THE MATCHED CREW WAKES US up before dawn, banging on doors like drill sergeants, to the vocal disgruntlement of the contestants. If there’s one thing the female aristocracy values above all else, it’s beauty sleep. Staff have been fired—and in the past, killed—for less.
I think the producer intentionally wants them on edge, moody, and pissed off—ready to snap at each other.
Drama sells, almost as well as sex.
They tell us to pack an overnight bag quickly. Only one bag per person, which for this group is a challenge. They don’t tell us our destination, only to bring clothes appropriate for a pool party. Danish pastries and tea are laid out on the dining room table, but we have to grab and go, to the airport.
Once there, we’re ushered into a very large back waiting room, separate and shielded from the public. The rear wall is all windows, facing the tarmac where private planes sit. Henry gazes out the window, in a white button-down shirt and tan slacks, his broad back to the room of ladies, leaning one hand on the glass. He seems fixed on something, staring.
I come up beside him, peeking under his arm, to see what he sees.
And my heart drops.
Because it’s a military plane. Four uniformed soldiers have deplaned, and with practiced, almost beautiful precision, they carry a casket, draped in the gold-and-purple Wessco flag, and place it onto a silver-wheeled table.
I’m transfixed as they move, marching in time, one man at each of the corners—reverently escorting the remains toward the waiting hearse. Three of the soldiers stay behind, while one of them walks through the door at the far end of the waiting room we now occupy.
It’s only then that I turn my head and see a dark-haired, middle-aged woman in a wrinkled beige coat, holding the hand of the small boy beside her. He seems to be about ten years old. The soldier bends his head, speaking softly, handing the woman a manila envelope.
Henry watches for a moment, and then he’s walking toward them. I follow behind.
The soldier’s eyes flare when he sees him, immediately going stiff with a salute. Henry pauses a few feet away, snapping a salute in return. And then the soldier bows low and Henry nods. The soldier straightens up, gives some final words to the woman, and tells her they’ll wait for her at the car until she’s ready.
The woman watches him walk away, bringing a tissue to her nose. And it’s only then that she notices Henry—realizes who he is.
“Oh, Your Highness.” She bows, and the boy beside her mimics the motion. “Hello. I didn’t know you were here.”
“It’s an unannounced trip. Ms. . . .?”
“Campbell. Mrs. Margery Campbell.” She strokes the boy’s hair. “And this is Louis.”
“Mrs. Campbell. Hello, Louis.”
“Hello, Prince Henry,” the boy says without smiling.
“I want to offer my condolences for your loss.”
Mrs. Campbell dabs at her eyes with the tissue. “Thank you.” She gazes lovingly at the casket through the window. “That’s my oldest, Charlie.”
“Charlie Campbell,” Henry says, like he’s committing the name to memory.
“That’s right. Charlie’s captain told me that it was an ambush that took him, said he was very brave. He drew the fire on himself so the other boys could take cover.”
“A heroic act that I’m sure those boys will never forget,” Henry offers.
Mrs. Campbell nods. “He was always a good lad. Protective. And now he’s in heaven with his da, watching over us all.”
I lean down toward Louis. “I bet Charlie loved having you for a little brother.”
The boy sniffs and nods. “He taught me how to fly-fish. I’ve been practicing and I’m real good at it now.”
I nod, just barely able to hold back my tears. “And whenever you fish, you’ll think of him and so he’ll always be with you.”
Louis nods again.
Henry takes his wallet from his pocket and hands Mrs. Campbell his card. “If there’s anything I can do for you—anything at all—I want you to call my office. Please.”
She takes the card, smiling with wet eyes. “I will, thank you.” Then she gazes up at Henry, contemplatively. “You’ve grown into such a fine young man, Prince Henry. Princess Calista would be so proud.”
Henry looks down. “I hope so,” he says, his voice soft and rough.
