CHAPTER
FOUR
On his second morning in England, while Asher drifted in that hazy place between sleep and wakefulness, he thought he felt a suffocating weight on his chest.
But then he opened his eyes and found two bright, copper-colored eyes staring down at him and realized the weight was very much real. Real, and covered in fur.
“Hello there,” Asher muttered.
The corgi on his chest responded with only a cold stare. Its breath was horrendous. What on earth did the palace feed the queen’s dogs?
Better yet, how had the creature ended up in his room? On his bed. More specifically on his body.
“Seriously, you weigh a ton. Hop off now.” Was it normal for corgis to be so heavy? They looked so small on the ground.
The dog made a snorting sound and shifted, so instead of standing on Asher’s chest, it was lying down with its chin propped on its paws. It sighed and closed its eyes. Within seconds it was snoring, still planted squarely atop Asher’s sternum.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Asher gave the dog a gentle poke and hoped he wasn’t breaking some kind of law against harassing the royal corgis. The animal didn’t budge. Asher tried to nudge it to the side, but his efforts were met with a snarl.
Marvelous.
The button to summon the royal page was situated above the nightstand, just out of reach. Asher eyed it longingly.
“James?” he called, hoping the page was still stationed right outside the room.
The dog on his chest opened its eyes to narrow slits. Asher was starting to get a distinct Cujo vibe.
He gave yelling another go. “James? Are you there?”
The door to Asher’s room slowly swung open. “You rang?”
But the person standing in the doorway wasn’t a servant. It was the princess.
Asher folded his hands behind his head and leaned against the headboard as he met her gaze. “No, I didn’t. But it’s nice to see you. Good morning.”
She glanced at the corgi and lifted a brow.
“Fine. I might have called for assistance. But I was calling for the page.” He’d never considered the princess would come strolling into his room. Did other palace guests get this sort of royal treatment?
Somehow he doubted it.
She nodded, and her bow-shaped lips twitched. Asher could tell she was trying not to laugh. Not that he blamed her. “He stepped away. Lucky for you, I was walking past your room when I heard you screaming in terror.”
“I was hardly screaming, and I’m not terrorized.” He should’ve risked getting bitten and given the dog another good heave. But it was the queen of England’s dog, for God’s sake.
And Asher had noticed surveillance cameras positioned discreetly in the palace hallways. He wouldn’t have been surprised if there was one planted somewhere in the Blue Room. The last thing he needed was to be caught on camera shoving one of the queen’s beloved pets.
“If you say so.” She shrugged an elegant shoulder, drawing Asher’s attention to the fact that she was dressed in a silk kimono. Its deep aqua color brought out the jewel tones in her eyes.
Asher’s mind reeled. In what reality could he be having an impromptu pajama party with the princess of England?
This one, apparently.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he asked as a giggle escaped her lush mouth.
She nodded. “Quite a bit, yes.”
Asher shot the dog a wary glance. “Is there a trick to getting him to move?”
“Her,” the princess said. “It’s a girl. Her name is Willow, and she’s a bitch in every sense of the word.”
“I can see that, although I’m going to refrain from name calling when her teeth are so close to my face.”
“Her bark is much worse than her bite, and she’ll move if you prod her hard enough.”
He cast a wary glance at the gilded corners of the posh bedroom.
The princess followed his gaze. “There are no cameras in here, if that’s what you’re looking for. None that I know of, anyway.” She shrugged. “I could be wrong.”
Not exactly encouraging, but Asher took a chance. He scooped his hands under Willow, ignored her snarls of protest, and pushed her to the side.
He flashed Princess Amelia a victorious grin. “You were right. Thanks for the advice.”
Asher hopped out of bed before Willow could scramble on top of him again. It wasn’t until he was standing in nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms that he thought about his state of undress.
The princess’s gaze lingered on his bare chest.
Asher cleared his throat, and she promptly looked away. “Right. Anytime.”
The air in the room felt thick all of a sudden.
