The ornate hand-crafted table in Blackwell Oberlin’s dining room reeked of the Renaissance, as did the stuffed blue chairs, though the tapestry on Oberlin’s walls were more fourteenth century with a less gilded vibe.

His tailor stretched the blue velvet fabric of his jacket across his muscular frame, the man having caught up to him as he’d tried to leave the palace for some fresh air. His father’s ducal outfit suffocated him.

“Wait, just a tuck here, my lord. Do you mind taking off your undershirt?”

Trapped. The man staring back at him from the gold mirror over the dining table could be an actor playing the part of Avce’s Duke of Oakley but inside his gut he yearned for the wide open fields of Colorado and the old family farm.

Woodbridge Hall was the opposite; contained, refined, with white walls and hardwood floors in every room that were polished to perfection. Raised in the United States, he felt more at home near the cornfields of Kansas than he did here, in this museum that represented his ancestry and home.

He’d been a teenager when his parents had insisted they’d return and reclaim a home his ancestors had spent a millennia or more in, but honestly, since turning eighteen, he’d avoided the castle. No place in Europe had ever made him feel as comfortable as Colorado—though Oxford had been fun. Living in Paris had been a vacation but now that his father had passed, he was stuck here for the rest of his days. The idea that his father was gone grounded him. It was his job now to care for his mother, but there was no way she’d ever move back to America.

Instead, his mother insisted he take his place as the next Duke, so he’d agreed to be fitted in the confining blue jacket that was filled with family symbols of a long ago past. His throat constricted. The moment the tailor was done, Blackwell stripped off the pinned jacket, handed it to the tailor, and walked shirtless into his garden.

A riot of colorful flowers bloomed, nature’s fragrance easing him. He needed to get away from the palace. None of the refinement fit in his tortured soul. Without a word to his staff, he stormed back in and grabbed his black t-shirt from the blue and gold chair he’d tossed it on and shrugged it down his chest. If anyone important saw him, he truly didn’t care. Jeans would be more comfortable but his black khakis would have to do because he wasn’t going upstairs.

Tomorrow, after the wedding, he’d go to his stables and spend the day riding.

Until then…he headed toward his motorcycle parked on the long driveway in front of the livery station.

A beer at the local tavern might calm his mood. He revved the engine of his cycle and took off toward the black gold-plated gate that kept his mausoleum aka Woodbridge Hall quartered off from the rest of the world.

The ride toward the tavern was peaceful though it passed too fast. As soon as he reached the small village that bordered his estate, he grunted. There were too many cars near the hotel so he parked on the sidewalk. Tourists were clearly everywhere. Pocketing his keys, he strode into the tavern and instantly saw the place was packed with people. He walked toward his favorite waitress. “Beer, please.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” She bowed her head and he scanned the room.

Every table in the back seemed full. There had to be someplace for him to drink his beer in peace without the waitress digging up some chair and table for him. The bar seemed slightly less busy. “Let’s not tell everyone that title. And who are all these people?”

She answered with a smile and a pat of her apron pocket. “Tourists here for the royal wedding.”

“Great.” He briefly closed his eyes. He probably made money off of every single one of them but he hadn’t asked to be born into royalty. This nobility stuff felt cold and he missed the satisfaction of hard work done with his own hands.

She pointed toward the quieter counter at the very end. “I’ll let the bartender know your order—there’s a stool at the bar.”

“That’s all I need. Thank you, ma’am.” He nodded and moved through the crowd.

The oak seat creaked as he parked his backside on the leather top, but at least in the tavern he could pretend his life was normal.

The bartender brought him his mug and he paid right away, leaving a big tip. The chilled beer was as close to Colorado cold as he could get. He stared out the window overlooking the parking lot and the flowering tree at the end.

A soft female bumped into his side but righted herself before she fell on him. He looked beyond her and saw a young family flailing with two children and a stroller. She must have been pushed.

Like him, the brunette was dressed all in black. Her hair was in a messy bun at the back of her lowered head. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem.” He nodded at her just to be polite, not to invite conversation. The air around the woman smelled like vanilla.

She looked him up and down again with big brown eyes. “You’re American?”

“I was born in Colorado.” Warmth heated his cheeks as he realized she didn’t know that he was the new duke. It was nice to be seen as no one special. He took off his hat and discreetly studied the young woman. She hid the curves with layers, but his instincts were always right. Underneath all her clothes, she’d be beautiful.

She narrowed her gaze. “Is your wife here?”

“I’m definitely not married.” He straightened. Whoever this woman was, she wasn’t causing him to choke with anxiety, like the other ladies of his acquaintance. He sipped his beer and took the moment to really see her face was quite pretty, without a drop of makeup. Thick lashes, a plump lower lip.

She stayed still, her hand on the counter. “Gay?”

What? Nobody had ever thought that about him. He sat straighter as she inspected him. “No. I’m just here to enjoy my beer, ma’am.”

She motioned toward the stool beside him and dropped her arms to her sides. “You’re the first person today who speaks English without staring at me funny. Can I join you?”

