AFTER OUR NIGHT AT THE pool, things are different between Sarah and me. More. Closer. I still make her blush prettily—but it’s a soft pink that blooms on her cheeks now, not the intense deep scarlet that resulted from my first teasings. She still keeps to herself mostly, reading in a corner or under a tree, but she comes out to watch as we film, and more than once I’ve spotted her chatting and laughing with Laura Benningson and Princess Alpacca, with Guermo’s broody translating assistance.
I haven’t slept in my own room—or attempted to—since that first night. I thought the producers would give me shit for that, but Vanessa explained they’re not counting on the cameras catching anything interesting there—they’re there in case something good just happens to occur.
And while my days are spent ziplining and bungee jumping, shearing wool on a sheep farm and swimming in hot springs with a different lady every time, before bestowing a dwindling number of glass-slipper charms—like a randy male tooth fairy—my nights are spent in a blissful hell of unrequited lust.
Because I can’t forget the feel of Sarah pressed against me in the water, slick and soft and wet. She’s almost constantly in my thoughts.
She haunts my dreams.
And she’s caused me, more than once, to wake up painfully hard and snuggled up against the sweetest, tightest of Titebottums—using every ounce of self-restraint I have to keep from humping her in her sleep.
At night, when Sarah hums while reading her bland, classic novels in bed, I yearn to feel those lovely lips humming around my cock. When she sighs in her sleep, I think of how she would sound moaning for more. When she absentmindedly twirls her hair around her finger, I imagine fisting my hand in those dark, silky tresses and teaching her every filthy delight I know—and I know a lot.
The other evening when I walked into the room, Sarah was in the bath. I stood outside the locked bathroom door, listening to the drip and swish of the water as she moved, washing herself—touching herself—and I almost came in my pants like a sodding twelve-year-old boy.
It’s becoming a problem.
But I don’t consider, for even a moment, staying in my own room. Because the best part and the hardest part—pun intended—is that after we’re in bed, with Sarah in her plain cotton sleeping clothes, both of us bundled under the covers to keep out the drafty frigid air, and the lights are low . . . we chat. About everything and nothing and all the things in-between.
She talks about her mother with her greenhouses and flowers; Penny with her Hollywood dreams; her grouchy boss, who sounds like he could be a relation of old Fergus; her library and tidy little flat and simple, organized life. I tell her about Nicholas and all the misplaced faith he has in me, though Sarah insists it’s not misplaced at all. I talk about spunky, spirited Olive and how I wish they didn’t live so far away. And in soft, shamed tones, I tell her about Granny—and how thoroughly I’ve disappointed her time and again.
And Sarah Titebottum, as timid and bashful as she appears to be, is an honest-to-God optimist. She has no patience for self-pity or regret, but instead, like the little train that could, she believes in onward and upward, in moving forward one small step at a time.
Though I’m familiar with the basic history, Sarah tells me excitedly about Lady Jane Grey, the nine-day Queen of England, whom she read a book about once. It was a romanticized account of how she ended up falling in love with Guildford Dudley, the man her family forced her to marry. And when dark-intentioned powers illegitimately propped Lady Jane up as Queen, it was that love that gave her the strength to dream grand dreams about the things she could do for her people and her country. Sarah’s smile is so delightful, her face so animated as we talk, I don’t have the heart to point out that young Lady Jane never had the chance to implement any of her plans. Because they cut her fucking head off.
Sarah doesn’t ask me about my own future, my thoughts on becoming King, and I’m grateful for that. Because I still don’t want to think about it. But there’s a light in her eyes and an admiration in her voice that makes me feel, deep inside, that Sarah believes I could be good at it.
And it’s different than with Nicholas. Or Granny.
For reasons I can’t put my finger on, the fact that this pure, unadulterated lass believes it—that she believes in me—makes me think that the day could come when I believe it too.
Midway through the second week of filming, we wrap an outdoor shoot on the balcony at around eight p.m. As soon as the director calls cut, Elizabeth twines herself around me like a vine of poison ivy, whispering the deviant things she wants to do to me on camera—some of which I’m not sure the laws of physics will allow.
I disentangle myself and charge toward my room. Well . . . Sarah’s and my room. But when I walk in, I find her filling her worn satchel with her books—looking like she’s on her way out the door. I saunter over to the nook, bracing my hand on the wall behind her, and lean in.
“And just where are you sneaking off to so late at night?”
She looks up at me, her mouth tightening into an amused bow.