Asher’s body grew tense. The strange pull he’d felt toward her in the darkened church began to wind its way through him once again.
He fought it this time. He fought it hard, because he couldn’t be attracted to the very royal, very engaged princess.
“You’re unhappy I’m staying here,” he said. It was both overly blunt and overly familiar, considering who she was.
If he made her angry, so be it. She’d been rude to him the day before, and he wanted to know why. It was time they had a real conversation.
She let out a distinctly nonregal snort. “Of course I’m unhappy.”
“Why?” Asher crossed his arms.
Her gaze dropped to his bare chest again, and Asher was suddenly very aware of the massive unmade bed that stretched between them. “Do you really have to ask?”
He lowered his voice, just in case the walls did indeed have ears. “Is this about what happened at the Abbey?”
She looked away, and in her downturned gaze, Asher caught a glimpse of the woman he’d seen bathed in moonlight and stained-glass shadows. Wistful. Lonely.
She glanced back up at him, and her expression returned to its neutral state. Her lips curved into a placid smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Reed.”
Bullshit. They both knew what he meant.
Asher’s jaw clenched of its own volition. He wasn’t sure why he cared so much about the princess’s opinion of him. A psychologist probably would have said it had something to do with Serena and the multitude of reasons she’d given for leaving him for Jeremy. Of course Asher would have denied it. Then he would have told the psychologist to go to hell.
“What happened at the Abbey stays between you and me. I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Did she really think he’d say something about the state she’d been in?
Yes. Apparently she did, because she was still intent on acting as though he’d imagined the entire ordeal. “Again, I don’t know what you’re referring to. Just the same, it’s probably best that you sign a nondisclosure agreement.”
Asher’s eyes narrowed. “You’re seriously asking me to sign an NDA?”
He’d signed all sorts of the things the day before—his official bio for the wedding publicity kit, release forms for the media circus that was expected to turn up for the wedding, visa forms allowing him to work in the UK—but a nondisclosure agreement hadn’t been in the mix.
Asher wondered if Yo-Yo Ma had signed an NDA. Somehow he doubted it.
“You’re a guest of the royal family. It’s quite common. This is Buckingham Palace, but it’s also our home.” She shrugged, but didn’t quite meet his gaze. Maybe because her attention was once again fixated on his bare chest.
My eyes are up here, Princess. “I just told you I don’t have any intention of speaking to the press. Or anyone else, for that matter.”
“Good,” she said a little too flippantly for Asher’s taste. “Putting that promise in writing shouldn’t be a problem.”
Asher threw his hands in the air. “You win.”
If she wanted him to sign something, he’d do it. He had enough troubles of his own without adding her into the mix. Today would be his first day of rehearsal, which meant he’d be spending it alongside Jeremy and Serena. It’d also be the first time he’d play his cello in public since he’d dropped out of sight.
He wasn’t ready.
So he should play nice with the princess and move on to more important matters, like salvaging his career. She obviously wanted to pretend the incident in the church had never happened. And that was fine with him.
Yet, for some insane reason, he heard himself say, “Can I just ask if you’re okay, though? I’ve been worried about you.”
“I’m perfectly fine.” She pinned him with a glare.
Then, as if the morning couldn’t get any worse, James chose that awkward moment to come striding into the room. “Good morning, Mr. Reed. I . . .”
He stopped speaking abruptly when he caught sight of Princess Amelia standing there in her silk kimono, which Asher figured must be the royal version of a bathrobe. He rather liked it. It accentuated her curves far better than terry cloth ever could.
Not that he had any business noticing her curves, or thinking about them when he should be coming up with a reasonable excuse for her to be standing next to his bed.
James’s gaze flitted back and forth between them. He blinked. Then he seemed to recover from his shock and bowed. “Good morning, Your Royal Highness.”
“Good morning, James.” Her expression was suddenly as regal as if she were wearing a ball gown and tiara.
