THE NEXT DAY AFTER I’VE spent most of it at the stables, we collect Eddie from the barracks on the way back to Kellington. I’ve managed to avoid him since yesterday’s polo match, but now . . .
The atmosphere in the car is painful. I make idol chit-chat, none of which he indulges in. He mostly looks out of the window, lost in thought. And I positively hate the fact that his thoughts are undeniably centered on me and my predicament. Because that is exactly what it is. A dilemma. Me being smitten with a man, the perfect man for me, is a problem. I can’t even appreciate that Eddie is worried about me. I’m too worried for myself. The first thing I did this morning was check the online news for anything related to Josh and a trashed hotel suite. My heart pounded as I worked my way through every publication. I found nothing. My heartbeats calmed, but only a little. I’m still anxious.
A few times on our ride back to Kellington, after I’ve tried to engage Eddie in conversation and he has blocked me dead in my tracks, I look to Damon in the rearview mirror, as if seeking help. My head of security just shrugs his big shoulders, leaving me pondering alone. I don’t know what to say to my brother, and I am not sure it would make even a bit of difference to his opinion if I did. So in the end, I close my mouth and endure the wretched silence.
When we pull into the grounds of Kellington, I’m like a rocket out of the car, darting up the steps to the entrance in a rush to get myself to my suite so I can be alone and away from the lingering silence of the car.
“Your Highness.” Olive’s hands are held out in front of her ready to take my bag, but letting her help me would stall my escape. So I whizz past, catching her stunned look in my haste. “But, ma’am, your supper,” she calls to my back.
“I’m not hungry, but thank you, Olive.” I take the stairs two at a time.
“But Dolly has cooked your favorite, ma’am.”
King prawn linguine? My steps stutter to a stop on the stairs, my shoulders dropping in defeat. “She has?” I squeak, cringing at the plush carpet runner on the stairs before me. Dolly only ever makes me my favorite dish when she’s pulling no punches. She knows it’s the only meal that will get me to the table, no matter how much I try to convince her I’m not hungry. It is the dish she uses as a weapon, to force me to eat when I don’t want to. It is also a dish that she will be grumpy about should I decline to eat it, since it takes up so much of her time and steers her well clear of her usual, traditional meals. “I’ll take it in my room.” I try to bargain my way out of it, not wanting to upset Dolly, but at the same time wondering why today she has pulled out the big guns.
“But His Royal Highness Prince Edward has requested the table be laid, ma’am.” Olive, God bless her soul, sounds nervous at delivering this news. She should be. So it’s Eddie who’s pulling out the big guns? He wants me to eat with him. Why? So he can talk to me? We just had alone time in the car together, and he didn’t murmur a word.
I slowly turn, full of dread, finding my brother standing behind Olive, observing my stalled fleeing form on the stairs. His face is the most serious that I have ever seen. “Dinner awaits,” he says flatly, gesturing to the dining room.
I suppress my sigh and take the stairs back down to the foyer, letting Olive take my bag and scarf. But not before I retrieve my mobile phone. The quick dip of my hand into my bag isn’t missed by Eddie. “Thank you.” I smile a small smile at Olive, who wastes no time removing herself from the thick atmosphere. I envy her. There is no escape for me. I look at my brother, who gives me nothing but a straight face. I want to tell him he looks less handsome when he doesn’t smile, that his boyish features look twenty years older. But that would be in spite. The flat look on his lovely face is indicating where dinner’s conversation will go, so I roll my shoulders back and make my way into the dining room, determined to see this through. I will tell him exactly what is happening, if that is what he wants. I have not been holding back because I don’t trust him. I simply don’t want someone raining on my already flooded parade.
“Looks very nice,” I say to the perfectly laid table, taking my seat and letting one of the footmen drape the 500 thread count napkin across my lap. “Thank you.” I smile at him as he backs away, and rest my elbows on the table, something I’d never dream of doing if dining with the King. I also wouldn’t dream of lifting my silverware before the King began his meal, but since the King isn’t here, I grab my knife and fork and dive into my creamy pasta as soon as it lands on the table in front of me, if only to distract myself from Eddie, who is staring at me across the table, not bothering with his supper. I feel my irritation build with every silent second that passes, to the point I resort to clenching my silverware in my grasp and breathing in deeply, looking at my brother with an expectant look. Like, yes, just say what you want to say.
And he does. Bringing his balled fist to his mouth, he clears his throat and squares me with a level look. “Enough of the games. What’s going on?”
