AND THE SHOW GOES ON. It’s still a distraction, still entertaining and a hell of a lot better than nightmares and sitting in the library alone at night, poring over boring details and laws and obsessing about just how high the cliff is that I’m sure to drive my country over if they ever actually let me become king.
But . . . being on Matched has turned out so differently than I’d first imagined. Now I have Vanessa pick which ladies I should send packing—because I don’t really care. For all the filthy sex fantasies I thought I’d be acting out when this started, I’m not interested in any of the ladies anymore.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I’m not interested in screwing the contestants silly anymore—not even a little. One particular sister of a contestant, however . . . that’s another story.
I send several of the ladies packing—including Libby and Jane Plutorch. Jane reacts predictably, which is to say she has no reaction at all. Princess Alpacca and Guermo sneak off and elope in a secret ceremony that we don’t find out about until we read it in the papers. Vanessa is thrilled—it’ll be grand publicity, she says, when the show airs.
After another week, we’re down to the final four: Cordelia, Laura, Elizabeth, and Penny. One morning I’m shooting scenes with Laura down at the beach. We’re supposed to be sitting in the sand and cuddling, searching for seashells—it should all be terribly romantic.
But there’s nothing romantic about sand coating your balls.
With the water rushing over my feet, I gaze down the beach, spotting Sarah in her baggy workout gear, going through her aikido exercises. And Laura catches me staring.
“She’s rather lovely, isn’t she?” Laura asks, standing beside me.
I squint, nodding.
“Whoever lands her will be a lucky bloke, I think.”
Her comment magnifies the hollowness in my chest.
“Yes.” I force a smile. “Lucky.”
“Henry—”
Before she can continue, a golf cart drives up and Vanessa Steele springs out and up the beach to us.
“Hey—we have a problem. You have some unexpected guests down at the gate. You should go check it out.”
Guests? Who would come here to see me?
I hop in the golf cart and drive down to the main gate. Just in time to hear Franny Barrister, the Countess of Ellington, tearing into a poor, clueless Matched security guard.
“Don’t you tell me we can’t come in, you horse’s arse. Where’s Henry—what have you done with him?”
Simon, my brother’s best friend, sees me approach, his sparkling blue eyes shining. “There he is.”
I nod to security and open the gate.
“Simon, Franny, what are you doing here?”
“Nicholas said you didn’t sound right the last time he spoke to you. He asked us to peek in on you,” Simon explains.
Franny’s shrewd gaze rakes me over. “He doesn’t look drunk. And he obviously hasn’t hung himself from the rafters—that’s better than I was expecting.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Simon peers around the grounds, at the smattering of crew members and staging tents. “What the hell is going on, Henry?”
I clear my throat. “So . . . the thing is . . . I’m sort of . . . filming a reality dating television show here at the castle and we started with twenty women and now we’re down to four, and when it’s over one of them will get the diamond tiara and become my betrothed. At least in theory.”
It sounded so much better in my head.
“Don’t tell Nicholas.”
Simon scrubs his hand down his face. “Now I’m going to have to avoid his calls—I’m terrible with secrets.”
And Franny lets loose a peal of tinkling laughter. “This is fabulous! You never disappoint, you naughty boy.” She pats my arm. “And don’t worry, when the Queen boots you out of the palace, Simon and I will adopt you. Won’t we, darling?”
Simon nods. “Yes, like a rescue dog.”
“Good to know.” Then I gesture back to their car. “Well . . . it was nice of you to stop by.”
Simon shakes his head. “You’re not getting rid of us that easily, mate.”
“Yes, we’re definitely staying.” Franny claps her hands. “I have to see this!”
Fantastic.
I give Simon and Franny the grand tour, filling them in on the rules and the contestants. When we walk into the great room, where much of the crew has gathered, Cordelia and Elizabeth back away from Franny like snakes making room for a cobra. Back in the day, Franny was Queen of the Mean Girls—but since she fell for Simon, she’s much nicer.
She glances at the landing at the top of the stairs.
“Interesting. Are those the Titebottum sisters?” she asks. “Penelope and Sarah?”
