make sense,” he said on a spine-tingling exhale. “Either you’re spontaneous or you’re not. Which one is it?”
Abby blew her bangs out of her face and fisted her small hands in her lap. “Spontaneity is a free energy, Lord Rushwood. One cannot exclude or limit it to people or specific situations.”
After her answer, she heard the audience stir.
“Are you always this indecisive?” he asked, his tone rising.
“Are you always this close-minded?” she threw back at him. Then she slapped her hand over her mouth, realizing her temper and carelessness might have just disclosed her identity.
She waited, with uneasy trepidation for him to waltz over and yank the curtain open. After a few moments of intense silence and inactivity, she closed her eyes and held them shut until Will prompted the audience to begin their scoring. In the background, a romantic ballet played as murmured voices guessed the winners and the
losers.
“The results are in,” Will said, prompting congratulatory claps. “Okay, when I announce your number, please stand and step outside the screen.”
Abby sat on the edge of nervous foolishness. Edmund had said he wanted a rich bride, not a broke college student who lived on the second floor of her father’s struggling record shop.
“And our last contestant that will become Lord Rushwood’s potential bride is—” Will paused for dramatic effect, making Abby want to reach out of her curtain and find a way to smack him in the head.
“Contestant number twelve.”
Chapter Eleven
In a blink, the curtain dropped in front of Abby. Her heart burst into a concerto of uncertain exuberance, the dark shadow of the half-filled audience clapping their approval. As her head began to spin, Edmund stepped before her, blocking the blinding light and making sure to keep his voice low enough for only her to hear.
“I cannot begin to imagine how you came to be here,” he said, his features unreadable, but displeasure dripping from every word he said.
Offended, Abby lashed out, in a tone so low it hurt her throat. “And I cannot begin to imagine how I have remained.”
He didn’t hesitate to reply, stepping closer, the smell of his warm skin making Abby forget how mad she was with him. “Through unfortunate circumstances or providence, Miss Forester, at this point, I’m really not sure.”
Now, she remembered and hated the formal way he addressed her. It was as if they had not shared an intimate moment only twelve hours ago. They almost kissed, for God’s sake.
“I’m sure it’s not too late to eliminate me now, if that’s what you wish.”
“It should never have come to this point.”
Abby’s jaw dropped. This wasn’t her fault.
“Edmund, what are you doing?” Will hissed, while covering the microphone so no one could hear. “Give her the damn rose and then kiss her hand.”
Edmund scoffed, his dusty eyebrows furrowed over marbled blue and stormy ocean green eyes. Affronted by how he’d acted so far, Abby drew her arms behind her back.
“Give me your hand,” he murmured with such aggravated conviction she could only stare and shake her head. “I have no problem coming after it,” he growled and shifted as if preparing to follow through with his threat.
This time, his jaw locked as his gaze simmered with embittered emotion. Abby swallowed hard, bringing her arm back to her side. With such impertinent delivery, he reached toward her, sliding his palm flush against hers.
A weak whimper tore from her throat, and she knew he’d heard it. To make matters worse, after he’d laid a glancing kiss upon her knuckle, he lifted his mouth to scrape against the most sensitive part of her earlobe.
“What the bloody hell are you doing?”
“And, we’re clear,” Will called as a red On Air light switched off.
As the crew hustled around in different directions, Abby still found herself attached to Edmund, even after he pulled her behind one of the studio curtains. Wounded by the way he’d reacted to her being there, she yanked away from him.
“You’re in America, just say hell!”
His lips thinned and his nostrils flared. She steadied her nerves and fished for his phone in her favorite thrift store purse.
“I came to give this back to you.” She thought about whipping it at him, but he was too close.
Instead, she thrust the device in his direction. “Delphine says she no longer wishes to be your girlfriend, and Blaire appears to have lost her engagement ring somewhere between your bed and the shower.”
She raised her chin before turning toward the exit. It didn’t take him long to haul her back in front of him.
“You answered my phone?” he said, his head bent down, their noses almost touching.
“No! I happened to find it buzzing on my floor at two o’clock in the morning. It must have fallen out when you went bouncing like a lunatic on my bed.” Realizing her little tirade was gathering a nosy audience, she lowered her voice. “I was half asleep when I inadvertently answered it…twice.”
He removed the phone from her hand, not bothering to check if he had more calls between then and now.
“Shouldn’t you let someone know you’re already engaged?” she said, her voice wavering noticeably.
“And shouldn’t you be upset about finding yourself as one of the women I may end up having to marry?”
“I’ve found myself in worse predicaments…I think.”
He blinked at her, the muscle in his jaw convulsing in cadence with her heartbeat. He stared at her, his lucent eyes flashing with annoyance. His voice was calm and authoritative, however. “You don’t belong here, Abby. You must take yourself out of the show as soon as possible.”
