I don’t know what’s happening to me—why I can’t seem to keep my head on straight when I’m in his arms. When he’s holding me like this. As wrong as I know it is, there’s also something so right. So completely different than anything I’ve ever experienced.

He’s looking at me expectantly and I can barely breathe as I soap my hands to return the delicious torture he delivered with his bathing of me.

I stare up at him, rubbing my hands together after I set the bar of soap back in the porcelain dish.

His eyes fall closed as I rub my hands over his shoulders and down his arms. I move slowly. Deliberately. My fingers trail back up his arms and slide over his chest.

My lingering touch draws a growl from somewhere deep inside him.

I smile, allowing my fingers to move lower, tracing the outline of his abdomen over his well-defined muscles.

I slide my hands around to his ass next, pulling him against me as I press my lips to his chest. He opens his eyes and lifts me up, setting me on the same ledge as the soap dish. He slides a hand between my thighs, slipping his body between them so he’s pressed right up against me.

He tips his head and kisses my neck, but doesn’t move any closer to me.

I groan. This is nearly torture, the way he’s drawing this out, making me almost beg for the slightest touch.

I hook my legs around him, pulling him so close I can feel his pulsing cock next to me. But he turns slightly, denying me, instead raining more kisses over my collarbone.

My arms slide around his back, my fingernails digging into him as I rock myself up and try to get him to slide into me.

But he’s enjoying tormenting me too much. He turns his body again, bending to kiss my chest.

My neck arches and my hand fists into his hair, encouraging him to continue.

I shift a bit, trying to wrap my legs around his waist again, trying almost desperately to get him to enter me. I thrust my hips against him, but he catches me by my ass, lifting me away from the ledge with one hand and flipping the water off with the other.

He lifts his lips to mine, kissing me as he carries me out of the steamy bathroom and into the bedroom.

His lips are still on mine—my legs are still wrapped around his waist—when I hear a shrill scream.

Everything seems to happen in the space of a single second. Andrew drops me, and I’m barely able to keep myself from face planting as my wet feet slip out from under me when I hit the floor. He pulls a blanket from the end of the bed and wraps it around himself as he runs after the flash of reddish blonde hair heading out the door.

I blink a few times, trying to determine if I’m injured. Physically, anyway.

When I can’t find anything wrong, I grab another of the throw blankets from the end of the bed and hold it to my chest as I climb to my feet.

I should probably get dressed—I might not have any physical wounds, but I can already feel an emotional wound starting to rip through my chest.

Clarissa might have seen us in a compromising position, but it doesn’t matter. What can she do? Andrew just said he’d chosen me, so why should it matter if some noblewoman saw me naked? Even if she were to go to the international press about it, it seems unlikely anyone would believe her.

I poke my head into the sitting area, but as I suspected, Andrew isn’t there. I wait for a few moments before I go into the closet and pull out an appropriate dress for dinner.

For some reason, I’m dawdling, not really wanting to pull my clothes on. I’m not sure what I hope will happen—that Andrew will come back and finish what he started? That seems unlikely, even if Clarissa hadn’t just caught us about to have sex.

I finally dress and finish getting ready for dinner. But Andrew never returns. And I spend the next hour debating whether or not I should show up to dinner alone.

Didn’t he tell me on the plane that he wanted me by his side tonight? Didn’t he tell me right before our shower that he’s chosen me? If his decision is really so tenuous it can be changed in the space of a moment, how is that really a decision at all?

Anger bubbles inside me the longer I think about it.

I can’t believe I let him talk me into this bullshit pageant again. What the hell is wrong with me?

I wait for something—anything—to tell me the right answer. But it never comes. No servant ever knocks on the door to tell me I’m wanted for dinner. And I’m coming to realize that I was an afterthought. Probably no one in this place realizes I’m here. There was likely never an invitation extended to me for dinner tonight—the king is weird about who eats dinner with him in the palace, and there’s no way I would be invited to eat with him, now that I’m thinking about it. I’m pretty sure Elle still hasn’t been invited to a family dinner here, and she’s carrying the child of one of the royal children.

Shit. Part of me hopes that this is a repeat of my past—that he’s somehow found out about the secret I really don’t want to share with him—but I have a feeling it isn’t that simple. It seems a lot more likely that Clarissa is using the scene she witnessed to her advantage than the slim possibility that Andrew found out something about me that he’d rather not have heard.

I change into more comfortable clothes when it becomes obvious I’m not going to be joining the party at dinner. I decide to pass the time by crafting a story about the dinner I obviously was not invited to attend. And I write it exactly how it should go—with Andrew choosing Justine at the end.

Of course, I know that isn’t how this evening will go. Andrew still has a pageant to put on—he still has a few other women to publicly audition. And I know nothing about the new women. I don’t even know enough to make anything up.