My voice softens involuntarily when I gaze up at them. “Yes. Do you know them?”
Franny’s expression sobers. “I know of them. Quite a bit.”
“Good. Now that I think about it, you could be helpful to Sarah. She’s terribly shy and you’re so . . . not. I’m trying to bring her out of her shell.”
“Everyone knows the best way to get a turtle out of its shell is to stick a finger up its arse. Have you tried that?”
I snort. “I would if I could, believe me.”
She sighs. “Mmm. All right then, I’ll go introduce myself to the shy sweetling.”
She climbs the steps, her black heels clicking, to do just that.
I watch as the trio exchanges pleasantries and then Franny loops her arm through Sarah’s. “I like you already. Let’s be best friends.”
As the afternoon fades into night, Penny, Elizabeth, Laura, and Cordelia head upstairs to change for dinner and Sarah tags along with her sister. Apparently, it’s a group date night—they’ll be filming as I take all four ladies out to dinner to “shake things up,” as Vanessa put it.
Simon and Franny sign release papers in case they’re caught on camera. Before they start rolling, Sarah comes down the stairs. Her hair is down and shiny and curled at the ends. She’s wearing an elegant, form-fitting silk cocktail dress and I lose the ability to speak. Granny would be so pleased.
She looks beautiful, but she rarely looks anything else. The reason I’ve gone mute is because instead of her typical black clothes, the dress Sarah’s wearing is . . . red.
Ruby red.
The color warms her skin and brings out the gold in her eyes.
“Wow,” I whisper.
She smiles, cheeks going pink, and flattens her palm against her stomach, fidgeting. “Thank you. It’s Penny’s. Franny helped me give it a quick alteration—did you know she sewed?”
“Franny is a multifaceted woman.”
“Yes.”
Then I’m the one fidgeting. “What’s the occasion? Hot date?”
Sarah swallows and looks up at me, hopefully. “No. I just thought it might be time to . . . try something new.”
“New looks really good on you.”
She seems as if she’s about to say something else, but then the director calls for filming to begin. Sarah heads off to the sidelines, while Penelope comes down the stairs, with her shoulders back, tits out, and blond head high—in a nice little royal-blue number.
When she reaches the bottom of the steps, I bow and kiss her hand. Penny giggles for the cameras, then takes her spot near the door.
Laura descends the stairs next, in a light-pink, swishy-skirted dress. She looks better than she did a few weeks ago—her cheeks are fuller and her pallor is all but gone. She gives me a peck on the cheek and I return the favor.
And while Penny and Laura are gorgeous girls, my eyes keep drifting over to Sarah, where she chats with Franny and Simon.
I can’t stop looking at her.
Then there’s a commotion at the top of the landing as Cordelia and Elizabeth argue over who’s supposed to come down next. And even better?
They’re wearing the exact same dress.
For ladies—especially noble ladies—it’s the cardinal sin. You can screw their man and insult their mother, but you’d better not fucking be wearing their dress.
Cordelia and Elizabeth don’t notice right way, but you can tell the moment they do—because right after, they start screaming and tearing each other’s hair out.
Vanessa Steele watches the drama with glee—looking like a kid in a candy shop on Christmas Day.
The restaurant is a low-key pub—comfortable like The Goat but more upscale, with a small stage at one end. It’s crowded, nearly every table filled to capacity, and there’s a loud din of chatter—like background static noise. The reactions of the patrons to me are . . . off, strange. They glance my way but continue their conversations as if they’re not surprised a prince just walked through the door, as if they know they’re not supposed to be noticing me. And they don’t look at the cameras at all.
“Who are these people?” I ask Vanessa as we take our seats.
“Extras. American extras—we flew them in this morning, but the audience won’t be able to tell.” She wiggles her fingers. “The magic of television.”
I sit with the girls at one table, where the cameras focus, while some of the other crew, as well as Sarah, Simon, and Franny take a table beside ours.
I order shots for all of us—tequila. Three rounds later, Elizabeth and Penelope are playing a rock, paper, scissors drinking game. When the drinks don’t come fast enough, they wager bets instead. Loser has to pop up on that little stage and sing her heart out.
