Chapter Text
Taggie had always thought of life as a series of manageable compartments. There was work, family, the occasional romance that fizzled out before it became too complicated, and a rotating cast of friends who filled the quieter evenings. She liked it that way. It kept her world neat, organized, and above all, predictable.
Then Rupert Campbell-Black walked into her life, and everything became a bloody mess.
Their first meeting—if it could even be called that—had been an ordeal in and of itself.
Taggie hoisted her duffel bag over one shoulder, wincing as the strap dug into her skin. The crowded train station smelled faintly of hot oil and something metallic, the air thick with the hum of voices and announcements echoing overhead. She glanced around, scanning for a familiar face. Her father had promised—sworn—that his friend would be waiting by the north entrance.
A sleek black car idled at the curb. Next to it stood a man in a tailored navy suit, flipping through some sort of magazine with the kind of focus usually reserved for stock tickers or international crises. Taggie frowned, taking a moment to examine the cover. It appeared to be a catalog on the proper care of horses with an incredibly attractive woman riding on the cover—Taggie idly wondered if that woman even knew what kind of horse she was on. By his side was what Taggie thought to be the quintessential upper-class socialite. With her perfectly coiffed blonde hair that tumbled down her back in soft waves, the woman radiated effortless sophistication. She seemed entirely engrossed in the man by her side, pawing at him like he was some sort of prize. The woman barely registered Taggie’s presence as she grew closer. Please don’t let it be him, she thought.
She approached cautiously, her boots scuffing against the concrete. He must’ve heard her coming, and he lifted his gaze. She immediately realized who the man was. “Rupert?” Bugger. So much for being nonchalant and collected.
He looked up, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. “Taggie?”
His tone was crisp, vaguely incredulous as if the idea of her existing at all offended him.
The woman beside him glared at her, her perfectly arched brow lifting just slightly, a flicker of disapproval crossing her otherwise serene expression. “Oh, darling,” she murmured to Rupert, loud enough for Taggie to hear, “Isn’t she...rustic?”
Fucking cunt.
She gave him a once-over. He was far too polished for her liking—like someone who color-coordinated his socks with his ties. The tailored cut of his suit, the carefully disheveled head of dark hair... it all screamed effort. She could practically smell the cologne wafting off him, some expensive blend that probably had a pretentious name like Triumph or Arrogance. If she had known this was who her father had asked to bring her to the wedding, she would have hitchhiked instead.
“Daddy sent you?” she asked, her disbelief seeping into her voice.
He slipped the catalog into his pocket and straightened his shoulders, exuding a calm, practiced authority. He had the audacity to look bored, if not somewhat incredulous. “Daddy?” he teased, exchanging a look with the woman beside him, but quickly noticed her look remained quite serious. “Right…apparently. Your Daddy is rather headstrong and I owed him a favor for not blasting me across Venturer for one of my recent escapades, so…”
“Great,” she muttered. “My knight in shining armor.”
Rupert’s lips twitched, almost a smirk. “And here I was thinking you might show a modicum of gratitude for a free ride to a wedding.”
Taggie adjusted the strap of her bag and frowned, her patience already wearing thin. “Gratitude is reserved for people who actually want to be helpful, not for...chauffeurs with superiority complexes.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You’re awfully judgmental for someone who looks like she packed for this trip in the dark.”
She blinked, caught off guard by his audacity. The woman, still unnamed, snickered next to him. Then Taggie glanced down at her loose jumper, threadbare at the elbows, and her jeans that were more rip than denim. Who the bloody hell did he think he was? “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I’d be graded on my fashion choices by the human embodiment of…of a corporate fundraiser.”
Rupert sighed but Taggie couldn’t help but notice the faint smile playing on his lips as he unlocked the car with a sharp click. “Right, then. Are we going to stand here exchanging insults all day, or are you planning to get in?”
Taggie stared at him for a beat longer than necessary, weighing the possibility of storming off. But her father would never let her hear the end of it if she caused a scene and was rude to one of his colleagues, and she really couldn’t afford to miss the wedding. So, with a muttered curse, she shoved her bag into the trunk and climbed into the passenger seat.