The page started backing out of the room. “I didn’t mean to interrupt . . .”
“You’re not interrupting anything.” The princess’s gaze flitted briefly to Asher’s bare chest again. She blinked. Hard. “Mr. Reed had some trouble with Willow and called out for help. I came to his rescue.”
Asher rolled his eyes and wished Willow would growl again, or at least open her eyes. Nope. The corgi had shifted so that her head was nestled on his pillow. She couldn’t have looked more harmless if she’d tried. “It wasn’t exactly a rescue.”
Amelia ignored him and aimed an innocent smile at James. “He was screaming for help.”
The page shot Asher a sympathetic look. “It’s a rather common occurrence, Mr. Reed. Willow’s a handful. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m not ashamed.” He slid his gaze to the princess and lifted a brow. “Because I wasn’t screaming.”
“If you insist. But we both know I wouldn’t have set foot in your room if I hadn’t thought you were being mauled in here.”
Asher sighed.
Apparently, the excuse for her lingering presence in his room was going to involve a dose of humiliation on his part.
“Fine.” He crossed his arms. “I feared for my life. Thank you for saving me, Your Royal Highness.”
“It was my pleasure.”
I’ll bet. Asher motioned toward Willow. “I still can’t figure out how the little monster got in here.”
“Rule number one of Buckingham Palace. They have their run of the building. Pretty much every area has a doggy door activated by motion sensor. No room is off limits,” Princess Amelia said.
James nodded. “That information was in the packet I emailed you prior to your arrival, Mr. Reed.”
“Yes, but that packet was a lot to absorb. I seem to have missed a few points.” Namely the part about the dogs. And the bowing. And the godforsaken nondisclosure agreement.
Nothing about this place was remotely normal.
“I’m sure you’ll catch on soon enough.” The princess winked at him and sashayed out of his room. Willow hopped off the bed and scurried after her.
Once woman and dog were both out of earshot, he turned toward James. “Is she always like that?”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, sir. Like what, exactly?”
Asher’s jaw clenched. He searched for an appropriate adjective.
Erratic.
Demanding.
Bonkers.
They all applied.
But for some crazy reason, the word on the tip of Asher’s tongue was breathtaking. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying it out loud.
“Frustrating,” he said at last. “Completely and utterly frustrating.”
James gave him a barely perceptible nod and murmured, “I’m afraid so, sir. Always.”
Somehow, Asher wasn’t a bit surprised.
DUE TO WESTMINSTER ABBEY’S tourism schedule, music rehearsals for the wedding ceremony were taking place at Cadogan Hall. Home to the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, Cadogan was located in Chelsea, just a ten-minute drive from Buckingham Palace. James had arranged for a driver for Asher, but he declined. He needed to clear his head before practice—a walk would do him good.
Even with his cello case strapped to his back, the walk was a pleasant one. His route took him straight through Eaton Square, with cream-colored mansions and lush gardens. London was definitely gray, but the city’s perpetual dampness created some of the greenest parks Asher had ever seen. The cool, quiet journey enabled him to steer his thoughts back to the reason he was here in the first place—his cello solo. His music was the only thing that mattered. Not Serena. Not Jeremy. Certainly not the princess.
Whatever she’d been crying about had nothing to do with him. She was obviously fine. At least she wanted him to think she was.
Whatever you say, Princess.
He yanked open the door to Cadogan Hall and stepped inside. Stained glass windows with Celtic patterns decorated the perimeter, flooding the smooth foyer floor with soft blues and greens—the building had clearly been a church in a former life. He stood and stared, transfixed by a pool of shimmering emerald light on eggshell tile. He followed it to its source—a Celtic love knot in one of the windows overhead—and wondered if stained glass would always remind him of that strange, unexpected night at the Abbey.
“Hello, Asher.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. Paused. Then he opened them and met his former lover’s gaze. “Serena.”
Her name tasted bitter on his tongue.