“Only if you promise no more personal questions.” He pushed the seat backward so she could sit beside him.

She claimed the stool and picked up the bar menu. “An even exchange. I’ll take it. What beer would you recommend?”

Sweetness stirred around him and it came entirely from the woman—essence of vanilla bean. He leaned closer to her. “You don’t strike me as a beer type.”

A scoff escaped her lips. “I’m here to change who I am.”

He was going to ask why, but then reminded himself—no personal questions. If she wanted a beer, she should at least try a good one. He held his mug up. “Well, I suggest the stout.”

“Okay, I trust you.” The bartender came over and she repeated the beer he recommended. Once he left with her order, she turned toward him. “What’s your name?”

“Blackwell.” He kept his last name to himself. If she Googled him, she’d find out in five seconds that he was the Duke of Oakley and one of the landed gentry. Was it wrong to just want to be himself for the afternoon?

The beer came. She paid with a ten dollar bill and then held out her hand to shake. “Nice to meet you, Blackwell. I’m Donna.” Her fingers were long and slender, but her grip strong. She gave him a half-smile, ended the shake and picked up her beer. She sipped it and her upturned nose said plenty. She wasn’t a fan. She gamely swallowed it down. “And this is heavy.”

He felt like laughing and he never laughed, ever. Maybe it was the way she braced her shoulders for another taste. He pressed his lips together and kept his poker face. “It’s good once you let it settle.”

She motioned for him to click glasses as she held her mug out and toasted, “Here’s to new experiences.”

They both sipped. The first time he’d had moonshine, his skin must have turned green, but once he passed that painful first cup, he’d come to enjoy the illegal alcohol that was stronger than any whiskey. This time she made less of a face and took a full gulp, keeping her word on no small talk.

Donna was the first woman he’d met in years who didn’t make him feel like he was drowning. He put his glass down. “Are you here to see the royal wedding?”

“Isn’t everyone?” She shrugged and took another sip of her beer before she put it down. Her big brown eyes gazed at him with innocence, which struck him as funny. No adult woman was ever truly innocent, but the clear earnestness in her eyes suggested otherwise. “I’ll stand in the parade and watch the carriage go by before I take the train to Italy.”

Maybe she was one of those Americans fascinated with all things royal. Why else would a woman travel alone from the US?

He recalled the argument he’d had with his mother earlier regarding the latest lady she’d suggested for him to escort to the wedding, which led to his suffocation and anxiety. Blackwell was very aware that he had to marry. With Donna on his arm, his mother would back off. He leaned closer. “Would you want to see it up close?”

She picked up her beer, sipped, thought about her answer, and finally said, “Sure, but they don’t let people like me in.”

Right. She had no idea who he was. He dropped his hand in front of her on the bar and inhaled her vanilla scent. “I have an extra ticket to the wedding, Donna. If you can find a dress and give me your hotel, I’ll bring you with me.”

She put her beer down and studied him as if waiting for him to shout “just kidding.” He lowered his head and smiled encouragingly. Finally, she said, “Seriously?”

With her the night would at least be sufferable. He sat straighter, liking the plan. Tonight was just one night and tomorrow, neither of them would ever see each other again. “I need a date and you’re here, wanting to go. Just don’t get romantic ideas about me and we’re good.”

She brought her hand to her throat then shook her head. “I wouldn’t dream about you, Blackwell. You’re far too… umm… strong for my tastes.”

Strong? He grinned.

She took a napkin from the bar and found a blue pen with a white flower in her bag. He’d never seen one so decorated with stickers. Before he could comment, she handed him the napkin and deposited her pen back in her bag. “But here is my hotel info. I would love to see the wedding.”

Suddenly he was looking forward to it as well. Tonight, he had a date that he’d chosen. Hopefully she’d wear less layers so he could enjoy perusing her figure without the bulk of extra fabric. Her neat penmanship shared that she was in the inn across from this tavern and he tucked the napkin in his pocket. Donna would be a good distraction from all of the royal chaos, which was what he needed. “I’ll come pick you up at 6 PM. We will have the wedding followed by the reception at the palace.”

She gazed at him warily, as if she debated her words even as she declared, “I trust you.”

His mother and that tailor for the stupid velvet jacket would be up in arms if he didn’t return soon. He stood and gave her a slight bow. “You probably shouldn’t Donna, but I’ll see you then.”

She gazed at him and then his mug. “But you didn’t finish your beer?”

Answering that question would reveal who he was. Tonight, she’d find out he was nobility. He wouldn’t be able to hide it when they walked into the reception or took their seats at the wedding. For now, he’d leave with Donna eyeing him as an attractive, strong man. “I need to get back to work. See you tonight.”

“Okay, bye.” She waved.

Blackwell raced his motorcycle back to the palace with a sense that things in his life were finally looking less bleak and monotonous. Tonight, he’d take Donna to see this wedding up close as promised. It was only fair as she’d reminded him to laugh again.