MR. HAVERSTROM ISN’T PLEASED WHEN I present him with my official Act of Royalty letter, excusing me from work for the next six weeks. But, as he acknowledged, he can’t fire me. And while I’ll miss the library and the regulars and lunch with Annie and Willard, in the end, it’s worth it. The unknown of Matched pales in comparison to the stark terror of standing in front of hundreds of people. No contest.
Ten days after Miss Herald showed up at our front door, a car arrives to take Penelope and me to Anthorp Castle. The property is only a little over an hour’s drive from Castlebrook. It’s guarded grounds, the royal family’s private property, so while I’ve read a few books about the castle’s history and have seen photos, I’ve never actually visited.
When the car pulls up the long, winding drive and stops in front of giant wood-and-iron doors, I decide for the first time that a book just can’t compare. The smell of salt and sea is in the air, and the wind coming off the water whips at my hair. It’s sunny and cool, and the huge gray stone castle with its points and towers, flags and flowers, drawbridge and moat, is straight out of a fairy tale—like Cinderella or The Little Mermaid.
Yes, with the waves crashing on the rocks below the cliff, The Little Mermaid is the perfect comparison. And it’s my favorite Disney movie.
A few of the show’s crew members collect our bags and carry them in. I notice a few other ladies—in designer clothes and large sunglasses—exiting cars nearby. A couple are familiar to me—the Duchess of Perth, Laura Benningson, and Lady Cordelia Ominsmitch—but the rest I’ve never met, though I’m sure Penny has. Miss Herald greets us in the main foyer and gives us a quick tour. Penelope chooses her room almost immediately—a large pink room on the second floor, near the main staircase and close to the action.
“I’d like to explore the grounds on my own, if that’s all right,” I tell Miss. Herald. “I’ll select a room after.”
“That’ll be fine,” she replies. “The crew, wardrobe, and makeup are using the whole west wing, but any other empty room is up for grabs.”
She hands Penelope her schedule for the day. The first filming session is late this afternoon, in front of the castle with the full cast, including Prince Henry, to shoot the opening scenes of the first episode. Before that, Penny has an interview, a wardrobe consultation, and a cocktail hour meet-and-greet with the other ladies in the castle.
I give my sister a hug before Miss Herald guides her away.
“Have fun, Pen.”
Her soft brown eyes dance up at me. “You too. If you spot any ghosts in this old place, try to get a photo!”
When they walk off, I step slowly through the castle, taking it all in, gazing at the ceilings and the walls and everything in between. I think about the people who have stood where I am right now, whose footsteps I could be retracing—grand lords and ladies, powerful soldiers and warriors, mighty kings and commanding queens.
It’s humbling and thrilling at the same time. Like their energy and spirit is in the stone itself, speaking to me, showing me—guiding my way. Before I know it, I’m in the corner of the east wing on the third floor. It’s quiet here, a bit far from the commotion of the main filming areas. The door creaks when I open it, stepping inside the bedroom.
And my breath catches.
Oh. Hell. Yes. I’ve found my room. Because for me, this one is perfect—absolutely perfect.
Later, when the sun hangs low in the sky but there are still a few hours until sunset, the full cast of ladies and crew are down in front of the castle. Vanessa Steele, the executive producer, announced that all assistants and non-cast members must remain indoors or off set. Since it’s an outdoor shoot, she doesn’t want to chance any of us getting caught in the shot.
I’ve found the perfect spot to watch the taping—on the forested side of the castle, up a hill, near a tree for cover, just in case. I have a stellar view of the castle entrance down below, and in the meantime, I have my book for company. Sitting back against the tree, I sigh with contentment. This is going to be lovely. Then I open my book . . . and practically jump out of my skin when a cough sounds from behind me.
I didn’t see anyone when I first walked up here.
Closing my book, I look out from behind the trunk cautiously. Just far enough . . . to see the unmistakable sight of His Royal Highness, Prince Henry, standing a few yards away.
With a gasp, I duck back behind the tree.
I grew up inundated with news stories of the royal family and posters of our handsome princes pinned to my bedroom walls—every girl in Wessco did. Nicholas was the serious one, staid and well-spoken, honorable—just like Mr. Darcy. Henry always seemed more like Fiyero Tigelaar from Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West—fun-loving, passionate, and thoughtless, focused only on the next party and his own pleasure.
I stand up and peep back out from behind my tree for another glimpse.