“Oh, I’m sure of it. We mums know these things. She would be as proud of you as I . . .” Her voice drifts off as she turns to gaze at the flag-draped casket. And her face crumples. “Oh my boy . . . my poor, sweet Charlie . . .”
She covers her face, sobbing into her hands, and the tears leak through her fingers.
Without hesitating, Henry pulls her into his arms and presses her head to his chest.
It’s a break in protocol—common citizens aren’t supposed to hug royalty—but Henry doesn’t seem to care.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, smoothing her hair down. “I’m so, so sorry.”
When little Louis’s face twists, I hug him to me, soothing him with soft, rambling words that I can only hope will bring him comfort.
And we stay just like that for a time, until the tears calm and deep breaths are taken. Henry leaves Mrs. Campbell with a squeeze of her hands and a reminder to call his office if she needs anything. Then together, we rejoin our waiting group.
“That was television gold!” Vanessa Steele practically bounces in her stilettoes. “When that footage airs—the dashing prince comforting the grieving mother—it’ll be the biggest cross-continental panty drop the world has ever seen.”
At first Henry looks ill, and then . . . angry.
“You filmed that?”
“Of course we filmed it. I told you, everything is copy—and that was fucking phenomenal. Real emotion; you can’t stage that kind of thing.”
Henry’s finger lashes out, pointing toward the exiting hearse. “That boy died for his country. For my country. He gave his life protecting the ground beneath your feet.”
Vanessa stands straight, meeting his discontent head on.
“And when I’m done with him, everyone will know his name. His story and sacrifice.”
Horseshit. I’m naïve, but not even I am that naïve. The producer’s motivations have nothing to do with honoring the dead.
Henry nods, tensely rubbing his lips together. He motions to the cameraman. “Can I see it?”
The cameraman hands over the silver device—small, as Penny had explained to me, to unobtrusively capture the shot in public, but powerful enough to film from long distances in the highest definition. Henry turns it over in his hands.
Then he drops it to the ground and stomps it to pieces beneath his boot—paying special care to pulverize the memory card.
“Henry!” Vanessa screeches. “God damn it!”
“This is one of the worst days of their lives, in a string of horrific days,” he bites back. “You don’t get to turn that into entertainment.”
The producer seethes. “Do you know how expensive that equipment is?”
Henry sneers. “Bill me.”
And then he strides away.
Out on the tarmac as we file up the steps onto the plane, Henry is last in line. I double back and slip behind him. He’s still furious—his face tight, shoulders tense, and fists clenched.
“That was amazing,” I tell him softly. “I think what you did was amazing.”
He shakes his head bitterly.
“No. It was just decent.” His eyes burn with a green, thrashing fire. “Your expectations shouldn’t be so low.”
“My expectations of you?”
“Of everyone.” His words are clipped and sharp. “Set your bar higher, Sarah.”
Then he turns around, dismissing me, and steps onto the plane.
We touch down in Hampton Hills, a posh destination for the rich and famous in the northernmost region of Wessco. A black window–tinted caravan whisks us to The Reginald Hotel, where Matched has reserved the indoor pool for a private party. Upon entering, Henry strips down to his swim trunks and heads straight for the bar. The camera follows him as he moves to a reclining lounge chair, a whiskey in each hand.
My chest pinches as I watch him watching the ladies frolic in the pool, in their colorful array of barely-there string bikinis. I push up the sleeves of my black shirt, feeling sticky and uncomfortable in the steamy, humid room. Until Vanessa Steele whips out her obnoxious bullhorn again, ordering all assistants and non-cast members to leave the area.
“Come play, Henry!” Lady Cordelia calls, holding a beach ball over her head and moving closer to the cameraman who stands at the edge of the pool.
He gulps his drink, grinning. “I’ll join you just as soon as I finish this, sweets.”
I look away and move toward Penelope, where she’s comparing manicures with Laura Benningson near the diving board.
“I’m going up to the room, Pen,” I tell her. “Behave yourself, yeah?”
My sister nods and waves.