She watched as Rupert and the woman stood outside of the car for an annoyingly long time; it seemed Rupert was dropping her off at the station as well. At least the woman wouldn’t be joining them on their ride, and Taggie would get to remain in the passenger seat. Small victories.
“I love you,” Taggie heard the woman say.
“I love you,” Rupert replied, though somewhat less melodramatically. They began kissing profusely. Taggie sat there waiting for the kiss to end, but it never did. She cleared her throat, and still, they didn’t seem to hear her. She shifted her position and accidentally-on-purpose hit the car horn, which beeped and startled Rupert and the unknown woman into breaking off their prolonged display of affection.
She wasn’t normally this combative, anyway—Taggie blamed it on the exhausting train ride and the annoying existence of Rupert himself.
With one last kiss and goodbye to the woman, Rupert slid behind the wheel of the car and drawled, “Lovely. Let’s try to make this bearable, shall we?”
The first hour of the drive was indeed a test of wills.
“I hope this trip isn’t going to be one of those trips with a lot of long, awkward silences,” Rupert said after many minutes of said awkward silence.
“Me too,” Taggie replied, not particularly caring either way. She would never see this man again.
A long awkward silence followed.
“Why don’t you tell me the story of your life, then,” Rupert suggested, fiddling in his console for one of the cigarettes in his pack. He lit it quietly and with a practiced disinterest, one hand on the steering wheel at all times.
“The story of my life?” Taggie tried not to cringe at his poor driving skills.
“We certainly have a lot of time to kill before we get to the wedding,”
“The story of my life isn’t even going to get us out of Rutshire. I mean, nothing’s happened to me yet. That’s why I’m going to this wedding, and then continuing to London.”
“So something can happen to you.”
“Yes.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m working for a publisher in London, and I’m going to finish journalism school and officially become a reporter.”
“So you can write about things that happen to other people.”
“That’s one way to look at it, I suppose.” Taggie was thoroughly annoyed with this line of questioning.
“Suppose nothing happens to you. Suppose you live there your whole life and nothing happens and you never meet anyone and you finally die one of those classic London deaths where nobody even notices for two weeks until the smell drifts out into the hallway.”
Well, Taggie didn’t know exactly how to respond to that.
Rupert insisted on listening to a playlist of “timeless classics,” which apparently meant jazzy instrumental covers of songs Taggie barely recognized.
“Do people actually enjoy this?” she asked, fiddling with the air conditioning.
“It’s called taste, ” Rupert replied, turning the volume up a fraction.
Taggie made a sound of disbelief. “It’s called being a pretentious snob.”
“Ah, yes, because nothing says ‘refined’ like whatever garage band you were humming earlier.”
“Hey, The Clash is iconic. You wouldn’t know real music if it hit you in the—”
She was cut off as Rupert swerved abruptly to avoid a stray cyclist, her seatbelt digging into her chest and her cheek grazing the window in the frenzy.
“Jesus!” she yelped, clutching the door. “Do you have a death wish?”
“No, but I might if this conversation continues,” Rupert muttered, glancing at her sideways. Then, he continued to explain, “If you must know, I don’t exactly drive myself places, I have a driver, Sydney. I gave him the day off, thought it might be nice to brush up on my driving skills. And I have nothing against The Clash, they’re great, but that is not car ride music .”
She scowled, folding her arms, but had to admit she was somewhat pleased with his concession. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re exhausting,” he retorted evenly, his voice as smooth and even as his driving now was.
The tension in the car was almost palpable, crackling like static electricity.
----
“He doesn’t want her to stay. That’s why he puts her on the plane,”
“I don’t think she wants to stay,”
“Of course, she wants to stay. Wouldn’t you rather be with Humphrey Bogart than that other guy?”
“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in Casablanca married to a man who runs a bar. That probably sounds very snobbish to you, but I don’t.
“You’d rather have a passionless marriage—”
“—and be First Lady of Czechoslovakia—”
“—than live with the man who you’ve had the greatest sex of your life with, just because he owns a bar and that’s all he does.”
