CHAPTER
TEN
Against his better judgment, Asher stopped at a pub on his way back to the palace after rehearsal. For the better part of two hours, he sat at the bar with his cello case propped conspicuously on the barstool beside him. He probably painted quite a picture.
He didn’t care. He needed to think—and drink—before he went back to the Blue Room.
Asher wasn’t sure what to make of Amelia’s surprise visit to Cadogan Hall, but it gave him good reason to believe he’d find her waiting for him again when he returned. He desperately hoped he was wrong. At least he thought he did. He wasn’t sure anymore.
Three pints later, he wasn’t any clearer on the subject.
But he’d managed to avoid the hustle and bustle of palace life. The day before, a tour group had been making its way past the grand staircase when he’d returned. Two days ago, there’d been some kind of award ceremony going on. The place was like Grand Central Station.
He couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like for Amelia growing up there. No wonder she was as a nutty as a fruitcake.
Asher grinned as James escorted him through the dimly lit Queen’s Hall toward the Blue Room. He’d always been partial to fruitcake.
But Princess Naughty had overstepped her bounds this time. She’d injected herself into his career. How was he supposed to explain that to Jeremy? Still, when James opened the door and there was no trace of Amelia anywhere among the sea of blue, the tug in Asher’s chest felt more like disappointment than relief.
Woof.
As usual, Willow was situated on his pillow. What was it with that dog, anyway?
Asher frowned. “How does she keep getting up there?”
The bed was huge, a good foot or so higher than his king-sized bed at home.
”She barks until someone picks her up and lets her on the bed. Apologies sir, but . . .”
Asher held up a hand. “The corgi rule. I know.”
James nodded. “How was rehearsal today, if I may ask?”
”You may. It was . . .” Where to start? “. . . eventful.”
“I see. Due to the late hour, am I to assume you’ve already eaten, or shall I bring you dinner before I escort you to your meeting with the princess?”
His jaw clenched. “What meeting?”
“Princess Amelia requested your presence in one of the state rooms upon your arrival. Shall I let Her Royal Highness know you’ve returned?” James looked like he might be struggling not to smile.
At least someone found the situation amusing.
“No, thank you,” he said tersely.
Willow let out a snort, and Asher shot the dog a dirty look.
James’s smile faded, and he tilted his head. “Sorry, sir. I don’t understand.”
“No, thank you. As in, no. I’ll pass.”
“But I have instructions.” James cast a worried glance toward the wall Asher’s room shared with Amelia’s bedroom.
Asher sighed. “Look, I don’t want to get you into any more trouble. I promise. But I really don’t want to see the princess right now.”
Or ever, if he was smart.
He’d let her presence get to him. He’d paid more attention to the way her auburn hair fell down her back, the elegance of her supple spine, and her delectable, impertinent mouth than he had to his music. It hadn’t gone unnoticed. Not by anyone, least of all Jeremy.
Asher deserved the dressing down he’d gotten. He hadn’t appreciated the accusation of sabotage, but his playing had been lousy. Still, being interrogated as he stood next to a collection of cleaning supplies had been unpleasant enough even before Amelia decided to crash that gathering, too.
Jeremy had been dumbfounded. And more than a little suspicious.
Whatever Asher and Amelia had going on in the palace was one thing, but taking it outside the castle walls was another entirely. He had a career to worry about. A career that was already on rocky footing, without adding rumors of royal nepotism to the mix. She’d been trying to help, he realized that. But he didn’t want an explanation or an apology or whatever she had in mind. He wanted to stay angry with her. That was the best thing for both of them.
“Perhaps you’ll be ready to meet with Princess Amelia in half an hour?” James said.
Asher leveled his gaze at the page. “I doubt I’ll feel differently in thirty minutes.”
“If I may, sir.” James cleared his throat. “I don’t think you want to miss this.”
Asher exhaled a tense breath. “Is refusing going to do any good at all?”
“Not really, sir. No. I have my orders.” James at least had the decency to look contrite.
“Fine.”
James nodded. “Very well. I’ll inform Her Royal Highness and return momentarily to escort you.”
Once he’d gone, Asher slipped back into his suit jacket, which he’d shed when he’d been under the assumption he was in for the night. The state rooms sounded formal, and Amelia had seen enough of him shirtless in pajama bottoms.
Maybe the summons was an official thing. If she’d wanted to see him alone, why wouldn’t she pop into his room? It wasn’t as though she hadn’t done so before.
But exactly thirty minutes later, James walked Asher halfway across the massive building and opened a set of gilded double doors to reveal Amelia waiting for him. Alone.
“Hiya.” She gave him a little wave.