“I’m not sneaking and it’s hardly the middle of the night, Henry.”
She smells like sweets and I want to lick her. Up, down, and all around.
So I pretend she hasn’t spoken and continue with my train of thought—it’s much more interesting anyway.
“Are you on your way to a hot date with a secret lover, perhaps? Or maybe you belong to a sex club? A seedy, back-alley place you visit every chance you can, but not nearly as often as you’d like, where every fetish—no matter how depraved—is rapturously indulged.”
My eyes travel down her body, visually caressing the sumptuous curves beneath her tight black turtleneck and leggings. “Maybe a naughty librarian fantasy? Or is it a cat-burglar role play? You’re caught sifting through some wealthy, well-hung aristocrat’s bedroom and have to beg, ‘Oh please don’t turn me in, My Lord—however can I persuade you? I’ll do anything . . .’”
Delicate eyebrows rise above the wire frame of her glasses. “That’s very . . . specific. Seems like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“You have no idea.” I lean in closer. “Where are we going, love?”
“We?” Her eyes are darker—dilated, and her chest rises and falls in quick, excited pants. I wonder if she even realizes it. “I have a meeting. Mother’s sent her car to take me. You can’t come, Henry.”
“I can come lots of times. My stamina is legendary. Do you want me to show you?”
Her voice comes out soft, husky. “You can’t come with me.”
“That sounds like a challenge.” I smirk slowly. “I bet I could time it just right.”
Her mobile pings, alerting her to the text that her car is out front. She blinks and ducks under my arm, scooting away—and like the dog I am, I want to chase her.
“What kind of meeting?”
Sarah slips into her coat. “A club meeting.”
And I’m about to bring up the sex club again and ratchet up the raunchy—but then it all becomes clear.
“It’s a book club, isn’t it?”
Of course it is.
Sarah nods. “The bi-monthly meeting of The Austenites.”
And here I am, again, trying not to laugh.
She takes one look at my face and jabs her finger into my chest. And the small, sharp contact makes my cock grow thick and hard.
Celibacy is making me crazy.
“Don’t you dare laugh.”
I bite my lip and catch her gazing at my mouth.
“The Austenites,” I repeat, clearing my throat. “What do the Austenites do, exactly?”
“Character discussions, read-alouds, community events . . . sometimes we put on plays.”
“Sounds riveting. I’ve never been to a book club meeting. Seems like something everyone should try at least once.”
She crosses her arms, making her breasts squeeze and lift.
“You’ll hate it.”
I cross my arms, and her eyes fall to my biceps—she’s been doing that a lot lately, the naughty virgin voyeur.
“I’m getting the feeling you don’t want me to go. Are you ashamed of me? That hurts, Titty-bottum—I’m wounded.”
She laughs disdainfully. “No you’re not. And it has nothing to do with me not wanting you to go—you can’t go. There are about thirty Austenites. As soon as they spot you, word will get out that you were in Castlebrook.”
“Oh the horror, because Castlebrook is the hub of the social scene and media elites.”
That was sarcasm, in case you weren’t sure. Sarah is, which is why her eyes rolls behind her glasses. “It only takes one set of loose lips for the Queen to find out you were there when you’re supposed to be here. And the producers don’t want you going anywhere, anyway.”
“I could ditch?”
She blows a puff of breath up at her dark bangs, which have fallen too close to her eyes.
And now I’m thinking about Sarah blowing things.
“And then you’ll have to wear the monkey.”
“I fear no man or monkey. But it is sort of creepy, isn’t it?” I groan. “Fucking James.”
Sarah mocks me. “Right, fucking James is trying to keep you safe and alive and not kidnapped, like it’s his job or something. Bastard.”
Huh, look at that. Sarah can do sarcasm too. That’s sexy. And she said the word fucking—which makes me think about fucking her—on the bed, the sofa . . . Christ, in the nook. She would be absolutely wild in the nook.
Talk about a fantasy—that one’s going straight to the top of the wank bank.
“I’ll be bored here by myself,” I whine, just to see her smile. “I guess I’ll rub one out. Or . . . five. Because that’s how I roll. And how I rub.”
But the thing is, this time . . . Sarah doesn’t blush. She just looks at me, eyes glazing over like she’s seeing an alternate version of me. A me that’s whacking off. And judging from the way she swallows hard and runs her tongue along her bottom lip, she likes what she sees.
Fuck, that is so hot.
She blinks, snapping out of it, adorably flustered. “I . . . ah . . . I have to go.”