They stopped for petrol at a small, rundown station on the edge of a sleepy village. Taggie got out, desperate to stretch her legs. Rupert, of course, insisted on filling the tank himself, as if allowing her to touch the pump would somehow ruin his day.
Inside the station’s tiny shop, she grabbed a packet of crisps and a Coke, paying with loose change she dug out of her coat pocket. The cashier hummed slightly at the inconvenience of this, but Taggie truly didn’t care—loose change was meant to be used somewhere.
When she returned to the car, Rupert raised an eyebrow at her choice of snacks. “Nutritious,” he commented dryly. “I could’ve paid for that, you know. Or something more substantial.”
“Says the man who skipped lunch,” she shot back, tearing open the crisps with her teeth and popping one in her mouth. She noticed that his eyes seemed to follow the movement. “And I can pay for my own nutritious meals, thank you.”
“I didn’t skip lunch,” he replied, sounding mildly offended. “I had an apple.”
Taggie stared at him. “You sound like a horse. An apple is not lunch.”
“It is if you pair it with water,” Rupert said, his tone matter-of-fact. “My body is a temple.”
She let out a short, disbelieving laugh—she’d eyed the pack of Marlboros in his console that indicated otherwise. “You’re…you’re insufferable, you know that?”
“Fine, I’ll accept insufferable, but we’re getting an actual meal,” Rupert asserted, pointing towards a skeptical-looking diner situated next to the petrol station.
Taggie was mildly surprised he seemed to want to spend more time than was necessary with her, but she accepted this and got out of the car again.
“Anyways, yes, I would get on the plane, and so would any woman in her right mind. Women are very practical. Even Ingrid Bergman, which is why she gets on that plane at the end of the movie.”
“Oh, I see,” Rupert replied cryptically.
“What?” They entered the diner, Rupert holding the door open for her and ushering her inside.
“Obviously you haven’t had great sex yet,” he said as though it were the most natural thing in the world. If she were drinking something she would have spit it out. What the hell was wrong with this man?
“Um, yes I have,” Taggie insisted, although why she felt the need to prove that to this stranger was totally beyond her.
“No you haven’t, and that’s okay,” Rupert said entirely too calmly, taking out a cigarette from his pack and lighting it in the restaurant. A couple of patrons looked their way, but he didn’t seem to care very much, indicative of his life of privilege and entitlement. He exhaled a plume of smoke that curled lazily above his head, drawing disapproving stares from nearby diners. Rupert either didn’t notice or didn’t care; Taggie guessed it was the latter.
This man was really starting to get on her nerves. “It just so happens I have had plenty of good sex!”
The hostess and a few people in the diner turn to look at them, but Taggie is too indignant at this point to be embarrassed, focusing her rage on Rupert. The weight of their stares only added fuel to her irritation. This man was insufferable.
“With whom?”
“What?”
“With whom have you had this good sex?”
“I’m…I’m not going to tell you that.”
“Fine. Don’t tell me.” He busied himself with his cigarette and began to peruse the menu, looking wholly bored and unamused. His nonchalance was maddening, a clear attempt to provoke her further—or worse, dismiss her entirely. Even more maddening, still, was that she found it working; she found herself wanting to talk to him.
“Ralphie Henriques.”
Rupert no longer seemed to be unamused, in fact, he was holding back his laughter. “Ralphie. Ralphie? No. I’m sorry. You didn’t have great sex with someone named Ralphie .”
“I did too.” she insisted.
“No. A ‘Ralphie’ can do your taxes. If you need a root canal, he’s your man, but between the sheets is not ‘Ralphie’s’ strong suit. ‘I love you, Ralphie. Do it to me, Ralphie. I can’t get enough of you, Ralphie.’ It doesn’t work.”
Taggie glared at him, her nails pressing into the fabric of her napkin as she fought the urge to throw it in his face. The sheer audacity of him, sitting there, smug as ever, critiquing her love life like he was some kind of expert.