And my head wants to swivel in Henry’s direction for one last look, to see if he’s gone to “play” with Cordelia. But I force myself to keep my eyes trained on the door.
And then I walk out.
Later, after a dinner of fish and chips in my room, I lie in bed trying to read Jane Eyre, but my heart’s just not in it. The words blend together and the only thing I see in my mind is Henry Pembrook, lying half-naked on a pool chair, giggling and laughing and drinking. I wonder—did he stay at the pool? Or did he move to one of the girls’ rooms—Cordelia or Elizabeth or, hell, Penelope’s—for a more private party?
My book closes with a clap.
I slip on my shoes and take the lift down to the pool. It’s late, and the hotel halls are quiet and empty. James, Henry’s personal security guard, stands outside the pool area door.
“Is he still in there?” I ask.
“He is, Lady Sarah.”
I try to sound nonchalant, but don’t think I pull it off.
“Is he alone?”
James’s blue eyes are soft with sympathy; I just can’t tell if it’s for Henry or for me.
“Aye. Filming wrapped hours ago but he hasn’t left. Hasn’t eaten, either.”
I nod. And against my better judgment, allow my feet to pull me inside.
He’s in the deep end, his upper body floating on an inner tube, a half-full glass of whiskey in his hand. And he’s singing. “Rubber ducky, you’re the one. You make bath time lots of fun.”
“You do realize it’s a swimming pool and not a bathtub, don’t you?”
His eyes are cloudy. Drunk.
“There she is. Where did you float off to, little duck? You missed the party. It was a good time.”
“I was in my room.”
He holds up his glass, sloshing the contents into the pool. “Don’t tell me—you were reading. What was on the menu this evening?”
“Jane Eyre.”
A disgusted sound comes from his throat. “That’s depressing. Not even a good mummy porn or a nice, old-fashioned bodice ripper?”
I snort, because Prince Henry knowing those terms is funny.
“Not tonight.”
“Well, let me know when you’ve got one of those—I want you to read it to me. Out loud.”
As expected, I blush, and Henry chuckles.
Then he lowers his face to the water, sucks up a mouthful, and spits it out in a high, arched stream. “Look, I’m a fountain.”
I shake my head. “You’re an arse.”
He pouts. “Is that any way to speak to the heir to the throne?”
“Right now? Yes.” I cross my arms. “You should get out—you’re all pruned.”
“Or you could join me? Come on, jump in—show me your best cannonball.”
“I’m not wearing a suit.”
“So swim naked. I’ll keep my eyes closed, I swear.”
He holds up his hand, fingers crossed, to show me he’s lying.
And I laugh. “I don’t think so.”
“What are you frightened of?”
“Dying. I don’t know how to swim.”
If he’s surprised by the admission he doesn’t show it.
“You shouldn’t be afraid of dying, Sarah—everyone does it. The only thing to be scared of is not living before you do.”
I move closer, my shoes stopping at the edge. “That’s very poetic, Henry. Now come out—it’s dangerous to drink and swim alone.”
“Then don’t let me swim alone! The water’s lovely. Come in, let me carry you to the other end of the pool—face your fear—and then I’ll get out like a good lad, I promise.”
This time his fingers are spread wide, uncrossed. He slips out of the inner tube, holding his drink above the water, and kicks over to me. Waiting.
He’s going to be stubborn about this, I can tell. And there’s a foreign, blooming bud inside me that wants to try. It’s a quiet but insistent voice, a gentle nudge. I’m starting to think of it as the Henry Effect, because he makes me feel so many . . . things. Safe and wild and maybe just a little bit mad all at once.
Henry makes me want to take a chance. On new experiences.
And on him.
So, I take a deep breath and slide out of my shoes. Trying to control my shaking limbs, I turn around and lower myself over the edge, into the water. My cotton sleeping pants and shirt mold to my body, but they’re light, so they don’t drag me down. Still, I hold onto the edge with white-knuckled hands.
