THE WHOLE WALK TO THE far end of the grounds is spent jumping between sureness and reluctance, my steps faltering one too many times for my liking. My self-assuredness has never been dented by a man, and I’m uncertain as to whether I love or loathe the notion.
When I reach the maze of conifers, I stop and have a stern word with myself, telling my nerves to pull themselves together and welcome this unexpected birthday gift. Weaving the maze, I momentarily wonder if Josh found his way to the center, or if he is lost somewhere amid the trees, finding dead ends or taking wrong turns that will disorientate him. The thought makes me smile. When I was a child, this maze felt colossal, and I spent hours running the labyrinth of paths trying to navigate my way to the middle. Now, I know exactly what route I need to take in order to get me there the quickest.
I breach the final opening and see the statue of my grandfather, my father’s father, King Harold of England. He’s tall, imposing, made of solid marble, and his face is stern. He was stern, high-handed and strict with his children, as well as his grandchildren. A summons to his office meant trouble and was cause to tremble. Which I often did as a child. His robe, the Pallium Regale, is long and lavish, the scepter held lightly in his hand, Saint Edward’s Crown perched on his large head. The entire statue is intimidating.
But there is Josh Jameson standing before it, leaning casually back against my late grandfather’s shins with a bottle of champagne in his hands, his legs crossed at the ankles, a smile on his face.
This is an entirely different level of intimidating.
“Your Highness.” He casually pushes himself off the solid homage to one of the greatest kings to rule England and slowly wanders toward me, each step measured and confident. “How are you enjoying your birthday?”
“It’s been . . . unexpectedly pleasant.”
He reaches me and starts circling my static form, heightening my awareness when he comes to a stop behind me. Not wanting to give him the upper hand, I slowly turn to face him, bringing us chest to chest. He obviously finds my move amusing, a tiny, nearly undetectable curve tugging the corner of his lips.
“About that gift,” I whisper, taking one step back, if only so he doesn’t feel my deep inhales pushing into his chest.
“Oh, the gift.” He starts to round me again, and I move with him, keeping us facing each other, circling. Stalking each other. Our gazes are glued, chemistry sizzling between us. Good God, I’ve never felt anything like it. It is obvious that he, like me, doesn’t want to be the first to give in to it. “I think you’ll love my gift,” he whispers.
“You are a very self-assured man.” I come to a stop, leaving Josh to move in behind me. I shut my eyes, feeling his mouth close to the bare nape of my neck.
“And you are a very self-assured woman,” he says quietly, and then tactically blows a cool stream of air across my flesh. My body locks, my breath held as I try to find my ever-present poise. Where the hell has it gone now, when I’m confident that I need it the most? “I like it,” he claims. “A lot.” I’m forced to open my eyes when I feel the chilly sensation of something smooth resting on my lips. A flute of champagne is held over my shoulder, Josh’s mouth now touching my pulsing neck. I shudder, unable to stop it.
He nips my throat, and, God help me, I moan, feeling him smile against my skin. “Drink,” he commands, tipping the flute at my lips. My mouth is bone dry, so the cool liquid is welcome. I swallow, sweeping my tongue across my bottom lip to catch a trickle. “Good?” He presses his front into my back.
“The champagne, or the feel of your arousal against my backside?”
He answers by dropping the champagne and glasses to the grass and slipping an arm around my waist, splaying his palm across my tummy to hold me still, so when he thrusts his hips forward, I am trapped, at the mercy of his solid manhood pressing into me. “I know that feels good.” Biting my earlobe, he drags it through his teeth until it pops free. My legs give a little, sending my body limp against his. “Just like I know this will feel good.” His hand cups me over my dress.
“Fucking hell,” I say on a rush of breath.
Josh chuckles. “Is it wrong that hearing you cuss in your proper English accent turns me on?”
“It should probably shock you more than turn you on,” I admit, laying my hand over his between my thighs, ignoring my mind’s demand to put pressure there, to make him rub and stimulate me further.
“It doesn’t shock me.” Kissing my neck, he turns me in his arms and lifts my chin until I’m looking into his eyes. They’re lustrous and lush, almost lazy. “Kneel.” His demand is sharp and serious.