I match Eddie’s stark look, fumbling for the right words and the best way to say them. I don’t know whether it’s his reproachful expression or my muddled state, but the only words I can find are those of a negative nature, and it’s a challenge to hold them back. I want to scream at him to let me be, to let me figure this out on my own. I don’t need to hear what I am faced with. I know fine well. “I’m seeing him,” I mutter, annoyingly casting my eyes away as I confirm what he knows. What I wanted to do was look him square in the eye with confidence and conviction. Why can’t I do that? Why can’t I push forward with determination? It takes two seconds to reach my conclusion, and with that conclusion comes a reminder of the fear that accompanies the path I’ve chosen. I’ve fallen for Josh. I care about what happens to him. It matters to me if he’s tarnished in any way. That amplifies my fear, because it all leaves me vulnerable.
Eddie laughs, and it is the most condescending laugh I have ever heard.
Ignoring it, I battle forward. “I try to feel free every day,” I begin, keeping my voice calm and even, determined not to lose my temper with the brother I love so much. “I—”
Eddie laughs harder, bringing my intended plea to an abrupt halt. “You are a Lockhart, Adeline. The word free doesn’t come with the job.”
“What if I don’t want this job?” I grate, stabbing at a prawn with my fork, just for something to take out my frustration on. I’m not going to eat it. I have no appetite. I’m just here to show some willingness.
“You don’t get a choice.” Eddie leans across the table, and for the first time in forever, I see my father in him. Not because he looks like him, he looks nothing like him, but because he sounds like him. And I resent him for it. “This is your life, Adeline, and it is mine. I’ve gotten used to it. You should, too. Enough of the games. You’ve played them for long enough. Forget about him. Forget about your silly little fling. Move on and do what Adeline Lockhart does best.”
“What do I do best?” I question. “Come on, what do I do best, Edward? Keep up appearances? Dance to the tune of the King and his minions?”
“Really? Like you do any of those things.”
“You’re right. I don’t. What I try to do is feel free. Try. That’s the key word here. I force it. Do things I tell myself will make me feel better about the restraints I live with. The rebelling, the behavior; it’s all my way of trying to hold on to my free will.” I take a deep breath, seeing I now have Eddie’s full attention, and I plan on keeping it. No interruptions. No more batting me down with a reminder of our obligations. That’s it, now. He asked, so he shall get. I drop my silverware and stand, resting my palms on the table. “With Josh, I don’t need to try. I don’t even have to think about it. It’s effortless. Natural. I’m not lying to myself. He makes me feel good about me. He knows me without even really knowing me. He sees me. Not the painted princess. He sees me. The woman. The desire. The need to have a man tell me that this is how it’s going to be, but he’s telling me that because he knows what I want. What I need. Not what my country needs. Not what the King needs. Not what the bloody monarchy needs. Me. It’s about me. So if that is bad, if you can’t deal with that, you are more than welcome to go join the army of power-hungry bastards who will try to stop us from being together.” I catch my breath, if only to make sure my next promise is as level as every other word I have spoken. “I will take you down as hard as I plan on taking them down. With no mercy. No guilt. No looking back. This is about me being a better person, a more useful person, because I have what I so desperately need in my life to function. Him. Josh.” I manage to note through my declaration that Eddie’s eyes are wide and startled. “I would rather sacrifice my entire existence as a royal than be without him. I’m useless without him. I have been useless without him. For the first time in my life, I feel valued. I have a purpose beyond answering correspondence and keeping up appearances. I want to do the things with my life that I never dreamt I would be able to do. He is a blessing to me, and I will not let you or anyone else try to make him out to be anything else.” Throwing my napkin on the table, I walk away, so damn proud of myself for getting all those words out without so much as a stutter or a crack in my voice. There. I think I made myself clear.
Olive moves swiftly from my path as she enters with a tray, and when my phone rings in my hand and Josh’s name appears, I be as bold as one can be, answering and greeting him by his name, just so Eddie knows exactly who I’m talking to. Call it blunt. Call it brazen. I don’t care. “Josh,” I breathe, taking the stairs steadily.
“You sound out of breath. Everything okay?”
“Not really. I just had a horrible argument with my brother.”
“Oh? About . . .”
“Us.”
“I won’t ask what he said. I caught the way he was glaring at me yesterday at the polo match. Are you all right?”
“No.” I make it to my bedroom and shut myself inside, collapsing to the couch. “Eddie is my favorite of them all. I hate fighting with him.” Leaning down, I start to pull off my riding boots. “And the worst thing is, what I just faced will be nothing compared to what is to come.” All the fortitude Josh filled me with yesterday wanes, and I flop back on the couch on a heavy sigh.