Penny loses. And then she starts to flip out. “Oh my God, oh my God, I can’t sing . . . I’m a terrible singer . . . I can’t sing on television—I’ll look like a fool. Maybe I can dance instead, a snappy tap number?”
“No.” Cordelia points her finger. “We said singing. That was the deal. If you welch, we get to cut your hair off.”
Penny frowns and preemptively grabs at her scalp.
“No one’s cutting off my sister’s hair.”
Every set of eyes turns toward the end of the table in surprise. Because the voice is firm and semi-threatening. And it comes from Sarah’s lips. I wonder if this is part of her “trying something new” resolution.
Sarah stares Cordelia down. “I’ll go up and sing for her.”
“You?” Cordelia scoffs mockingly. “You can barely speak. And it’s against the rules, anyway.”
Sarah doesn’t back down—not an inch. “The rules have changed.”
Good girl.
Cordelia shakes her head, her face twisting with spite. Then she picks up a glass, holds it out with a straight arm, and drops it on the floor, where it shatters.
When nothing happens, when Sarah just continues to gaze dismissively, the vicious confidence fades from Cordelia’s eyes.
“You ought to clean that up,” Sarah says, walking past. “Someone could get hurt.”
Franny clicks her tongue. “All that arse fucking has made you quite a Nasty Bitch, Cordelia. You should break the seal already—it may help your disposition.”
Have I mentioned that I fucking love Franny?
But I’m focused on Sarah, in her little red dress, on the stage, muttering to herself and twisting her fingers into knots and generally looking like she’s about to keel over or spew.
I stand and walk up beside her. “How are we doing? Is this going to be Davey 2.0?”
Her throat convulses when she swallows. “Probably. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You were thinking about sticking up for your sister.”
Sarah stares out over the crowd, who haven’t really noticed her yet—her eyes infinitely big and dark, her face paling by the second.
And she whispers, “I can’t do this, Henry.”
I disentangle her fingers for her. “Yes you can. I’ll be right here the whole time.”
Her eyes turn to me and I give her a wink. Then I bring a chair forward and I pick up the guitar that’s propped up at the back of the stage, testing the strings and adjusting the amp.
The room goes quiet, everyone watching. Waiting.
Sarah takes the deepest breath and she closes her eyes—not tightly or squeezing—gently, like she’s dreaming. And I play the opening notes, soft and sad and consistent.
It’s “Hallelujah.”
And then she starts to sing, and I’m so fucking proud of her, I want to climb a mountain just so I can shout from it. Sarah’s voice is clear and hauntingly gorgeous. In that moment, every person in the audience falls in love with her. And when she sings about standing before God with nothing on her lips but Hallelujah—I fall in love with her a little bit too.
When she gets to the part I’ve always interpreted as talking about sex—moving in each other and gasping—Sarah opens her eyes, but she only looks at me. And it’s like those piercing eyes of hers could capture my soul.
Then they’re closing again and she finishes the song as it’s supposed to be finished—poignant and unashamed, with broken emotion ringing in every syllable. “Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Halle . . . luuuu . . . jah.”
When her lips close and the final note is still ringing in the air, quiet little Sarah Von Titebottum brings down the house.
And the night doesn’t end there—not even close. When we get back to the castle, Vanessa has a surprise. “I thought we needed to up the fun quotient around here, so . . . we’re having a party.”
She leads us to the great room, where, holy hell—Bartholomew Gallagar, Hannibal Lancaster, Sam Berkinshire, and about half a dozen more of my best lads and old schoolmates are waiting.
“Surprise! Have fun, Henry.”
Emily, the host, does an intro to our new guests for the cameras—which are still rolling, rolling, rolling. And then I’m greeting the boys, smacking backs and pouring drinks.
Nicholas despises Lancaster, but I’ve always found him to be game for a good time.
“You lucky bastard,” he tells me, surveying the room. “Have you fucked them all, or are you pacing yourself?”
Sarah’s eyes cut over her shoulder, hearing Hannibal and frowning at what he said.
He flips his brown hair out of his eyes and seems to zero in on Cordelia. “I haven’t stuck it to a virgin in years. If there are any left, point me in their direction.”
