“It’s a thing,” I insist. “Believe me, I wish it wasn’t. My mother won it when she was fifteen. So did my Grandmère—my father’s mother. And two of my cousins. I didn’t want to enter, but it’s tradition.”
“And did you win?”
“No. Didn’t come close.” I don’t want any more coffee but I raise my mug enough to hide my smirk as I add, “We wore green wigs and orange dresses. To look like carrots.”
“Sweet baby Jesu,” Daniel’s clipboard clatters to the counter as he sways in his chair.
I set my mug down. “Are you okay? You seriously look like you’re going to faint.”
“I need a moment. The thought of all those young ladies dressed in…”
“Carrot costumes.”
“Oh,” Daniel groans.
“Do you need smelling salts? I’m sure there are some around here somewhere, New Arcadian types being so faint prone.” I can't stop my laugh. After my fit of giggles, Daniel catches on and glares at me. “You were joking.”
“Of course I was. Come on. Grant County is small, but we’re not that backward.”
“I wouldn’t put it past the States to do anything. They call crisps ‘chips.’ And chips ‘flies’.”
“Fries,” I correct. “And how is that backward? Never mind.”
“So you weren’t wearing the green wig and orange dress?”
“Nope. I was wearing a purple dress. My mother’s old dress. There are purple carrots, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. I could’ve gone a lifetime and never missed knowing that. Or about Miss Carrot competitions in Smallville, USA.”
“Grant Town, USA. Named for Mr. Grant, famed carrot farmer.”
“Of course.” Daniel picks up his clipboard. “And why didn’t you win?”
“You really want to know?”
He nods.
“I was wearing high heels—but they were too big for me. They were my cousin’s.”
“Go on.”
“It was an accident. I mean, it was almost inevitable that I would fall over, wearing those things. But I grabbed what I could on the way down and… it happened to be Betty Jo’s hairdo.”
“Oh no.” Daniel’s eyes close.
“Fortunately, Betty Jo was wearing a wig. Unfortunately, it came free and I kept falling—and grabbed Donna Draper’s dress.” I wince, remembering. “It wasn’t properly sewn, only pinned. So it… well, it ripped off.”
“My god.”
“Yeah, it was bad. The judges had to disqualify me. I took out two contestants in one fall. That, combined with the thing on the float—”
“What thing on the float?” Daniel looks pained to ask.
“I knocked a girl off.” My nonchalant wave brushes my coffee mug and sends it dancing off the counter’s edge. Daniel catches it. “She was fine. Her wrist healed, eventually.”
Daniel replaces the coffee mug carefully onto the counter, away from me. “Frankie, darling, I mean this in the nicest way possible. You are a walking, talking harbinger of mayhem.”
“I don’t mean to be.” I pretend to pout, secretly glad he’s not calling me boring anymore.
Daniel has his head in his hands, rubbing his face. “And I am going to let you become affianced to my esteemed employer.”
“You mean it?” I sit up on my bar chair, almost knocking the coffee cup over again. “We’re going through with it?”
“Against my better sense.” Daniel drags his hands down and wags a finger in my face. “The fate of the country rests on the veracity of this engagement.”
“I understand.” I fold my hands in my lap and look as serious and trustworthy as I can. “I won't let you down.”
Daniel opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, there’s a giant clatter in the hallway. Like someone knocked over a rack of pots and pans.
“What was that?” Daniel asks. “It sounded like a car crash. Is this house haunted?”
“Oh no.” I shoot to my feet and rush down the hall. There’s Benedict on the floor, grappling with the suit of armor. Sir Fred’s arm is extended, but his spear and gauntlet lie on the ground.
“Your Grace!” Daniel shouts. Together, we all manage to lift the suit of armor off the duke. “My god, what happened?”
“It just jumped out at me. Nearly impaled me on this thing.” The duke pushes at the spear.
“He does that,” I say apologetically. “I call him Sir Fred.” I face dual blank stares, and explain. “Ancestor of Freddy Krueger. Always jumping out at people.”
“Sir Fred,” Daniel says thoughtfully.
“A little help here?” Benedict demands.
Together, Daniel and the duke wrestle the suit of armor back into place. Daniel shoves the final metal glove onto the arm piece, but sets the spear aside. “There. Now, Your Grace, were you hurt?”
“Just a flesh wound,” the duke mutters, touching his eye. By the time Daniel is examining it in the better light in the kitchen, a slight bruise has formed.
“Oh dear,” Daniel murmurs, touching the discolored skin. The duke is stoic but I wince for him. “We’ll have to fix that with makeup.” Daniel darts this way and that, studying the bruise from different angles. “With your permission, Your Grace.”
“Yes, fine,” Benedict growls, and waves Daniel away.
“We can’t have people saying your fiancée knocks you about,” Daniel adds, his cheek curving as he glances at his phone and scuttles out of the room. “Be right back.”
The duke glowers at the giant lemon paintings, brushing off invisible specks of dust from his suit. As usual, he looks ready for a Hugo Boss photoshoot. With his face and build a perfect balance of strong and lean, he’d do the fashion line a favor.
I forgot how handsome he is in person. All the flattering photos of him Mina found fall short. It’s not just his looks. It’s something else. A presence. He feels three times as large as anyone else I’ve ever met.
Normally, this would make me run and hide, but with him, I can’t stop myself inching forward.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “I’m sorry the house attacked you. It takes some getting used to.”
“Mmm.” The duke nods to the oil paintings. “My great aunt collects art like this. Garish stuff.” He flicks his gaze to me. “I see you’re wearing clothes today.”
I mock curtsey. “All for you, Your Highness.” I ladle out as much sarcasm as I can.
“The proper term is ‘Your Grace’.”
“Even in bed?” Gah! Stop, mouth!
“Bed?” He turns fully to face me. “We won’t be sharing a bed.”
“Of course not,” I backtrack. Damn you, Mina. I can hear her cackling. “I wouldn’t sleep with you if you paid me.”
“Good. I won’t be paying you,” the duke half scoffs, half sneers.
“Not for service in bed, anyway,” I snap back. Fuck you, Benedict. “Actually, I have a question.”
“Ask.” He makes an invitation sound like a command. We face off like Western gunfighters.