“Excuse me?” I choke, somewhere between amusement and shock.
“I said, kneel.” He drops my chin and takes a backward step, leveling me with an expressionless face. No, wait. His face is not expressionless at all. There’s challenge hiding somewhere there.
“You are aware that you have just demanded the Princess of England to kneel?”
“I am.” He sighs heavily, raising his eyebrows at me. “And yet she’s still standing.” Pulling that pale pink hanky from his breast pocket, he flaps it out. “I won’t ask again.”
I drop to my knees at his feet with no further prompt, shocking myself, but clearly not Josh. And though I can see he is satisfied, he doesn’t demonstrate it, but rather circles me, straddling my legs behind me. His palm rests on my throat and tips my head back until I can see him looming above me. “Open your mouth.”
I swallow and do as I am bid. I’m like a puppet, bowing to his demands, kissing my strong will goodbye. His eyes travel every inch of my face, settling on my lips, and he bends at the waist, closing the distance between our mouths quickly. His lips hit mine with force, and he pushes his tongue inside my mouth and circles firmly, giving me just a teasing taste of him. And then he pulls away before I can gather myself to respond. I cry out for my loss, panting, seeing my scarlet lipstick smeared all over his mouth. I don’t ask for more. Somehow, I know I won’t get it. Not now, when he’s drawing the material of his silk hanky through his deft fingers before me, smoothing it, pulling it taut. He’s going to gag me. That expensive handkerchief is going in my mouth. I flick my eyes to his, my neck craned back to keep his upside-down face in view. A small smile ghosts his lips as he brings the material down, filling my mouth with it. And I do nothing to stop him. I remain on my knees, a man I’ve known barely an hour doing with me as he pleases.
What the hell are you doing, Adeline?
I stare ahead, feeling his fingertips brushing my shoulders, eliciting goosebumps. I’ve never had goosebumps before. I’ve never felt my stomach cartwheel like this, or my heart thrum without the help of exhaustion. Josh Jameson isn’t approaching me like the delicate princess, pampering and fussing over me. It’s a new feeling to me, one of liberation.
At that very second, my dress is yanked up past my waist and a wicked slice of pain rips through me, his palm connecting brutally with my backside. I can’t scream—my gag won’t allow it—but I do fall forward onto all fours to steady myself. He’s kneeling behind me quickly, his hand tugging my knickers aside and his fingers slipping straight through my wetness and plunging deep. I choke on nothing, my eyes wide and shocked.
The heat of my burning bottom spreads through my bloodstream and sets me alight, my eyes blinking repeatedly as Josh pummels me with three fingers unforgivingly. I feel my climax building within seconds, defying my need to be disgusted by his treatment of me, my body moving back and forth as his spare hand strokes down my spine.
And when I reach the summit, the point of release, he pulls out and leaves my building orgasm to flutter away.
I whimper, the sensation of him smoothing his palm over my burning arse telling me to brace myself. My frantic mind reels, torn between depraved delight and fear. Not because of his brutal kiss, or his brutal palm, or his ability to control my pleasure so easily. But because I want more, and I have never wanted more from a man in my life. Adeline Lockhart does not ever want more from a man. She takes what she wants, knowing he won’t be around for long. She’s the one in control. She is the one calling the shots. She’s the one men bow to. What am I doing?
I reach for the gag and pull it from my mouth, my breathing out of control. “No,” I pant, struggling to my feet and throwing Josh’s pink hanky to the grass. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, smudging my lipstick even more than Josh has with his blazing kiss.
“No?” He slowly gets to his feet. He’s surprised, and he can’t hide it.
“No.” I pull my dress down as I turn and walk away. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Jameson.” I don’t look back. I do not ever want to lay eyes on him again. I don’t take too kindly to men who try to overpower me, men like my father and eldest brother, no matter in what capacity that is—suppressing me or dominating me. I will not be controlled, and I’m furious with myself for even remotely enjoying it.
Remotely?