Rupert didn’t say anything else as they ordered (with Taggie placing an incredibly intricate order, almost like she knew how to cook), though his lips quirked in something that might have been amusement. He didn’t even glance at the waiter, rattling off his own order with the ease of someone used to being obeyed. The fact that their server looked more amused than intimidated made Taggie feel marginally better.
By the time they reached the outskirts of the town where the wedding was being held, the sun was dipping low on the horizon, casting golden light across the rolling fields. For a moment, the bickering paused, the scenery silencing them both.
The golden hour painted the world in soft hues, the warm glow stretching across endless pastures dotted with grazing sheep. Taggie found herself leaning against the car window, letting the peaceful sight chip away at the irritation still bubbling in her chest.
Taggie leaned her head against the window, watching the landscape blur past. She felt Rupert glance at her, his gaze lingering just long enough to be noticed.
“What?” she asked without turning her head.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, his voice clipped. She felt there was something more to be said there, though.
“What?” she repeated. “Do I have…?”
“You’re a very attractive person,” Rupert said, incredibly matter-of-factedly. Although the sky outside was approaching darkness, Taggie hoped he couldn’t see the blush that was dusting her cheeks as she grew flustered.
“Oh, thank you.”
“You’ve cooked for Bas before, haven’t you? Bas never said you were so attractive.”
“Maybe he doesn’t think I’m attractive.”
“It’s not a matter of opinion. Empirically you are attractive. Besides, I know Bas, and he would never be one to deny—”
“Rupert…you are clearly seeing someone—that woman from earlier—” Taggie grimaced slightly just thinking about her, about how rude she was, but it was the principle of it, anyway.
“So?”
“So you’re going with her,” Taggie shot back.
“So?”
“So you’re…you’re coming on to me!”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“What? Can’t a man say a woman is attractive without it being a come-on?”
She stared at him in disbelief.
“All right. Let’s just say for the sake of argument it was a come-on. Okay. What do you want me to do? I take it back. All right, I take it back.” He lifted his hands from the wheel in mock surrender, but that only made Taggie more queasy, serving as a reminder of his meager driving skills.
“You can’t take it back.”
“Why not?”
“It’s…it’s already out there.”
There was an awkward pause, not unlike the many that had come before.
“Oh, Christ on a bike. What are we supposed to do now? Call the police? It’s already out there.” he groaned, rubbing his forehead in annoyance.
“Just…just let it lie, okay?”
“Right, right. Let it lie. That’s always been my policy, love. Let it lie.” he paused for a moment, sneaking a glance at her. She quickly turned to face the window. “So, you want to spend the night in a motel? I doubt we’ll be missed.”
“See what I did?” he continued. “I didn’t let it lie.”
“Rupert—”
“I said I would and then I didn’t—”
“Rupert—”
“I went the other way—”
“Rupert—”
“Yes?”
“We are just going to be friends, okay? And even that is…it’s tentative.”
“Yeah. Great. Friends. Best thing.”
Just when Taggie thought the blasted conversation was finally and blessedly over, he continued.
“You realize, of course, that we can never be friends.”
She attempted to prevent herself from rolling her eyes, but she doubted she had been able to fully stop it. “What do you mean?”
“What I’m saying—and this is not a come-on in any way, shape, or form, I’ve learned that the hard way—is that men and women can’t be friends. The sex part always gets in the way.”
“That’s not true,” Taggie replied indignantly. “I have a number of male friends and there’s no sex involved.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do!”
“You only think you do.”
“You’re saying I’m having sex with these men without my knowledge?”
“No, I'm saying they all want to have sex with you.”
Taggie thought of Seb, and a few of Patrick’s classmates who had come round besides Ralphie. “They do not.”
“They do too.”
“They do not.”
“Do too.”
She considered this briefly. “How do you know?”
“Because no man can be friends with a woman he finds attractive. He always wants to have sex with her.”
“So you’re saying a man can be friends with a woman he finds unattractive.”
“No. You pretty much want to have sex with them, too.”
“What if they don’t want to have sex with you?”
Rupert snorted as if that had never been a problem for him; truthfully, based on his appearance and status, she doubted it ever had been.