I toss my first draft into the trashcan near the desk. My fingers are digging into the armrests of the chair. I need to get out of this room, if not Montovia. And even though I spent the better part of the day on an airplane, I can’t help but feel I need to get the hell out of here. That something shitty is about to go down that I want no part of.

I’m about halfway through another draft when I hear a soft knocking on my door.

My stomach does the weird fluttering thing it does when I know I’m about to see Andrew and a smile comes to my lips despite my efforts to hide it.

I should be pissed that he abandoned me the way he did. And even more upset that he didn’t at least send someone to escort me to dinner if he didn’t want to do it himself. But there’s a part of me—a part I’m sure I’m going to hate sometime soon—that is somehow overjoyed that he came back at all.

I walk over to the door and swing it open.

The stupid grin falls from my face when I see it isn’t Andrew on the other side of the door. It’s William.

He clears his throat before he gives me a formal nod, trying to cover his own smile. “Hello, Victoria.”

I give him a small nod in return. “Hello, William. I’m pretty busy.” I glance over my shoulder at the small desk in the corner. “I’m working on the next draft of Andrew’s story—”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here.”

“Oh.” My shoulders drop. “Andrew sent you?”

He nods again. “He sends his apologies that the dinner plans he suggested did not come to fruition.”

I stifle the urge to roll my eyes at the unnecessary formality. “Tell him it’s fine. And if he wants—”

He interrupts with a wave of his hand. “He also wanted me to tell you that the plans you had for later…” He clears his throat. “He’ll also not be able to join you for the plans you had to work together on his story tonight.”

I nod. The cottage isn’t happening.

William stares at me. “I realize it is inappropriate to ask, but might I come in for a moment?” He glances over his shoulder. “We might enjoy a bit more privacy.”

I allow him through and he takes a seat on the small sofa near the desk.

I take the chair across from him.

He looks about as uncomfortable as I feel, shifting in his chair and unable to make full eye contact with me.

“How was the dinner?” I force a small smile.

He frowns and looks over at me. “To be quite honest, it was horrid.”

I lift a brow. “That’s a pretty strong word. Was it really that bad—?”

“Oh, you have no idea how bad. Andrew has really stepped in it now. And by it, I mean shit.”

I grin. “I figured.”

He nods. “I wasn’t sure if that was an American saying or not.” His gaze falls to the floor. “I believe my eldest brother may be feeling something akin to shame. Something I had no idea he was capable of feeling.”

“Oh.” Heat rises in my cheeks. “So you heard what happened tonight?”

“Heard?” He lifts his gaze to mine, frowning. “I was there. I’m a little…disgusted.”

“You…you were there?” My ears feel like they’re on fire. “I thought…I thought it was Clarissa—”

“Oh, it was Clarissa. We all thought it would be Justine, but no, my brother had to go and…” His voice drifts off and his eyes fall closed. He draws in a long breath and opens his eyes. “Have you heard? Have you heard what my father expects of me?”

I shake my head. Maybe what happened between Andrew and me hasn’t leaked out. Maybe Clarissa didn’t see anything. Maybe…

“Andrew said it would be good for me to accompany Princess Justine home. And believe me, under normal circumstances, I would have been happy to do that. More than happy, if I’m being honest. I’ve always found her somewhat attractive, particularly for a noblewoman. They’re all such complete bores, with their obsessions over their clothing and makeup, wouldn’t you agree?”

I shrug, not wanting to commit to being on record agreeing to any of those things.

He nods. “Princess Justine seems a bit less of a bore than the others, but really, tonight at dinner she engaged me in a discussion about the need to use organic fibers in clothing. Can you imagine? I thought I might fall asleep while she was talking.”

I smile. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“Perhaps not. But Andrew and my father still expect me to accompany her home. It seems…ridiculous.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’ll have fun.” I smile and stand up. “Thanks for bringing me the messages from your brother. I suppose now I can just go to bed.”

He jumps to his feet. “I would have asked you to engage with me in some sparring practice, but I can see you are still tired from your trip. Perhaps you would care to join me tomorrow, before my planned trip with the Princess Justine?”

I nod and walk over to the door.

“It’s a shame you’ll be leaving us so soon. We may as well make the most of your time here before you’re to leave. If you’d care to know a secret, you’re a better fencer than all my brothers combined.”

My brow furrows. “Wait, did you say I’m leaving?”

He nods. “Andrew mentioned to everyone at dinner that now that he’s chosen his bride, he’ll no longer need you to write for him.” His small smile falls to something of a frown. “As I said, it’s a shame. I’ve very much enjoyed getting to know you, Victoria. Perhaps sometime after I accompany Justine home, we could plan to spend some additional time together.”

I tilt my head. “What…what exactly was said at dinner?”

His brows knit together for a moment and he looks into my eyes. “Why, that Andrew has chosen his bride. That he’ll be marrying Lady Clarissa within the month.”