I enjoyed it too much. My blood heated too much. I wanted to bend to his will, and that is a monumental achievement on Josh Jameson’s part. I should hate him for it. Yet I don’t. Frighteningly, I want more. And I will never be allowed to have more. That is why I always maintain the control with men. That is why I call the shots. Because I know it won’t be long before the King finds out about my flavor of the month and rids them from my life. I never get attached; there’s little point when I know the longevity of my relationships is non-existent. My feigned annoyance swiftly turns into panic.
“Adeline!”
I ignore him shouting after me and navigate my way out of the maze with ease, hurrying back to my party, my usually cool persona flustered terribly.
Matilda is the first to spot me, her face a picture of horror. “Oh my gosh, Adeline.”
“What?”
“Your lipstick is everywhere.”
I wipe my cheek, seeing the evidence of my red lipstick smudged all over my fingertips. “Oh, blast.”
“Here, you left your bag with Haydon.’ Matilda passes my purse, her lips straight.
“Have fun?” Eddie asks sarcastically, joining us. “If you insist on misbehaving, Adeline, you could at least hide the bloody evidence.” He focuses on my lipstick-smeared face.
I make a mad dash for the washroom, leaving behind a bemused Eddie and Matilda. Fun? No, it was not fun.
Skirting past plenty of people who look like they would like to stop and talk, I don’t indulge any of them, hoping my hand over my mouth will maybe communicate that I am going to vomit, rather than the fact that I am hiding the evidence of an American man’s heavenly mouth all over mine.
Slamming the door shut behind me, I go to the mirror. “Bloody hell,” I breathe, grabbing a washcloth and running it under the tap. I look as flustered as I feel, and the burning flesh of my bottom is a good indication that one cheek of my arse is as red as the lipstick smeared disgracefully all over my face. Pulling up my dress, I turn and get my raw rear in view, gasping when I see the glowing imprint of a large palm. “The nerve,” I whisper, wincing when I apply the cool washcloth across my skin.
There’s a knock at the door. “One minute,” I call, rushing to make myself more presentable, smoothing out my dress and reapplying my lipstick carefully, blotting away the redness on my chin and cheeks with some loose powder. Once I have made the best of myself, which is not brilliant without Jenny around to work her magic, I straighten my shoulders, slap a smile on my face, and open the door. “I do apologize for taking so—” My smile plummets, and I’m shoved back inside the washroom by Josh bloody Jameson. “Do you mind?” I blurt, outraged.
He slams the door, locks it, and pushes his back against the wood. I guess that means I’m not going anywhere. “Tell me why you refused me,” he growls.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You played it all cocky, laid your cards on the table, made it perfectly clear what you wanted, and then you bottled it. I want to know why.”
“It may have escaped your notice, Mr. Jameson, but I do not have to justify myself to anyone, least of all you. Now, if you will excuse me.” I fix him with a resolute glare, ignoring the returning influx of pleasurable feelings sweeping through my bloodstream. He’s even more handsome, even harder to resist when he’s angry. His jaw pulsing, his eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring. Knowing I’m the reason for this fluster in Josh Jameson turns me on, and I really do not want it to.
“When you provoke my cock into something resembling stone, Your Highness,” he breathes, “you most definitely need to justify yourself.”
I recoil at his continued frankness. “Your inability to control . . .” I fade off, glancing at his groin. He’s still hard, and I nibble the inside of my cheek, undeniably delighted. “Your inability to control yourself is not my concern.”
He laughs and rearranges himself. “You’re mistaken, ma’am.”
“I am?” I tilt my head, interested. “I seem to recall you mentioning something about not telling a royal when they are wrong.”
“I’ve changed my mind. You’re wrong.” His scowl is not playful. It’s serious, and I know I should be wary of it. I am wary. Very wary. Which is why I back up. Just two steps, not that it gains me space for long. Josh Jameson soon closes the extended distance I’ve put between us. “You’re scared.”
“Of what?” I laugh.
He, however, does not laugh. “Me.”
“I assure you, I am not scared of you.” I glance away and silently curse myself for it.
“Liar.”
“That’s absurd. Why ever would I fear you?”