“Doesn’t matter. The sex thing is already out there, so the friendship is ultimately doomed, and that’s the end of the story.”
“Well. I guess we’re not going to be friends, then.”
“I guess not.”
“Too bad,” Taggie finished, not necessarily meaning it. It wasn’t like she would see him again after the wedding, but it felt like the polite thing to say, anyway.
The conversation petered out, leaving a faint hum of tension in the air as they approached the wedding venue. Taggie couldn’t decide if she was relieved or annoyed by the silence, but at least it gave her a chance to collect herself.
They didn’t speak again until they pulled up to the venue, a picturesque country manor surrounded by neatly trimmed hedges and glowing string lights.
She noticed Rupert step out and make his way around the car, almost like he was going to open the door for her. Taggie wouldn’t allow this and got out quickly, slamming the door harder than necessary.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
Rupert straightened his suit jacket, acting like he hadn’t just tried to embody chivalry. “You’re welcome,” he said, his voice laced with irony.
She paused, glancing at him over her shoulder. Maybe she could indeed be civil to this man, and it certainly couldn’t hurt, especially if he was a friend of her father’s. “You’re not so bad when you’re quiet, you know.”
Rupert’s brow furrowed, but before he could respond, Taggie turned and strode toward the manor, leaving him standing by the car with a bemused expression.
----
Inside the venue, Taggie found herself swallowed by the crowd, her irritation with Rupert fading as she reunited with Daddy and a few other familiar faces. But when she glanced back toward the entrance, she caught sight of Rupert, now fully in his element. He greeted people with a polished charm that grated on her nerves, flashing that perfect smile she was beginning to hate for reasons she couldn’t articulate. The way he flashed his perfect smile made her stomach twist—not in admiration, but in the kind of irritation that lingered even when she didn’t want it to.
She sighed and looked down at her outfit—a casual jumper and jeans that now felt glaringly out of place among the glittering gowns and tailored tuxedos. It wasn’t like she hadn’t known the wedding would be formal, but she’d planned to change into her navy blue slip dress after arriving. She’d hoped to delay her inevitable plunge into party-mode perfection for as long as possible.
Seeing everyone already dressed to the nines made her decision clear—she was sure she could already hear the whispers of “Isn’t that Declan’s daughter” and “Doesn’t she know this is a wedding, why is she dressed like that?”. She slipped away from the main hall and down a side corridor, clutching her tote bag, which held her dress and heels. She spotted the women’s restroom at the end of the hall and ducked inside, grateful to find it mercifully empty. The muffled hum of the party faded behind the heavy door as she stepped in.
Setting her tote on the counter, Taggie quickly rummaged through it, pulling out her dress. She stripped off her jumper and jeans, folding them neatly before unzipping the slip dress. The silky fabric slid over her head and down her body with ease, a small sigh of relief escaping her lips as she adjusted the straps.
Just as she reached for her heels, the door creaked open behind her.
----
Rupert
Rupert wasn’t entirely sure what had drawn him away from the main room. The conversation had grown tiresome, full of saccharine compliments and surface-level small talk that grated on his nerves. It was nothing new to him, but somehow going from easy banter with Declan’s daughter to something like this rather irritated him. He excused himself under the pretense of fetching another drink, but instead found himself wandering the quieter halls of the venue, enjoying a rare moment of solitude.
As he passed a door slightly ajar, his eyes caught movement—a flash of navy fabric.
“Is someone in—” he began as he pushed the door open.
He froze.
Taggie was standing in the middle of the restroom, halfway in her dress. One strap had slipped off her shoulder, and the silky material was bunched awkwardly around her waist. She whipped around at the sound of his voice, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and indignation.
“Oh my God!” she yelled, yanking the fabric back up and clutching it against her chest.
Rupert stood rooted to the spot, his brain short-circuiting as he struggled to process the scene in front of him. “I—this isn’t—I didn’t realize—”
“Get out!” she snapped, her face bright red.
Rupert immediately turned on his heel, muttering something incoherent that might have been an apology as he practically stumbled back into the hallway. He slammed the door shut behind him and leaned against the wall, exhaling sharply.