“Maybe I can help out.”
I would laugh, but that would be condescending, so I settle for an eye-roll instead. “And how do you propose you will help?”
“I’m going shooting with the King and my dad tomorrow.”
I’m sitting up straight all of a sudden. “Tomorrow? When was that arranged?”
“Just before I left the match. Some tall, lanky old dude told me where to be and when.”
“Davenport,” I tell him. “Looks like his face would crack if he smiled?”
“That’s him. Who shit in his coffee?”
I chuckle. “He has one expression. Has since I’ve known him.” I get up and wander into the dressing room, getting myself out of my jodhpurs with one hand. “He served my grandfather before my father. He is a piece of the royal furniture, and I’m pretty sure he hates me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Just the way he looks at me. Like I’m a thorn in his side.” I pull my phone away to get my jumper over my head and drop it to the floor. As I’m wandering out, intending on heading for the bathroom, my eye catches my grandmother’s Spanish tiara. I nibble my lip, smiling to myself. “Guess what I’m looking at?” I lift the heavy piece and turn it in my hand.
“If you say you’re naked and standing in front of the mirror, there will be serious consequences.”
“I have my underwear on, and the mirror before me is hanging over my dresser, so I can only see the top half.”
“That’s still not fair play. Wait. Your dresser?”
“Uh-huh.” I grin, looking to my reflection. My eyes are sparkling nearly as much as the encrusted headpiece in my hand.
“Put it on your head,” he orders. I pull my ponytail free, letting my hair tumble over my shoulders, and then rest the heavy weight atop of my head. “Take a picture and send it to me.”
I don’t even think to question him. Pulling my camera up, I pout and snap a quick selfie before attaching it to a text and sending it on. “Done. Did it come through?”
“Oh Jesus,” Josh breathes.
“Is that a yes?”
“That’s my new screensaver.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I laugh, lifting the heavy weight from my head and placing it down. “People will see. How would you explain it?”
He grunts, annoyed. “Where are you?”
“Just about to take a shower.”
“Adeline!”
“Well, I am.” I laugh, entering the bathroom and grabbing a towel.
“Come see me.”
“I can’t.” I sigh, pouting as I flick the shower on. “Damon’s going home soon. I’m going nowhere tonight.”
“Then I’ll come to you.”
“Yes, you do that. Wear your invisibility cloak and all will be fine, I’m sure.”
“Damn it, Adeline, why’d you have to be so fuckin’ important?” He sounds utterly exasperated, and I have to admit, so am I. Although he’s a fine one to talk.
“You are hardly a nobody yourself, Mr. Jameson,” I point out. “I did tell you this would be impossible.”
“God, I need to see you. Tomorrow I’m going to blindside the King so much, he’ll be begging me to date his daughter. And if that fails, I’ll put my gun to his head until he agrees.”
I snort down the line. “I hope you’re ready to fail.” I stare at myself in the mirror, thinking how desperate I am to see him, too. So desperate. How could I make that happen? I gaze into my eyes, an outlandish idea coming to me. “I could sneak out,” I mumble, more to myself than to Josh.
“What?”
“Of the palace,” I explain. “I could sneak out of the palace.”
“Wanna borrow my invisibility cloak?”
I look at my phone quickly, registering that I have roughly thirty minutes until Damon clocks off. I need to be quick. “I’ll be there in an hour.” I hang up and shove my hair in a messy knot before I dive in the shower. I haven’t the luxury of time to wash and dry my mane. I fly over my body with soapy hands and quickly wash it off. A quick check of the time tells me I’m down to twenty-five minutes. Christ, it will take me ten minutes to get myself to the garages, possibly longer if I have to crawl combat-style through the palace to avoid being seen. My heart starts pumping fast with adrenalin and excitement.
As I’m rubbing in some face cream, my phone rings, and I peek down to see Josh flashing up on my screen. “I haven’t got time to speak,” I say to myself, letting it ring off. I spritz, and then dart into my dressing room, grabbing some black skinny jeans and a black lightweight jumper, throwing them on quickly. I finish with a black scarf looped round my neck a few times, and I release my hair, letting the messy waves do as they damn well please. I hope Josh appreciates au naturel. I have not a scrap of makeup on, and I don’t care. I’m too desperate to see him, and my window of opportunity will close any minute.
Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I grab the first pair of comfortable shoes I can lay my hands on. My Uggs. It’s the wrong time of year, but I shrug and pull them on, then I dip into the bottom drawer of my dresser, knowing it was in here the last time I saw it. “Come on, where are you?” I ask, as I rummage through the contents. I smile when I lay my hands on it. Taking myself to the mirror, I slip the New York Yankees baseball cap on. “Perfect.” If I keep my head down, I should be good.
As I’m rounding the gallery landing, my phone rings again, reminding me to turn the sound off. I can’t answer and risk being heard, so I let it ring off again. The next second, I get a text.
You’re shitting me, right? Sneak out?
I ignore him, not willing to let him talk me out of it, and make my way through the palace, choosing a less than efficient route through endless connecting rooms, but a route that will ensure the chances of me being seen are minimal. My only stumbling block comes when I have to pass the kitchen in order to get to the garage. With all the other external doors fitted with active sensor alarms, it is my only way. I hear Damon and Dolly chatting in the kitchen as I creep down the corridor, the exit into the small courtyard that leads to the garage block in sight. I’m as quiet as a mouse, tiptoeing with my shoulder close to the wall. A quick peek around the corner tells me Damon has his back to me and Dolly is rifling through a cupboard. I’m clear, but just as I am about to shoot across the doorway, Olive strolls into the kitchen, and I jump back, sticking myself to the wall.
“That’s me for the evening,” she declares.
“I’ll be off, too,” Damon says, and I hear the feet of his stool scrape the tile floor.
Damn it! It’s now or never. I hold my breath and practically dive across the doorway, and then run to the door on light feet, praying I don’t hear the signs of anyone coming after me. I only start breathing again once I have made it into the courtyard, shutting the door quietly behind me. Then I run toward the garage like my life depends on it.
Scrambling for Damon’s car keys in the cabinet, I click his car open and replace them before getting in the back of his car and wedging myself in the space behind the driver’s seat. I’m squished completely, but my time mentally moaning about my uncomfortable form is limited to seconds, because the heavy footsteps of someone approaching the car makes me still. My phone, however, doesn’t get the memo to be quiet and vibrates in my hand, illuminating the car with the light from the screen. “Bugger,” I curse quietly, fumbling in my confined space to get my phone in sight.
Answer your phone!
Josh rings again, and I apologize to him in my head as I turn it off quickly and try to settle in for the ride. My knees are virtually in my mouth, my body scrunched and bent in the most awkward way. A contortionist I am not. The door opens, and I hold my breath once again as Damon drops into the seat and starts the car. All is well . . . until he decides he is too close to the wheel and presses the button that slides the chair back. Oh God! My shoulders meet my earlobes, and I scrunch my eyes closed, waiting for the crack of bones.
For a moment, I question my sanity. Then I remind myself of what is waiting for me at the end of what is going to be a journey that is the furthest from first class travel I could find. Mentally willing Damon to drive, I force myself into complete stillness, aware I’m so wedged into the back of his seat, he will feel even the slightest move I try to make. This is hell. Pure hell. But Josh is heaven, and if I need to go through hell to reach my heaven, then so be it.
Damon pulls out of the garage and crawls along for a few moments before slowing again when I assume he reaches the gate. He lets the window down. “Have a good evening,” he says, low and gruff.
“You too, Damon,” the gateman replies, and I hear the gates starting to creak open.
The car picks up speed, and my misery gets some light relief when Damon turns on the stereo and starts singing along to . . . Take That? I have to hold my breath to stop myself from laughing out loud. Oh my, how will I ever refrain from teasing him about this? My big, bruising Damon belting out the lyrics to Never Forget is high up there on my list of most entertaining moments. Not because he’s good. He’s not. He’s terrible. My ears are bleeding, but his gusto and the effort he is putting into his rendition is priceless. I suppress my snort of amusement, wincing constantly. The man is tone deaf.
It already feels like the longest—and loudest—journey ever, and I know I have a way to go. From memory, Damon lives in Lambeth, all the way on the other side of the river. The Dorchester is a mere mile away from Kellington, on the other side of Hyde Park. I’m going miles out of my way, but it’s the only way to escape the palace.
After ten minutes, I’m covering my ears. I assumed Take That was on the radio. I was wrong. Damon has the greatest hits album wired through his iPhone, and he knows every single word to every blasted track.
It is a relief when his phone rings and interrupts him. “Hey darling,” he answers, all chirpy.
“Hey, you on your way home yet?” his wife, Mandy, asks.
“Just left the palace.”
“Good day?”