“Because I whipped that fine ass of yours, and you, Your Highness, fuckin’ loved it. You loved me owning you in that maze, you loved me ruling you, and you hate that you loved it. That’s the problem here.”
My jaw tightens. “You’re wrong.” I can see that my refusal to concede is increasing his aggravation. It’s delightful to witness this renowned sex symbol look rejection in the eye. It pushes my revived fortitude to new heights, because, right now, I have the power. It’s familiar ground to me, and I am once again thriving, regardless of the miniscule detail that he is one hundred percent right. “You are keeping me from my birthday celebrations, Mr. Jameson. Would you mind?” I step forward, and his scowl deepens. More thrills lick my skin.
“Yes, I would mind.” He remains blocking my path to the door. “I’m not moving until you admit it.”
“Oh,” I laugh. “Have I injured your ego?”
His face screws up. “Fuck me, you’re infuriating.”
I smile, sly and seductively, feeling power trickling through my veins. “So I’m told. What are you going to do, spank me again?” I pass him, feeling like myself once more, until he seizes my wrist and yanks me to a stop. I keep my eyes on my escape, my arm heating under his touch, and my bottom tingling as a reminder of who really does have the power here.
“Whether I spank you again depends on whether you continue with the insubordination. You’re being a very naughty girl, Your Highness.” He slowly turns challenging eyes down to me and burns a hole in my profile with the concentration of his stare.
“I’m always a naughty girl.” I meet his eyes briefly before dropping my gaze to his lips. “Defiant, some might say. Untamable and unruly. No man has, or ever will, succeed in controlling me.”
“Then the wrong men have tried. I don’t fail.” He drops my wrist and moves away. “You’ll submit to me eventually. Until then, Your Highness, game on.” Josh takes the door and swings it open, sweeping his arm out in gesture for me to lead the way.
“There will be no game,” I mutter, my vocal cords tight from the constant swallows of restraint.
“There already is.” He follows me out of the washroom and falls into stride beside me, buttoning up his suit jacket. “And, for the record, I’m currently winning.”
“Losing is the new winning? How very modern of you.” He’s right. There is a game, and I need to find the will not to enjoy playing, because I know beyond question that I cannot win.
I break out in a sweat when Haydon’s father, David, appears as we make our way through the grand foyer of the palace toward the rear grounds. “Ah, Mr. Sampson,” I chime, high and nervous. “Have you met Mr. Jameson?”
“I don’t believe I have.” David offers Josh his hand. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Jameson.”
“Likewise,” Josh replies, his accent heavy. And thrilling.
“I was just showing Mr. Jameson the gallery of Lockharts,” I explain to David when he gives Josh a dubious look.
“In the library?” Haydon’s father looks a little confused as he drops Jameson’s hand. “But that’s on the other side of the palace.”
“We detoured,” I explain. “Mr. Jameson hasn’t had the privilege of a guided tour before now.”
“I’m sure one of the household staff would have been happy to give Mr. Jameson a tour, save you missing out on your celebrations and guests.” By guests, he means his son, Haydon.
“More personal.” I smile tightly.
David matches my smile. “I guess there’s nothing like a royal tour led by a royal.”
“I particularly enjoyed the maze.” Josh smiles, and I choke a little.
“Oh, the maze. Her Royal Highness and my son used to romp in there for hours when they were children.” David heads toward the washrooms, leaving me with a rare agape mouth.
“Romp?” Josh asks, turning his penetrating, twinkling eyes onto me.
“You particularly enjoyed the maze?”
I’m blinded by his smile. “As did you.”
I roll my eyes and walk toward the garden. “If it pleases you, Mr. Jameson.”
“Oh, it does, Your Highness.”
“Will you please stop addressing me in that manner?”
“No.”
I toss a scowl back at him, picking up my speed as Major Davenport appears, as if by magic, blocking my escape to the garden. “The King has requested an audience,” he declares on a sniff, his stoic expression pointed over my shoulder. To Josh? Bugger it. Was my father’s private secretary spying again?
“An audience?” I sigh. “I am his daughter, not the Prime Minister or a member of the Privy Bloody Council.”