I clap him on the shoulder when there’s suddenly a noisy row near the door . . . because Sam just saw Elizabeth.
“Lizzy?” he chokes. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Elizabeth unleashes hell.
“Fuck you, Sam! You don’t get to ask me questions, you cheating tosser!”
I push my way over to them.
“Henry?” And there’s so much accusation in Sam’s one word.
“It’s not how it looks. I can explain.”
But Elizabeth beats me to the punch. “Just wait until the show airs and everyone you know watches me boffing Henry.”
It’s not true, but she seems to get a thrill over the agony that flashes across Sam’s face.
“Get a big bucket of popping corn and watch it with your granny,” Elizabeth hisses.
“Are you saying you don’t like my granny?” Sam asks, brokenly.
“I’m saying I don’t like you!” Elizabeth screeches, hair flying out like Medusa.
Then Sam turns my way. “I’m going to rip your balls off.”
I hold up my hands. “It’s not like that, Sam.”
Then, with a roar, he tackles me.
HENRY LOOKS HAPPY. Well, he does now. After he and Sam Berkinshire rolled around on the floor for a bit, security broke them apart. Sam swore to Elizabeth that the things she’d found—the rubbers and receipts—were items he’d bought for her, to use with her. Then he confessed that the panties . . . he’d bought for himself.
I didn’t see that one coming.
And it would seem, neither did Elizabeth—she didn’t believe him and is still refusing to speak to him.
But Henry’s laughing, teasing, and talking with everyone in the room. He’s in the middle of a circle of people, both men and women, recounting stories of his and the lads’ antics while they were at boarding school together. The chuckles are loud and plentiful and genuine. He’s the center of attention and he basks in it, stretching and blossoming like a lush plant in the sun.
Then, instruments are brought in. Henry grabs his guitar and Sam slips a harmonica out of his pocket. And it seems Simon Barrister, the Earl of Ellington, plays the drums. His wife, Franny—a lovely, lively character—watches him intently, worshipfully, ready to yell and clap like a teen at a concert. I can see why.
Because when they start to play, when Henry begins to sing the Tom Petty song “You Don’t Know How It Feels—wearing low-slung jeans and a plain white T-shirt, his hair devilishly mussed, his arms flexing as he strums the chords, his tattoo on display, his smile sinful—it is the damned sexiest thing I have ever seen.
I couldn’t imagine anything hotter.
But then his eyes meet mine and he winks at me, and I’m proven so wrong.
I want to jump him. Literally—throw myself at him. My breasts ache for the touch of those strong hands and long fingers. My thighs clench with raw, randy desire. I want to do things to him—things I can’t put into words—and my cheeks flame just thinking about them. I want him to do things to me—everything. Anything he wants.
As the song ends and they start another, I tear my eyes away. I feel light and drunk and just a little bit crazy. My hand fans my face and I pour myself a drink, gulping it down my parched throat. And it’s all so overwhelming—wild, but wonderful.
With the sounds of the music following me, I step out of the great room into the cooler hallway, wanting to catch my breath just for a moment. And here I used to think all the swooning heroines in my novels were over the top.
But now I know their reactions were spot on. Now I understand.
And I hope before this night is over, I’ll also understand all the sensations—the erotic tastes and touches—I’ve read about.
The music room is just a few steps from the great room, and the song and chatter from the party still comes through clearly. I run my finger over the shiny black lacquer of the piano, close my eyes and dream of what could happen tonight. I imagine Henry’s satisfied groans, his panting breath in my ear, his glorious dirty mouth speaking in a rough voice laden with desire.
And then a voice comes from behind me—and it’s not Henry’s.
“At first glance, there’s not much to you. But close up, you’re actually sort of pretty. I like that.”
It’s one of Henry’s friends—the rude one. He’s standing between me and the door. And though I want to tell him to go away, or move past him, my feet are frozen. Because there’s a look in his eyes that I know well—that I’ve seen more times than I ever want to remember.
Cruelty.
And it paralyzes me.
“Are you afraid?” he asks, moving closer.
And I can’t move.
Then he smiles slowly.
“I like that too.”