“Always interesting.” He takes a corner a bit too sharply. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. Dinner’s nearly ready. Will you stop and pick up some wine?”
Yes! Stop and pick up some wine. Right around here would be super.
“Sure,” Damon says. “Red?”
“We have steak, so that will be perfect.”
“Steak?” The interest in his voice makes me smile. “Steak’s my favorite.”
“I know it is,” Mandy teases. “And if you eat it all up like a good boy, I have something special for dessert.”
My eyes bug, and I blush, despite no one being able to see me. I’m sure the car picks up speed.
“I’ll be quick.”
She laughs. “But don’t kill yourself being quick, okay? I want my husband home in one piece. Save your speed skills for when Princess Adeline needs them.”
“Got it.”
Listening to my bodyguard chatting with his wife, just like a normal married couple, makes my heart swell. I want that. Normal. Talking about what’s for dinner and what wine we might have with it.
“I’m just coming up to Sainsbury’s. See you when I get home.” Damon pulls to a stop. “And Mandy?”
“Yes?”
“Be naked when I get there.”
I die where I’m balled up, covering my twisted face as best I can with my limited movement. This journey has been more painful than I ever imagined, and not only because my arms and legs are bent at the most insane angles. When Damon gets out of the car and slams the door, clearly in a hurry, I release all the air I have been holding, breathing properly for the first time in fifteen minutes. He’s in a rush. It won’t be long before he’s heading back out of the store with his bottle of red to race home to his wife.
Peeking up out of the window, I see the entrance to the store and Damon disappearing into it. “Thank goodness,” I sigh, wrestling my way up from the floor of the car. Pulling the door handle, I practically fall into a pile onto the pavement. I can’t appreciate the sense of freedom, nor can I relish the stretch of my muscles. No. I get none of those luxuries, because the alarm of Damon’s car starts screaming at me. I stiffen and look left and right, seeing plenty of people, yet none of them particularly bothered by the shrill sound of the nearby car alarm. I skulk away, pulling the peak of my cap down, at the same time trying to gauge where I am. It’s only at this point in my thirty-year existence that I appreciate how isolated I have been. I’ve lived in this city for three decades, yet I haven’t the first idea of where I am. I recognize nothing.
I resort to finding a sign to gain my bearings. Chelsea Bridge. It’s only my mental map of London that can offer me my route and how long it might take me. It’s at least a forty-minute walk. That doesn’t bother me so much. It’s the vigilance I’ll need to maintain that worries me more. The thought makes me lower my head, while trying to look up for signs of a black cab. I spot one and wave my arm, but it sails by. And then another does, and then one stops but some rude person dives in before I make it off the curb. I sigh and start a brisk walk toward the end of the road, my shoulders huddled high, my head bowed. I don’t make eye contact with anyone, dare not look up higher than the slabs before me. I’m jostled on the pavement by the crowds, and with each step I take, my nerves become more frayed. I feel so small out here, alone in the world, so utterly vulnerable.
My breathing is labored half an hour into my walk, and it has nothing to do with the brisk pace I have maintained. A harsh bump of my shoulder nearly spins me on the spot, and a suited man curses me for getting in his way. “Look where you’re going,” he yells. I mutter an apology, my chin nearly touching my chest to avoid what I know will be an angry glare.
I collide with another pedestrian, my body ricocheting back a few feet. “Watch it!”
The thuds of my heart are becoming heavier, my anxiety growing. I’m out of my depth. I reach for my phone and realize I haven’t switched it back on. My shaking hands fumble to bring it to life as I’m knocked out of the path of a young woman.
“Pay attention,” she barks as my phone crashes to the ground. The back of my mobile cracks and the screen shatters as it jumps around my feet. I gasp and lower to gather it up, my crouching body obstructing the pavement. I’m kicked by someone passing, and someone trips up my arm as I reach to snatch up my phone.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, being cursed at from every direction, the annoyed voices all morphing into one beastly scorn. I need to call Josh. I need someone to come find me. I’m becoming more and more panicked. The irony doesn’t escape me. Here’s me, always fighting the constraint, and now I have freedom—actual freedom—and I’m terrified. What if someone recognizes me? What if a photographer snaps a photo of me? I rise and hurry on my way, at the same time trying to turn on my phone, praying it’s not broken. My fumbling hands refuse to stop trembling, and when my phone comes to life, all that greets me is a green, fuzzy screen. I swallow, feeling tears burning the back of my eyes, and break into a jog, desperate to escape the chaotic streets of London.