Asher didn’t say anything. Just the sight of her was enough to take his breath away, as always. But the surroundings were so picturesque, he almost felt like he was looking at a portrait of Amelia.
Instead of being framed by four walls, the room was curved into a wide semicircle at the far end, swathed with plush red velvet. Black marble columns separated the row of tall, bowed windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. The ceiling itself was a huge dome, inlaid with shimmering gold leaf. A massive chandelier fitted with slender white candlesticks and draped ropes of crystal teardrops hung overhead.
Asher had thought he’d gotten a good glimpse of royal opulence during his first few days at Buckingham Palace, but he’d been wrong. Dead wrong. This was like nothing he’d ever seen before.
And yet, nothing in the lavish room compared to the sight of Amelia bathed in shimmering candlelight, leaning against a glossy black grand piano and grinning at him like the cat who’d gotten the cream.
The effect was rather dizzying. Asher wasn’t sure where to focus. The piano looked like it might be a nineteenth-century Steinway, but he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from Amelia long enough to search for the maker’s emblem.
She was wearing flowing black satin pants and a fitted, plain white T-shirt, and her hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head. If not for her rich red lipstick and dramatic winged eyeliner—remnants from her earlier princess ensemble—she would’ve looked ready to crawl into bed for the night. Asher found the striking dichotomy oddly erotic. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he envisioned sweeping her off her feet, setting her atop the piano’s keyboard, and claiming her crimson mouth.
He swallowed. “Where are we?”
“This is the music room.” She waved a graceful hand at the piano. “I thought you might enjoy it. James mentioned you seemed uncertain, though. So feel free to leave if nothing here interests you.”
He had a good mind to turn around and walk out the door. He would have, but he couldn’t seem to make his feet move.
“You got me. I’m intrigued.” She no doubt thought he was talking about the spectacular piano, which was only partially true.
She slid onto the piano bench and patted the empty space beside her.
For a split second, Asher hesitated. The leopard hunt had been a bad idea, no question. This seemed far worse.
But if he’d been capable of leaving, he would have already done so. He strode across the expansive parquet floor and sat down next to Amelia.
Immediately, he was enveloped in her heavenly scent. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was—something floral and clean, reminiscent of fresh peonies on a dewy morning. His thigh brushed hers, and even through their layers of clothes, he could feel her softness. Her warmth.
He didn’t dare look at her. She was too close. And Asher was already starting to forget why he’d been angry, why being in the same room with her was such a colossal mistake.
He swallowed and fixed his gaze on the black-and-white keys in front of him.
“Do you play?” she asked.
“Yes. I learned on a piano, actually. It was the first instrument I could play.” He rested his hands on the keys. They were cool to the touch. Smooth. Familiar. “My mother was a piano teacher.”
“Was?”
He pressed down, and a buoyant chord filled the air. C major. The first, most basic chord of the musical spectrum. “She died when I was in college.”
“I’m sorry.” Amelia’s hand crept closer to his arm, but stopped short of his sleeve. “I’m sure she would have been very proud of you.”
“Not today, she wouldn’t.” Asher shook his head. “She was quite the perfectionist.”
“I understand.”
He swiveled his gaze toward her and for the first time, noticed the tiny gold flecks in her eyes. Somehow she looked more regal up close. Vulnerable. Honest. “Do you?”
“I’ve spent the better part of my life trying to live up to my family’s expectations. Sometimes I wonder if I ever will.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You sounded lovely today, but it wasn’t the same as when you played for me.”
“No, it wasn’t.” There was no use denying it. She’d heard the difference.
“Why?”
He sighed. He hadn’t talked to anyone about the stage fright before. Somehow, saying it out loud made it seem more real. “I’ve had some issues playing in front of people lately.”
“But not me?” She bit her lip.
Asher’s gaze dropped ever so slowly to her mouth. “Not you. No.”
Her lips curved into tender smile and this time, he could see it in her gaze. It seemed to shine from every part of her.
Asher had never wanted to kiss a woman so badly in his life. If she hadn’t been engaged . . . if she hadn’t been a princess . . . if there’d been no Holden Beckett, no crown, no royal wedding . . . he would have cupped her face in his hands, run the pad of his thumb over that decadent bottom lip of hers, and kissed her again. And this time, the kiss would only be the start of things.
It took every shred of self-control he possessed not to do it.
“Should I ask why you don’t have a problem playing for me in particular?” She swallowed, and Asher traced the movement up and down the exquisite column of her throat.
“No,” he said roughly. “You shouldn’t.”
That particular conversation was so full of land mines that no one would come out of it intact. Least of all Holden Beckett.
She’s not yours. Back off.
He slid a fraction farther away from her. “We need to talk about what happened at rehearsal today.”