Major Davenport’s straight face turns to me. “In your own good time, ma’am,” he says, ignoring my insolence as he walks toward the stairs that lead to my father’s regal office.
I just want to enjoy my party. Is that too much to ask? I solidify when I feel a hard torso meet my back. “If the King wants to pass out punishments, I’ll happily volunteer my palm.” Josh juts his hips forward and catches my sore bottom with his still-solid arousal. “Just sayin’.”
“You are incorrigible.” I break away and head for my father’s office, hoping my walk appears stable when on the inside I am infuriatingly rickety. And it is all Josh Jameson’s fault. And it will also be his fault if my father is privy to my reckless shenanigans in the maze.
Major Davenport is waiting for me with the door held open. I walk in and find Sir Don in a chair opposite my father’s desk and my father looking at the portrait of himself at his coronation that hangs above the stone fireplace. He has a brandy in his grasp and a cigar in his mouth. “Father,” I say, pulling him from admiring himself. “You wanted to see me?”
“Ah, Adeline.” Holding his half-smoked cigar out, a footman takes it and places the brown, putrid-smelling stick on a freestanding ashtray. “Take a seat.”
I’m reluctant, even more so when I turn to see my mother enter the office. I know she sees my growing despondency, because she gives me that peaceful smile, the one she gives me when she thinks I should hear my father out. My beautiful mother glides gracefully across the carpet, the pleated skirt of her gown floating behind her. She sits on the velvet chesterfield, and Davenport shuts the door with him on the wrong side of it.
“That’ll be all, Major Davenport.” My mother is the only person who can dismiss him, aside from the King. But despite the Queen Consort’s order, Davenport still looks to my father for confirmation. The King nods, as does Davenport in response, before he silently leaves me alone with my parents and Sir Don.
Okay, I think to myself. What is it going to be? A reprimand on the shot Woman got of me outside the Royal Opera House? I cannot help that. Maybe Sir Don has advised the King of my indiscretion with Gerry Rush on that boring evening. Well, boring until I made it to the banker’s hotel room. I wince when I remember the image Kim showed me of Rush and his wife. Communications have handled it. I can’t be here because of that. So perhaps I am about to be lectured on—
“It’s time you marry,” the King says in his usual inflexible tone. “You’re thirty now, Adeline. You’ve had your fun.”
I balk. Fun? Is that what he calls it? Well, I’m not done having fun. Maybe never will be. “I’m quite aware of my age, Father.” I sit up straight in the oversized, gilded chair, feeling my mother’s despairing eyes on me, and Sir Don’s condemnation. I flick Mother a glance and see her mildly shake her head, silently pleading for me to bow to the King’s demands. Never. I refuse to fall victim to an arranged royal marriage. They’re all a farce in one form or another. Not one married member of the monarchy is genuinely in love. There was no love at first sight or sizzling chemistry, because, Lord have mercy on our souls, we don’t screw out of pleasure or because the chemistry is too potent to resist. No. We screw to produce heirs, to keep the royal bloodline strong and the country appeased. I don’t want to get married, not now, maybe never. I don’t want children, either. I would never thrust this life on a child. No one deserves this kind of suppression.
The King sighs, looking at my mother for support. He won’t get it from his queen, but I will not gain her defense either. She knows her position. Mother will remain quiet, overseeing the debate, sitting pretty. So my father looks to Sir Don, and I find my contemptuous eyes finding him, too. Sir Don is another story. A descendent of the greatest lord chamberlain this country has ever seen, his desire to make it into the history books with his grandfather is really quite sad. His life has been dedicated to advising the Sovereign. To maintaining this country’s greatest asset, the Royal Family. To help hide the many scandals and secrets. To support the monarchy.
My father nods firmly, taking direction from Sir Don. “Haydon Sampson—”
“Is a lovely man, Father, but he is not my cup of tea.”
“No, your cup of tea is a gentleman from a certain persuasion.” His bushy brows meet in the middle, his chin dropping to his chest. “Like married bankers.”