And Henry is right there, his skin slick and warm, his arm like an iron band around my waist—strong and solid.
“That’s a brave girl,” he whispers against my ear.
I turn in his arms, squeezing mine around his neck. My legs kick, and the sensation of nothing beneath them sends me veering toward panic.
“Easy, I’ve got you.”
Henry shifts to his back, arranging me on his torso, like he’s my own personal royal floaty. Then he reaches for his drink on the pool’s edge. “Hold onto this for me?”
Smoothly, he pushes us off from the wall, and the water makes little currents against his shoulders and arms as we glide toward the middle. My trembling eases a bit.
“See?” Henry teases. “Water is your friend. Do you want to learn to swim? I could teach you.”
“I don’t know.” I eye the water suspiciously.
“Why are you afraid all the time?” he asks, not in a nasty way but with simple curiosity.
“I’m not. I just like . . . consistency.”
“Consistency is boring.”
“It’s safe. If you know what’s coming, you’re never caught off guard.”
Henry rolls his eyes.
“Why are you sad all the time?” I ask.
“I’m not sad—I’m pitiful. There’s a difference.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and the only sound between us is the gentle swish of water.
“Do you think Charlie Campbell lived?” Henry wonders. “Before he died?”
Droplets glitter on his lashes like diamonds. I try to focus on that and not the heartache wrapped in the question.
“I hope so. Sometimes, that’s all there is. Hope.”
Henry nods. “I suppose you’re right.”
I hold up his drink and toast, “To Charlie.”
Henry smiles softly as I take a sip, before holding the glass to his lips.
“To Charlie,” he says, then drinks.
He takes the empty glass from my hand and sends it floating away. Then he strokes his arms through the water, pushing us gently forward.
And then, he just . . . looks at me. With warmth and enjoyment. My glasses fog and I slip them off.
“Fuck, but you’re pretty,” Henry murmurs.
Instinctually, my chin dips and I glance down at his chest.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that?”
I shrug. “Not really.”
“They should have,” he insists softly. “You should’ve been told every day how pretty you are—inside and out.”
And there’s a great swelling of tenderness in my chest, around my heart, that almost feels too large to contain. Not because of the compliment, but because of him. This beautiful, broken, pitiful prince. Was Henry ever told how brilliant he is? Kind and strong, generous, and good? I don’t think he was and they should’ve told him. Every single day.
Before I know it, we’re across the pool at the shallow end. Henry’s shoulder brushes the slick, tiled edge.
“There.” He stands upright and my feet touch the pool’s bottom. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
We’re close enough that I can taste his breath—smoky wood, whiskey, and man.
“No. Not so bad.”
And I feel like I’m in a daze, like I’m in a dream. Our gazes lock and Henry’s finger runs from my forehead, down my cheek to my chin, stroking back a damp lock of hair.
“Sarah . . .” he says, almost groaning.
He leans in closer, slowly . . .
And I blink and turn away.
Because maybe he’s right after all. Maybe I am afraid all the time.
I move to the edge of the pool, out of his embrace. A waterfall pours from my sopping clothes as I lift myself out, my voice quickly chirping with cheeriness.
“Come on now, out we go.”
I wrap one towel from the lounge chair around my chest and unfold the other, holding it open for him. Henry hesitates, looking ready to argue.
“You promised,” I remind him.
He sighs dramatically and lowers his lips into the water, blowing out a wet raspberry. But then he climbs up the steps, holding the railing, and takes the towel from me, rubbing it over his shoulders and down his arms.
I try not to look, but when he dries his stomach my eyes drop—and the clear, hard outline of his thick erection against his swim trunks is unmistakable. And magnificent.
I know he’s caught me looking when he teases, “Will you tuck me into bed, Titebottum? Give me a good-night kiss . . . somewhere?”
I tighten the towel at my chest, hating how prim the action must look, but still replying, “No. That honor goes to James.”
He scoffs. “Spoilsport.”