And my heart starts to gallop, my head goes fuzzy, and it feels like my throat is closing in on itself. Because—sweet baby Jesus in a manger—he’s coming this way! His long, purposeful strides are aimed right at me. Which means when he gets here, I’ll actually have to speak to him. Although we met that one brief time—last year in a pub when he was with his brother and Olivia Hammond, who is now Princess Olivia, the Duchess of Fairstone—and while I’m acquainted with the details of Prince Henry John Edgar Thomas’s life, he’s still just a handsome stranger. And I don’t do well with strangers.
My eyes dart around for an escape. Curling up behind the tree like a snail in its shell is out—he’s obviously already spotted me. Damn. I glance up at the branches—I’m an excellent climber—but even the lowest one is out of jumping reach. Double damn.
He’s almost here. Shit, shit, shit.
I think I’m hyperventilating. I may pass out. Which would solve the problem of having to talk with him, but it’d be even more embarrassing—I’m speaking from experience.
Mentally, I shake myself. I just need to think of something to say.
And now the only thing filling my mind is thinkofsomethingtosay, thinkofsomethingtosay, thinkofseomthingtosay.
My hands turn sweaty and numb.
I could ask about his mother—always a safe bet. Except . . . his mother is dead.
Damn it all to hell.
And . . . he’s here.
My eyes drop down and I freeze, like a deer caught in the biggest, brightest headlights. I stare at his boots, dark and shiny like black mirrors. I force my gaze upward, over his long legs clad in black . . . polyester pants? His hips and waist are covered by a white jacket with garishly shiny buttons, purple accents, and gold-roped tassels on each of his broad shoulders.
It’s a ridiculous outfit—like a cheap Prince Charming costume—and yet he still manages to look fantastic.
The top button is clasped at his neck, accentuating a sexy, masculine Adam’s apple. He has a chiseled chin; a strong, slightly stubbled jawline; criminally full lips; a straight, regal nose; thick, wild dark-blond hair, and eyes so beautiful they’ll steal your breath, words, and thoughts. They’re a stormy shade of green, but warm like raw emeralds heated by the sun. I remember, the first time we met, thinking how none of the pictures I’d ever seen of him did his eyes justice. And, at this moment, I second that opinion.
If I weren’t naturally speechless, I would be now.
Prince Henry’s brow furrows, looking down at me in an almost disgruntled way.
“Did someone die?”
And it’s such a ludicrous question, I forget to be panicked.
“What?”
“Or are you a witch?” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Sorry—Wiccan? Pagan? Worshipper of the dark arts? What is the PC term these days?”
Is this really happening?
“Uh . . . Wiccan, I believe, is acceptable.”
He nods. “Right. Are you a Wiccan, then?”
“No. Catholic. Not especially devout, but . . .”
“Hmm.” He wiggles his finger at my hands. “What are you reading?”
“Oh . . . Wuthering Heights?”
He nods again. “Heathcliff, right?”
“Yes.”
“So it’s about a fat orange cat?”
My mind trips as I try to figure out what he’s talking about. The comic! He thinks it’s about Heathcliff the comic strip.
“Actually, no, it’s about a young man and woman who—”
His eyes crinkle and his lips smirk, making my cheeks go warm and pink.
“Are you teasing me, Your Highness?”
“Yes.” He chuckles. “Badly, apparently. And please, call me Henry.”
My voice is airy, hesitant, as I try it out.
“Henry.”
His smile remains, but softens—like he enjoys hearing the word. And then I remember myself, curtsying as I should have from the start.
“Oh! And I am—”
“You’re Lady Sarah Von Titebottum.”
Warmth unfurls in my stomach.
“You remembered?”
“I never forget a pretty face.”
My cheeks go from pink to bright red. I change colors more often than a chameleon. It’s a curse.
“I’m not usually good with names.” His eyes drift down to my hips, trying to look behind me. “But Titebottum does stand out.”
When nervous, I typically go mute. This moment is the exception to that rule.
Just my luck.
“You would think so, although several of my uni professors had trouble with the pronunciation. Let’s see, there was Teet-bottom, Tight-butt-um, and one who insisted it should be Titty-bottom. It’s not everyday you hear a distinguished professor say the word tit. That one kept the class entertained for weeks.”
He tilts his head back, chuckling again. “That’s great.”
My face is now approaching purple. I take a deep, slow breath. “Um . . . why did you ask if someone had died?”