She nodded wordlessly.
“You can’t come to my defense like that again. Things between Jeremy and me are . . .” Asher sighed. “. . . complicated.”
She blinked. God, she had the most beautiful eyes. Eyes that made him say and do things he knew he shouldn’t. “Complicated how, exactly?”
“He used to be my mentor.”
Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “Until?”
“Until two months ago when he took up with my fiancée.” Asher dropped his gaze to the piano again and he did his best to focus on the contrast of the ebony and ivory keys rather than the fact that what he was doing with Amelia felt too much like what Jeremy and Serena had done behind his back.
He couldn’t touch her. He wouldn’t. Granted, Asher had his doubts about Holden Beckett and the true nature of his relationship with Amelia—a whole host of doubts—but that shouldn’t matter. He didn’t want to be that guy. The betrayer. Not when he knew what it felt like to be on the other end of the equation.
“I knew I despised him for some reason,” Amelia said.
Asher let out a laugh. “That makes two of us.”
“Is the reason you’re having trouble playing because of what happened with this horrid Jeremy and . . .” Her voice trailed off at the end.
“Serena.”
“Serena,” Amelia echoed. She looked as if she were trying the names out in her head. Serena and Jeremy. Jeremy and Serena.
Asher shook his head. Why in God’s name was he telling her any of this?
“Probably.” Asher shrugged. “Definitely.”
Stick to the subject at hand.
Asher cleared his throat. This wasn’t a therapy session. He was supposed to be telling Amelia to keep her royally cute nose out of his business.
“Like I said, things are complicated. He thinks the only reason I’m here is for revenge. I can’t have you jumping to my defense. It’ll only raise suspicions.” He gave her a sideways glance. “For both of us, most likely.”
She dipped her head until her dark fringe covered her eyes. “Right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said.
Then, in flagrant violation of his own No Touching rule, he reached for her chin with his fingertips and forced her to meet his gaze. “It was nice. But I don’t need rescuing.”
Her lips curved into a small smile and she lifted an accusatory brow. “Willow and I disagree with you on that one.”
“Point taken.” He released her chin and was suddenly unsure what to do with his hand, so he balled it into a fist in his lap. “If Willow holds me hostage again, feel free to intervene. But outside the palace . . .”
She nodded. “I get it. It’s just like when I told you to call me Amelia.”
How had she put it?
You can call me Amelia. When no one else is around, I mean.
Asher remembered it as clear as a bell—her bittersweet tone, the tug in his chest, the apology that glittered in her eyes.
“Exactly,” he said, realizing he no longer felt angry or guilty or confused or any of the other myriad emotions he’d experienced during the course of the day.
He felt sad all of a sudden. Inexplicably, profoundly sad.
Amelia looked at him, long and hard. Long enough for Asher to wonder if perhaps he wasn’t as virtuous as he’d like to believe, if under certain circumstances, he could indeed become the betrayer.
Her eyes grew shiny. “Play something for me,” she whispered.
So he did.
He didn’t think about it. He didn’t mull over his song selection. His hands began to move over the keys before he realized what he was going to play. Asher was two bars in before he recognized the tune as “Your Song” by Elton John.
It was more than a song. It was a story. One with words so familiar they seemed to rise up from the keys and hover over the grand room, without anyone singing them.
My gift is my song and this one’s for you.
When he reached the end, he waited until the final note faded into silence before he spoke.
“Sir Elton,” he said, just to ease the tension that had wrapped itself around them. He could barely force the words out. He could hardly breathe.
“He’s played this piano before, you know,” Amelia said in a voice just shy of a whisper.
Asher hadn’t known. But it made sense. Nothing in the palace was ordinary.
“So have Andrew Lloyd Weber, Paul McCartney, and Adele.”
He gave a little shrug, feigning nonchalance. “That’s all?”
“It seems like I’m forgetting someone, doesn’t it? Who could it be?” Amelia’s forehead creased in mocked concentration. “Oh, I remember. Asher Reed. Do you know him? American. Quite charming when he’s not scolding the palace dogs.”
“He sounds delightful.”
“You have no idea.” Her cheeks went pink, and she looked away.
Asher gave her shoulder a little bump with his. “Thank you for this. It’s been a while since I played anything just for fun. Maybe I should do it more often.”
She smiled. “My castle is your castle.”
Only when no one else is around.
Asher didn’t say it, of course. He didn’t want to ruin the moment. She’d done something kind for him, something that might actually help. He’d been so caught up in his career that he’d forgotten the joy of playing a song, the simple delight of a C chord.
But the words were there—beneath the lingering glances, the wistful smiles. Beneath the music.
Always, always there.