“You look good.” She almost sounded surprised, which probably should’ve irritated him. In fairness though, he hadn’t gotten out much lately. He hadn’t seen anyone from the Philharmonic in weeks. Apparently, they assumed he’d gone feral or something.
“Thank you,” he said.
Around them, other musicians Asher recognized were moving from the foyer into the auditorium. He’d played alongside many of them before, and others he knew purely by reputation. They came from every corner of the globe. The best of the best.
His chest grew tight.
Serena was still talking, but he was barely paying attention to the words coming out of her mouth. A trickle of unease had begun winding its way through him. Already. He hadn’t even set foot on the stage yet.
“Asher? Did you hear me?” Serena rested a hand on his shoulder.
The intimacy of the gesture caused bile to rise in the back of Asher’s throat. He swallowed it down and pretended nothing was wrong. Two months had passed, more than enough time to get over their broken engagement. He shouldn’t feel angry anymore. And he didn’t. Not at Serena, anyway. Looking at her now, he felt . . .
Nothing.
He’d been numb for a good long time. When the numbness first wrapped itself around him, he’d reveled in it. It was so much better than the fury that had consumed him when she’d first announced she was leaving him for Jeremy. If it had been for anyone else, he would’ve let her walk right out the door without a second thought. Which probably meant he shouldn’t have ever planned on marrying her to begin with.
But that was beside the point now.
Asher had no qualms about letting Serena walk out of his life, but Jeremy was another story. He was like a father to Asher. And so much more. His maestro. A paternal figure and a god all rolled into one. And it hadn’t been a one-time thing. They’d been sleeping together for nearly a year.
The betrayal had cut Asher to the quick. He’d played through the anger, attacking his cello like it was a wild beast in need of taming. And then one day, he’d had enough. It was easier not to feel. Such a relief, until he realized the feeling had left his music as well. There was an emptiness to his playing that had never been there before. He hated the hollow sound his bow made now when it slid over the strings.
So he’d simply stopped.
Days became weeks, and weeks stretched into two months. Then the palace called. The song he played for the princess in Westminster Abbey two nights ago had been the first full piece he’d played in eight weeks.
“I’m really glad you came.” Serena’s careful enunciation told him she was repeating herself. He’d tuned her out. She’d always hated that. “When Jeremy told me you’d been invited, I was worried you’d decline.”
“You can stop feeling guilty, Serena. I’m alive and well,” he said.
“Asher, please . . .”
They were alone now in the lobby, save for a small cluster of people Asher didn’t recognize. An older man who looked vaguely familiar stood at the center of the small group that included a woman roughly his age and a few others. A younger man beside him tapped away at an iPad. He had the same frantic look about him that seemed to be James’s default expression. Asher presumed the young guy to be another royal page.
But who was the older man?
“Is that the prince consort?” Asher asked, interrupting Serena’s attempt at peacemaking.
Her gaze flitted to the figure in question. “Him? No. That’s Holden Beckett, the Duke of Atteberry.”
Asher frowned. “I thought Holden Beckett was the groom’s name.”
This couldn’t be the groom. He looked old enough to be Amelia’s father. Asher could have sworn Princess Amelia had called her husband-to-be by that name, though. He really needed to take the time to read the godforsaken packet.
“It is. Duke Holden is marrying Princess Amelia.” Serena’s gaze narrowed. “You really have been hiding yourself away, haven’t you?”
Asher didn’t respond. He figured it was a rhetorical question anyway, and he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from the older royal.
This was the man Princess Amelia was marrying?
He couldn’t see it. He just couldn’t picture the two of them together.
Not your business, remember?
The woman beside Duke Holden smiled up at him and brushed a bit of fluff from his lapel. As she did so, the duke caught her hand with his and gave it a squeeze. Their fingers remained intertwined a beat too long to signal a simple platonic friendship.
The tightness in Asher’s chest intensified, and he had the distinct feeling he was witnessing something he shouldn’t.
Just like he had two nights ago at the Abbey.