He gestures to my clothes. “Both times I’ve seen you, you’ve worn black. What’s that about?”
“Oh.” I glance down at my long-sleeved, knee-length black dress with a crisp white collar and black ankle boots. “Well, black is easy; it goes with everything. And I’m not one for loud colors; I don’t like to stand out. You could say I’m a bit . . . shy.”
And the award for understatement of the year goes to . . .
“That’s a shame. You’d look gorgeous in jeweled tones. Emerald, deep plum.” His eyes wander, pausing at my legs, then my breasts. “In a clingy ruby number, you’d bring men to their knees.”
I look at the ground. “You’re teasing me again.”
“No.” His voice is rough, almost harsh. “No, I’m not.”
My eyes snap up to his, and hold.
There are meetings in books that stand out, that alter the course of the story. Profound encounters between characters when one soul seems to say to the other, “There you are—I’ve been looking for you.”
Of course, life isn’t a novel, so I’m probably just imagining the slipping, sliding feeling inside me, like things are shifting around before finally snapping into their rightful place. And I think my mind is playing tricks on me—fancying that it’s interest alighting in Prince Henry’s eyes.
Heated interest.
My breath catches and I cough, breaking the moment.
Then I gesture to his jacket. “Do you really think you’re qualified to give fashion advice?”
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought I looked like an absolute tool—now I’m sure of it.”
“Did the producers pick that out for you?”
“Yes. I’m supposed to ride down to the castle on horseback. Make my grand entrance.” Briskly, his long fingers unbutton the jacket. He shrugs it off, dropping it on the ground, revealing a snug white T-shirt and gloriously sculpted arms.
“Better?”
“Yes,” I squeak.
The teasing smirk comes back, then he grips the back of his T-shirt, pulling it off. And my mouth falls open at the sight of warm skin, perfect brown nipples, and the ridges and swells of muscles up and down his torso.
“What do you think of this?” he asks.
I think this is worse than I thought.
Henry Pembrook isn’t a Fiyero—he’s a Willoughby. A John Willoughby from Sense and Sensibility—thrilling, charming, unpredictable, and seductive. Marianne Dashwood learned the hard way that if you play with a heartbreaker, you can’t be surprised when your heart gets shattered into a thousand pieces.
I shrug, trying to seem cool and unaffected. “Might look a bit too ‘Putin’ on the horse.”
He nods, then puts his shirt back on, and my stomach swirls with a strange mix of relief and disappointment.
“Why aren’t you down with the other girls?”
“Me? Oh, I’m not part of the show. I couldn’t imagine . . .”
“Then why are you here?”
“Penelope. Mother wouldn’t let her participate unless I tagged along to keep an eye on her.”
“Every family has a wild child. Penny’s yours?”
Takes one to know one.
“Yes, definitely.”
He tilts his head, the sunlight making his eyes a deeper green, almost simmering. “And what about you? Is there any wild in you, Teet-bottom?”
My cheeks go up in flames. “Not even a little. I’m the boring one. The good one.”
His teeth scrape his lower lip and it looks . . . naughty.
“Corrupting the good ones is my favorite pastime.”
Oh yes, definitely a Willoughby.
I hug my book to my chest. “I’m not corruptible.”
His smile broadens. “Good. I like a challenge.”
A crew member suddenly appears, trailing a large white horse behind him. “They’re ready for you, Prince Henry.”
Keeping his eyes on me, he places one foot in the stirrup and smoothly swings up onto the saddle. With his hands on the leather reins, he winks.
“See you around, Titty-bottom.”
I cover my face and groan.
“I never should have told you that.”
“Can’t blame me. It makes you turn so many lovely shades. Is it just your cheeks that blush?” His gaze drags down my body, as if he can see beneath my clothes. “Or does it happen everywhere?”
I fold my arms, ignoring the question.
“I think you might be a bully, Prince Henry.”
“Well, in grade school I did enjoy pulling on the girls’ braids. But these days I only tug on a woman’s hair in a very specific situation.” His voice drops lower. “Let me know if you’d like a demonstration.”
His words cause images of slick, entwined limbs and gasping moans to flare in my mind. And as if on cue, the blush blooms hot under my skin.
Henry laughs, the sound deep and manly. Then he spurs his horse and rides away, leaving me glowing like a damn Christmas tree. I open Wuthering Heights and press the pages against my face, cringing.
It’s going to be a long month.