I wave.
Halfway through the door, Sarah stops and turns around. “Henry?”
“Mmm?”
She points her finger at me. “Stay.”
I smile and salute her.
With narrowed eyes, she backs out of the door, closing it behind her.
And I sit on the uncomfortable sofa for five whole minutes, thinking. And then I get up.
Because I still don’t like doing what I’m told.
Two hours later, the car pulls up to Concordia Library—I’m assuming this is where the holy book club meeting is held. Sarah had a valid point about it not being good if word got around that I was in town, so I gave her a healthy head start and plan to slip in undetected in the back to see her in action.
She also had a point about the sodding monkey.
Which is why James is driving and good ole Mick is riding shotgun.
Out of the tinted SUV window, I glance up at the large ivory building. A library built for a queen. I can see her working here—I can see her loving it here. It suits her, this almost magical house of worship built for books.
The main roadway is nearly deserted and there’s not a single person in front of the dimly lit library. As I follow Mick up the ivory stone steps, for a moment I wonder, is this stalker territory? Does it cross a line? A boundary? But then—fuck it, I’m a prince, we don’t have boundaries—it’s one of the perks. Anyone who says otherwise is doing it wrong.
The door’s unlocked and we go in. I’d never noticed how eerie a library is at night—large and echoed—like a mausoleum. But I notice it now as I glance about the main floor, listening. I head down a set of stairs near the circulation desk, with light coming from small windows in the doors at the bottom of it. I glance through the windows and spot a room at the end of a long hallway. It’s about classroom size, the kind of place where a Bible study or Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting might be held. Or a book club.
The door’s open just enough to hear, but closed enough that I’ll remain undetected if I stand outside of it. I lean back against the wall, listening to the charming lilt and fall of Sarah’s unmistakable voice. And I discover a whole different side of her—another version to add to all the others. I don’t think I’ll ever completely figure her out.
She sounds confident, efficient, and sure, almost businesslike. I wonder if it’s this place, if it’s because this is her domain, and she thrives here. It almost reminds me of my grandmother in her office or while addressing Parliament.
When it seems as if they’re wrapping up, Mick and I duck into a room next door. It’s filled with odd-smelling boxes, a bag of ski masks, cans of red paint, poster boards and signs—one says “Free the Butterwald Ducks.”
What in the bloody hell is a Butterwald Duck?
When the last trickle of bookworms slinks down the hall, and only three distinct voices remain in the room—and I know who those voices belong to—I have Mick wait outside while I pop my head in.
“Don’t tell me I missed it? Over already—damn.”
Sarah’s entire face lights up. It makes me feel a bit drunk.
“Henry! What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t stay away.”
And I’m only half joking.
A gorgeously round little piece with bright blue eyes and blond hair approaches from across the room and curtsies, sighing, “Wow. Wow, wow, wow.”
This must be Annie—Sarah talks about her and Willard often.
“This is Annie,” Sarah says.
She’s the type I’d usually go for—perky and easily happy with a look of pure hero worship on her face. The funny thing is, she’s Sarah’s friend, and that fact puts up an immediate roadblock in my brain, muting any attraction to her.
“And this,” Sarah gestures to a short bloke in a large chair with an enormous smoking pipe between his lips, “this is Willard.”
Willard doesn’t stand, but dips his head instead of bowing. It’s not proper—but given my own derision for all things “proper,” it doesn’t bother me.
“Impressive pipe,” I tell him. “Should I call you Sherlock?”
He grins. “Only if I can call you Princess.”
My head toddles as I think it over. “I’m secure enough in my manhood to stand that.”
“Excellent.”
Willard motions to the decanter of amber liquid on the table beside him.
“Brandy? It’s cheap, but it gets the job done.”
“Please.”
While he pours me a glass, Annie chirps, “For God’s sake, Sarah, when you told Haverstrom you had official Palace business to tend to, I was sure you were pulling all our legs. What kind of business does Sarah do for you, Your Highness?”
“She’s helping me reorganize the Palace library.” I press my finger to her lips and she almost passes out. “But that’s a secret—a surprise gift for the Queen.”
I glance over at Sarah where she’s packing up a box of papers, and she smiles gently at the lie.
“Did you have a good meeting, love?” I ask her.
And there’s that pretty pink blush again, though I’m not sure why it appears this time.
“Yes, it went very well.”
Sipping my brandy, I tease, “Do you open the meeting with a sacrifice to the book gods? An animal or a nonreader, perhaps?”