Oh, bugger. How? Then I laugh under my breath. Do I even need to ask myself that? I turn a filthy look Sir Don’s way. That’s how.
“Felix may have kept the incident out of the newspapers, Adeline,” my father says, “but there is not much you can keep from me.”
That’s not true at all. I’ve had many encounters with men that my father has never caught wind of. Thank God for Felix and the communications team at Kellington Palace.
Father narrows displeased eyes on me, and Sir Don chooses now to step in with his thoughts. And we all know what they will be. “I’m sure you do not need me to tell you that the scandal arising from this would cast an unsightly shadow on the Monarchy.”
“No, I do not, so why are you telling me?”
“Have you no scruples, Adeline?” Father asks. I am not given the chance to defend myself, not that I have a defense. “You will marry Haydon Sampson. That is not a request.” His voice gets louder until he finishes on a boom.
I grind my teeth. “Edward is older than I am. Why is he not receiving such devotion to finding him a suitable wife?”
“Your brother has been busy fighting for our country.” He’s losing the plot rapidly, now standing over his desk in that imposing way that makes most people tremble when they are on the receiving end on his tirades. “He’s been making himself useful.”
“Oh, I see.” I stand abruptly, unable to maintain my calm composure. “So the only use I have to you and the monarchy is to marry and reproduce? To make appearances on request and mimic the words of royal advisors when I’m allowed to actually talk?”
“Adeline,” Mother breathes, making a rare intervention. “Darling, your father only wants what is best for you.”
“No, he doesn’t. He wants what is best for the monarchy. It’s ridiculous. Do you think the public is not aware of the sham marriages within this family? Open your eyes, Father.”
His fist lands on his red box, the box that’s delivered daily with important papers for him to sign, information to read, news to know. “My eyes are very much open. I am the King, dear daughter, and, like it or not, my word is final.”
His word? Or the words of the small army of men who advise him? The army led by Sir Don. “Exile me. I don’t care. I will not marry Haydon Sampson to keep up royal appearances.”
“You will do what I say!”
I take myself across to my mother and kiss her cheek lightly, feeling her despair. Then I turn to my father, whose face is now red with rage, and to Sir Don, who maintains a respectful silence, though I expect his thoughts are damning me to hell. “Thank you for a wonderful afternoon and for my lovely birthday gift.” I walk out, hearing Mother trying to placate her husband as he rants on about disobedience and my audacity to question his authority.
I pass Major Davenport as I leave, and I make sure he sees my glower. Although the man is impenetrable, probably necessary after nearly thirty years serving the King, and fifteen years prior to that serving my equally demanding grandfather.
“What’s ruffled your feathers?” Eddie catches me at the bottom of the stairs, and I spew out my grievances in one fell swoop, informing my brother that I would rather live as a pauper than marry Haydon Sampson. Perhaps I should join the military so my life has more approved purpose.
“Please,” I beg, grabbing my brother’s hands and squeezing. “Let’s go back to Kellington and get outrageously drunk. Today has been utterly tiresome. I need a stiff drink.”
“And something else stiff? Or have you already had a bit of that?”
“No, I have not, but I’m beginning to wish I’d taken him up on his shameful offer.”
“You turned him down?” Eddie’s shock is clear. “Josh Jameson?”
“And what of it?”
Snuggling my hand into the crook of his arm, Eddie starts to walk me out, nodding for a footman to fill my other hand with some champagne. Maybe I should stop drinking. My head is starting to feel a little woozy. “Not that I’m encouraging such scandalous behavior,” Eddie says. “I’m just surprised you turned down guaranteed fun.”
Fun? I inwardly scoff. Well, it was until I realized I was genuinely enjoying Josh Jameson’s idea of fun. “So when do we get to party properly?”
Eddie chuckles and gets his phone from his pocket. “I’ll send out an informal, impromptu invitation and let you know.”
“Oh, goody.” I kiss his cheek. Eddie sending out an “informal, impromptu invitation” is the best party invitation one could receive. And I am the special guest. I accost a footman and ask him to let Damon know I’ll be ready in half an hour. I’ve done my royal bit for today. Or maybe forever.