Of all the ways he’d envisioned this evening going, this particular catastrophe hadn’t been on the list.
Inside the restroom, he could hear Taggie groan, and he imagined her burying her face in her hands before hastily stuffing her jeans into her bag.
Rupert lingered in the corridor, and he paced and debated whether he should say something when she inevitably emerged. Apologize, perhaps? Offer a feeble explanation? But as the door creaked open and Taggie stepped out, her gaze locking with his, any rehearsed words fled his mind.
She was wearing a jumper over her dress now, the sleeves slightly too long, and her hair was a little mussed from pulling it on in haste. She looked gorgeous, but the fire in her eyes was unmistakable.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she demanded, jabbing a finger at his chest.
“I wasn’t thinking,” Rupert admitted, his voice uncharacteristically sheepish. “I thought it was empty.”
“You thought—? The women’s restroom?! Of course, you didn’t knock!” She let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “God forbid Rupert Campbell-Black does anything as mundane as knock.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure how to respond. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Save it,” she interrupted, brushing past him with a huff. But just before she disappeared down the hall, she glanced over her shoulder and said, almost begrudgingly, “Next time, maybe try knocking.”
Rupert blinked, caught off guard by the faintest hint of amusement in her tone. He watched her retreat, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
It seemed Agatha O’Hara had an uncanny ability to turn even the most humiliating moments into something oddly…memorable.
----
Taggie
After the debacle in the restroom, Taggie emerged determined to get supremely drunk and forget the night ever happened. She ordered a whiskey sour, thanked the bartender, and made her way toward the group of bridesmaids, hoping to find Lizzie and hopefully extricate herself from this entire situation early.
“Who’s that?” one of the bridesmaids whispered to her, nodding toward Rupert. Taggie rolled her eyes. “That’s Rupert—Daddy’s friend, and I suppose one of Lizzie and Freddie’s. Avoid him if you value your sanity.”
The bridesmaid grinned, clearly not at all put off by Taggie’s warning—she seemed to see it more as a challenge than anything else. “Looks like a catch to me.”
Taggie snorted. “Looks can be deceiving.”
She took a sip of her drink and looked away, tugging slightly at the hem of her navy blue slip dress. It had felt appropriate when she’d first put it on—simple, sleek, and perfectly her. But in the sea of glittering gowns and sharp tuxedos, she felt a little underdressed. Moreover, she felt more self-conscious knowing that Rupert Campbell-Black had seen her put it on, and had likely seen more of her than she’d ever intended. Maybe she should have anticipated it; Lizzie’s friend Cassandra, the bride, always had a flair for the dramatic.
Still, as the night wore on, her gaze drifted to him more than once, and each time, she cursed herself for noticing the way his laugh carried through the room or the way his jaw tightened whenever he caught her looking.
She told herself it didn’t mean anything. Rupert wasn’t worth her time, not even as an afterthought, not even as a friend.
But somewhere deep down, a small, nagging voice wondered if she’d just met the one person who could truly get under her skin.
----
Rupert
Rupert hated weddings.
He despised the hollow pomp of it all—the choreographed smiles, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the relentless cheer that always felt forced. Not that anyone would suspect his disdain. He was an expert at the required performance, moving through the crowd with practiced ease, shaking hands, and exchanging pleasantries.
But this wedding? This one was particularly excruciating. He supposed the present company had something to do with it, or at the very least had something to do with the weight growing in his chest.
He caught sight of her across the room: Taggie O’Hara. She was perched on the edge of her chair at the far table, nursing a flute of prosecco with a look of practiced indifference. Her jumper and jeans had been replaced with a dress—an unpretentious blue number that skimmed her frame—but somehow she still looked completely, defiantly herself.
Rupert’s fingers tightened around his glass of whiskey as he watched her laugh at something Declan said. Declan—her father. That in and of itself made Rupert want to scoff. How his alcoholic friend had managed to produce someone so intriguing yet…infuriating was beyond him. Her laugh was loud, unpolished, and utterly unselfconscious. He’d heard of her from Lizzie, too, of course—his best friend was always going on about how wonderful Agatha was and how brilliant, rising through the ranks of Freddie’s publishing firm, and “Oh you must let her interview you sometime.” All of that rubbish. It shouldn’t have drawn his attention, but it did.