Smoke puffs from Willard lips as he answers, “Only on Tuesdays.”
“Have you ever thought about writing a book, Prince Henry?” Annie whispers. “My ex-boyfriend, Elliot, always said he wanted to.”
Willard checks his watch.
Then Annie goes on.
“You could write under a pen name about the behind-the-scenes secrets of the palace. Or,” a sly look comes over Annie’s face while she glances at Sarah, then back to me, “it could be a sexier tale. About a young virgin who tames the wild, worldly prince—like Fifty Shades but with royalty.”
“I’d read it.” Willard shrugs.
Come to think of it, so would I.
Back at Anthorp Castle, Sarah and I get ready for bed—we each brush our teeth and change in the bathroom. Me, in my usual sleeping pants and bare chest, Sarah in her cotton pants and simple top—it’s a thin-strapped tank top tonight, and her tits look amazing. Then we sit on the bed. I pick up my guitar and strum a few notes.
“By the way, what’s a Butterwald Duck?” I ask. “I saw supplies and a sign mentioning it in one of the other rooms at the library.”
“Oh, those are for next month.” She takes off her glasses and sets them on the bedside table. “For the protest we’re holding to allow the ducks penned in at Butterwald Park free rein.”
“Protest?” I ask.
She nods. “The Austenites are very active in the community.”
I set my guitar down, leaning it against the wall. “You’re terrorists?”
Sarah rolls her pretty eyes. “Don’t be silly. We’re . . . an organization committed to bringing awareness to social issues, through what may be seen as semi-controversial methods at times.”
“Exactly.” I nod. “Terrorists.”
Sarah pinches my arm.
“Ow . . . violent terrorists,” I tease.
She tilts her head up and laughs, her dark hair falling over her shoulder and down her back. And it’s mesmerizing. Was there a time when I actually thought she was plain? I’m an imbecile—she’s stunning. I’ve never known anyone like her.
And I want to kiss her, right now.
And then I want to go back to the library, to that place she loves, and kiss her there too. In front of her friends, in front of mine . . . Christ, Nicholas would adore her.
I want to be that man to her.
She catches me staring and tilts her head. “What is it?”
And my mouth suddenly goes dry. Because I’ve never done this before. The only time I’ve talked about feelings with a girl involved direction or appreciation and a whole lot of screwing: harder, tighter, faster, yes that’s good, just like that—don’t stop.
I try to swallow and my voice comes out low and rough, like an unpracticed lad in the schoolyard.
“I like you, Sarah. I like you so much.”
She continues to look at me, and I see when comprehension darkens her big, round eyes.
“I . . . I like you too, Henry.”
She watches as I pick up her hand from where it rests on the bed and bring it to my lips. Softly, I kiss the back of it and each of her little knuckles. Even her hands are fucking pretty.
Her breath catches when I turn her hand over and place an open-mouthed kiss on the inside of her sensitive wrist, suctioning just slightly.
And then, I need her mouth. I can’t remember the last time I needed anything so much.
Maybe I never have.
I lean in and Sarah’s eyes flutter closed. I stroke her smooth cheek, and cup her jaw in my palm, and then I press my lips against hers. She’s so soft and warm, so fucking sweet. I angle my mouth and turn our heads, changing direction—sucking the smallest bit of her plump lower lip, then tracing it with my tongue.
And that’s when she pulls away, turns her head, and looks down at her hands. Sarah’s breathing hard and her cheeks are flushed, and she looks beautiful.
And then . . . it all goes to bloody hell.
“I can’t do this with you, Henry.” She gazes down at the bed. “I can’t be with you.”
“You’re with me right now.”
She shakes her head. “Not in that way.”
“Of course you can. I think you’re amazing.”
She looks up at me then, with fear and sadness slashed across her face. “You do now, but you’re a Willoughby.”
I scratch my head. “Isn’t that like, a kangaroo?”
She squeezes her eyes tight and it’s almost like she’s stuttering. Like she can’t make the words come out. And when they do, I wish they’d stayed where they were.
“No, a Willoughby—from Sense and Sensibility. He was the character Marianne fell in love with. He was wild and inappropriate, selfish and thoughtless, and he crushed her.”
“Sarah, you’re not making any sense.”
“I can’t be with you because I’m waiting for a Colonel Brandon.”
“Who the fuck is Brandon?”
“He’s serious and maybe a little boring, but he loves Marianne. He’s dependable and steady, romantic and proper. That’s what I want; that’s who I’m supposed to be with.”