His words snatched the air right out of her lungs. She stood unable to say anything remotely coherent for a few seconds. Had she imagined his caring nature, though fleeting?
“Hey. Do you know we already have two hundred hits on the website? And Love Match is trending. Hashtag Lord Bachelor,” Will said, wedging himself between them and placing an arm around each of their shoulders. “Oh, and Edmund, your mother is waiting on line five in my office.” He paused to whisper, “She didn’t sound too happy.”
Abby watched as Edmund turned to Will. “Where’s the woman who was supposed to be sitting in as the twelfth contestant?”
Abby tried not to flinch from his gruff words as Will shrugged. “I guess some bird flew out of nowhere and caused her to trip down a small embankment. Although she only suffered a few bumps and bruises, it delayed her enough to miss her spot on the show.”
Edmund dropped his gaze to Abby, his green and blue eyes alight with fury. When Will tried to take a step back, Edmund grabbed him by his suit jacket. “Fix this.”
Will pulled himself out of Edmund’s grasp and flattened his wrinkled wardrobe. “Holly thought Abby was a last-minute fill-in and that’s how she ended up in Melanie’s spot. Besides, she’s already up to number two in likeability.”
Abby felt her scowl soften. “Wow, really?”
Her elation didn’t last long as Holly entered their tight circle. “Miss Forester, we need you to sign these papers.”
Abby hesitated long enough for Edmund to pluck them out of the woman’s hands. “She’s not a contestant. Bring in someone else.”
Holly scooted sideways, finding cover behind Abby, although the woman was three inches taller.
“Relax, Edmund,” Will said, taking a safe step back. “The audience has already been introduced to her. At this point, you have who you have.”
Abby didn’t miss the silent exchange between the two men.
So used to getting his way, Abby supposed, Edmund fell away and paced a few steps in one direction and then the other. Will wasn’t much help, twisting toward a narrow hallway leading to a set of offices. Holly crept toward the closest door, leaving Abby to deal with Mr. Congeniality all by herself.
She tried to keep a brave facade as Edmund turned to face her. “I will admit I am a sod when it comes to women, but I’m actually doing you a favor. Believe me, you won’t like how this ends.”
She smiled, trying to find a warped sense of humor in his bizarre distress for her well-being. “Do you mean I don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of the audience or you choosing me as your bride? I think I know that going in, Edmund.”
His eyes continued to flicker, a rage she’d not seen before, building slow and strong. She thought she’d pushed him a little too far. Good. “Besides, I’m a grown, independent woman, Edmund. I’ve faced a lot worse than having to deal with your unbearable behavior.”
“Oh, you haven’t even begun to see that part of me.”
She knew his words were meant to startle her, to drive her away. However, she stood before him, more angry than hurt or leery at the moment. “You will not get rid of me so easily, Lord Rushwood.”
He stepped closer, forcing her to tilt her head back. Wary of
losing her balance, she lifted her hands to his chest, and found his heart thumping hard. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”
“My, my, my. Contestant number twelve.”
Both Abby and Edmund turned to find Zella behind them, her face sparkling and her dress worth more than Abby’s rent.
“Why am I not surprised you found a way to weasel your way into the show?”
“Not now, Zella,” Edmund warned her, stepping between them.
Abby wished she had not dedicated a full page to Zella Pendleton’s traceable lineage in her now-infamous paper. She thought, for some outlandish reason, Kendra might have appreciated her efforts and called a truce between them. Unfortunately, it had only been used as ammunition to degrade her at every chance.
“It takes a certain upbringing,” Zella continued, “to acquire the attention of a prominent figure in society, English or otherwise. The best Abs here could hope for is some sort of consolation prize. Isn’t that right, Lord Rushwood?”
Abby rotated back to Edmund, wondering how he would answer the question. She held her breath, waiting for him to squash what dignity she had left. His gaze never left hers.
“Yes, Zella, it does take a certain upbringing, indeed.”
If she wanted to, Abby might believe he’d slighted Zella instead, though cleverly. Nevertheless, Abby continued to stand her ground, going so far as to reach out and seize the contract from his hand.
Zella, who’d been ignored for more than ten seconds, scoffed and stomped away.
Abby continued to stare straight into Edmund’s eyes with his attempt to do the same, weakening her resolve. “So,” she began, “is there a consolation prize?”
Of course, the question left the door wide open for his debauched way of thinking.
One side of his mouth quirked upward, growing more lopsided the longer he stood thinking of his answer. “Yes, and I must say, I’ve been told it’s quite rewarding.”
She didn’t blanch or blink. “By whom, your maid or your fiancée?”
His corrupt grin never wavered. “Oh, you do sound jealous.”
She didn’t snatch at his attempt to distract her from the current situation. “Look, Edmund, I’m tired and irritable with no patience for a man who touts talents I have no inclination of experiencing.”
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