Speak of the devil, Freddie sauntered over a moment later, already two glasses deep and brimming with enthusiasm. “You’ve been staring,” he said, plopping into the chair beside Rupert.
“I don’t stare,” Rupert replied coolly, taking a sip of his drink.
“Right. And you don’t mind when people talk during classical concerts.”
Rupert leveled him with a look. “Is there a point to this?”
Freddie grinned. “Yeah, the point is you’re staring at Agatha O’Hara like—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Rupert cut in sharply, resenting whatever accusation he knew Freddie was about to make. “And lower your voice .” Freddie was observant, to be sure, but he had the wrong idea entirely. And, true or not, he certainly didn’t need rumours going around.
Freddie chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. I think you know better than to try anything. But you might want to consider enjoying yourself for once, Rupert. You’re at a wedding, not a board meeting.”
Rupert ignored him, his eyes drifting back to Taggie despite himself.
The evening wore on, the crowd loosening as the drinks flowed. Rupert spent most of it on the periphery, chatting with distant acquaintances and dodging matchmaking attempts from well-meaning relatives.
He was halfway through declining a dance with one of the bridesmaids when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Is there a reason you’re lurking in the shadows like some sort of brooding aristocrat?”
Rupert turned to find Taggie standing there, her arms crossed. It was a pleasant surprise, and not entirely unwelcome. Up close, he could see the faint flush on her cheeks, likely from the prosecco. Clearly, liquid courage was going to be part of this encounter, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind.
“I wasn’t lurking, and I am a brooding aristocrat,” he said evenly.
“Sure you weren’t.” She tilted her head toward the dance floor, where couples swayed under the soft glow of string lights. “What’s the matter? Afraid to dance?”
Rupert’s brow arched. “I’m not afraid of anything, least of all dancing.”
“Prove it.”
The words hung in the air, a challenge he couldn’t resist. Against his better judgment, Rupert set his glass down and offered her his hand. “If you insist.”
Taggie blinked, as if surprised he’d called her bluff, but then she took his hand, her fingers cool against his.
Rupert didn’t know why he had asked Taggie to dance. Well, that wasn’t entirely true—he knew. He had seen her standing there, slightly out of place in a room full of polished socialites and champagne-swilling executives, her defiance radiating like a beacon. She always carried herself like someone who didn’t care what people thought of her, but he had seen the way her shoulders stiffened when someone made an offhand remark about her outfit or her family. She cared—probably more than she wanted to admit. And tonight, she looked… different.
He told himself it was curiosity, not admiration, that had drawn him to her. Still, as he took her hand and led her to the center of the room, he couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes flickered with suspicion, as though she were bracing herself for one of his usual quips.
God, does she think I’m going to embarrass her? The thought stung more than it should have, and Rupert resolved to surprise her—not with words, but with action.
The first notes of the waltz began, and Rupert placed his hand lightly on her waist, feeling the warmth of her through the soft fabric of her dress. She hesitated for a moment before stepping into the hold, her movements unsure but determined.
“Relax, Taggie,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I’m not going to let you trip.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of annoyance flaring there. “I don’t need your help staying upright, thanks.”
Rupert smirked, but he said nothing, guiding her into the first turn. To his surprise—and mild irritation—she was good. Her steps were quick and instinctive, and she had a natural rhythm that made it easy to lead her across the floor. Easier than he wanted to admit.
“You’ve done this before,” he said after a moment, curiosity creeping into his tone.
Her lips quirked into a faint smile. “Don’t sound so shocked. You’re not the only one who knows how to function in polite society.”
“I never said you weren’t,” Rupert replied, though his tone was softer than usual. He studied her face, noting the faint flush on her cheeks and the way her lashes lowered slightly as she focused on the movement.
She’s enjoying this. The realization sent a flicker of something unfamiliar through him—pride? Amusement? He wasn’t sure.