“Proper?” The word sticks in my throat like a thorn. I slide off the bed and pace, going over her ramblings. “Let me make sure I have this right: you can’t kiss me because some wanker from a book named Willoughby fucked over some other girl from a book named Marianne?”
She gives a little huff and wags her hands. “When you say it like that, it sounds mad.”
“That’s because it is mad!”
Sarah twists her hands together. “He broke her heart. It almost killed her.”
I look down at her, feeling something breaking inside my own chest.
“And you think I would do that to you?”
“I know you would.”
“Because I’m a Willoughby?”
Her chin jerks in a nod.
“Because I’m thoughtless and selfish and just don’t measure up. And because you’re waiting for someone better to come along.”
Sarah shakes her head. “This isn’t coming out right.”
There’s a different kind of pain when you’re injured by someone you truly care about. It runs deeper, hurts longer, like a burn—it starts off stinging and smarting, then it blisters and spreads inside you, eating away at tender flesh.
Leaving in its wake a gaping hole.
I cross my arms and smirk, like I don’t give a flying fuck about anything.
“How’s the view from that ivory tower, Sarah? Must be lovely judging everyone beneath you, while keeping yourself too high to touch.”
She rises to her knees on the bed. “It’s not like that. I care about you, it’s just—”
“I’m selfish and irresponsible and inappropriate—I heard you the first time. You could’ve saved yourself all those syllables and just called me a dick.”
“Henry . . .”
“I think you’re a coward. See what I did there? Simple, concise.”
Her eyes snap up to me. She blinks and glances away.
“I’m not a coward. I just . . . like my life how it is. I like . . .”
I wander over to the “nook” and grab the first book I see. “You don’t have a life. You hide in this room and you cower behind these books. It’s fucking sad.”
Sarah’s voice is gentle, but staunch. “I realize I’ve hurt your feelings, but there’s no need to be cruel.”
I laugh. “You think you’ve hurt my feelings?”
“If this temper tantrum is any indication, I’m sure of it.”
“This isn’t a temper tantrum—this is a wake-up call.” I wave the book at her. “These aren’t your friends, Sarah—there’s no sodding Colonel Brandon popping off the page coming to love you.”
“I know that!” And then her eyes follow the book in my hand. “Henry, be careful—it’s fragile.”
And that just pisses me off more. Her concern for this inanimate, stupid thing.
“Do you even see me? Christ, I’m standing right here—real and, unlike you, actually living.” I wave my arms around, swinging the book by its back cover. “And you’re more concerned with fucking paper and ink!”
And that’s all she wrote.
With a crack, the spine of the book snaps in half, and loose pages fly off, fluttering all over the room, then falling to the floor like a flock of wounded white birds.
“No!”
The absolute heartbreak in Sarah’s voice cuts through my own, vanquishing my anger and leaving behind a residue of regret.
She falls to her knees, gathering the pages and snatching the broken book from my hand.
“I didn’t mean to do that,” I say quietly, in case she didn’t know.
Her dark hair falls over her shoulders, hiding her face.
“Sarah, did you hear me? I’m sorry.”
Why does it feel like that’s all I end up saying lately?
Her shoulders shudder; I think she’s crying. And my stomach feels as if it’s full of worms—wiggling and squirming disgustingly.
“I’ll give you the money to replace it. It’s a book. I mean . . . there’s more than one.” I stumble on like an utter fucking prat.
“Was it very valuable?”
When she still doesn’t respond, I put my hand on her back. She jerks up, wrenching away from me. Her eyes are wet and furious and wounded.
“Get out,” she hisses.
“What?”
“Get. Out!” she shouts, louder this time, gathering the last of the pages in her arms and placing them gently on the bed.
I nudge the floor with the tip of my foot, murmuring, “It’s my castle.”
And that pushes her over the edge.
She shoves me, harder than I expect. Her cheeks are high with color, her hair mussed, and her eyes wild. I’d be as hard as a steel rod right now, if I weren’t so concerned that I’d truly hurt her.
“Sarah, come on . . .”
When I don’t move fast enough, she shoves my chest again.
“Get out of my room, you mean, childish son of a bitch!”
I’m about to reply with some flippant comment, but before I can, her breath catches, breaking on a hiccup, and I realize with horror that she’s trying very hard not to burst into tears.
I reach out. “I’m—”
Sarah throws her hand up, looking away and closing her eyes.
“Just go, Henry. Please.”
And since it’s the least I can do, I leave.