“Relax,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she shot back, though the tension in her shoulders eased slightly.
They moved in silence for a moment, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses fading into the background. Rupert was surprised by how natural it felt—how easily they fell into step.
“Really, though you’re not terrible at this,” she admitted grudgingly, her eyes flicking up to meet his.
Rupert smirked. “High praise from you.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away. “I’m just saying. I half-expected you to step on my toes.”
“I’m offended,” he said dryly. “Do you think I’ve spent all these years perfecting my image only to fail at basic ballroom etiquette?”
Taggie laughed, a genuine sound that sent an odd, unfamiliar warmth through his chest. He hadn’t meant to make her laugh, but now he was quite glad he had. He would’ve done many things to hear that sound again, he thought.
“You really are insufferable,” she said, though her tone was lighter now, almost teasing.
“And you’re stubborn,” he countered.
“Someone has to be, with you around.”
The music shifted into a new song, slightly faster but still slow enough to keep them close. Rupert felt a flicker of hesitation—this was already toeing the line of impropriety, especially for someone as guarded as Taggie, especially for Declan’s daughter who despised him. But she didn’t pull away, her grip on his hand steady.
“You’re surprisingly tolerable when you’re not talking,” she said after a moment.
Rupert chuckled softly. “I could say the same about you.”
They danced in silence after that, the weight of their earlier bickering dissolving into something quieter, almost tentative. Rupert was keenly aware of how small she felt in his arms, of the way her eyes darted to his face before quickly looking away.
Rupert prided himself on his ability to charm, but something about this moment felt different. There was no room for games in the quiet space between their steps, no opportunity for witty comebacks or clever jabs. It was just Taggie—irritating, sharp-tongued, magnetic Taggie—and the realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
He tightened his grip on her hand, his thumb brushing the back of hers in what felt like an involuntary gesture. He told himself it was just muscle memory, nothing more. But when she glanced up at him, her lips parting slightly as if to speak, he forgot whatever clever remark he’d been planning to make.
When the song ended, Taggie stepped back, smoothing her dress as if trying to reestablish some invisible boundary.
“Well,” she said, her voice deliberately casual, “that wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever done.”
Rupert’s lips quirked. “Another glowing review.”
She shook her head, but he thought he caught the faintest hint of a smile before she turned and walked off, disappearing into the crowd.
Rupert stayed where he was, watching her go. He should have been relieved— glad, even—that the dance was over. Instead, he felt a strange pull, like the moment you close a book and immediately wish for one more chapter.
For the first time in years, Rupert found himself intrigued and wondering what might happen next.
Rupert’s thoughts churned. He had danced with plenty of women over the years—many of them more graceful, more polished than Taggie—but none had ever left him feeling… this.
He stole a glance at her as she reached for her glass of wine, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with an air of deliberate indifference. She was pretending the dance hadn’t affected her, but he saw the faint tension in her jaw, the way her fingers trembled slightly as she raised the glass to her lips.
It wasn’t just me, he thought, a smug satisfaction rising in his chest. But then a pang of something darker followed. What the hell am I doing?
Before he could make sense of the tangle of emotions running through him, someone called his name—a colleague from Venturer, eager to discuss some merger or acquisition. Rupert hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on Taggie, who was now speaking with Freddie and Lizzie.
“You looked good out there,” the colleague said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Rupert forced a smile, but his mind was elsewhere. As he answered the man’s questions with practiced ease, his thoughts kept drifting back to the dance—and the woman who had managed, in just a few minutes, to unsettle him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
----
Unbeknownst to them, as the pair had danced, from the corner of the room, Lizzie nudged Freddie with her elbow, gesturing toward the makeshift dance floor. “Look at them,” she whispered, a smile tugging at her lips.
Freddie followed her gaze, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think it’d happen this soon.”
“It’s a dance,” Lizzie said, though her tone suggested it was much more than that. “But he’s smiling. Properly smiling. When’s the last time you saw Rupert Campbell-Black do that?”
Freddie smirked. “Probably when he won his last race. Still, that’ll be fun to watch.”