CHAPTER
EIGHT
“Mum.”
Amelia regretted the word the moment it flew out of her mouth. She knew better than to address the queen of England so casually in front of a guest of the palace. She also knew better than to sneak around after hours with said guest, but that hadn’t stopped her, had it?
“Your Majesty.” Asher bowed. When the queen said nothing, but simply stood there gazing at him with thinly veiled disdain, he bowed again.
Her mother sighed and turned her gaze on Amelia. “What’s going on here?”
Amelia shrugged and feigned nonchalance as best she could. Not an easy task when her heart was beating so fast she felt like a hummingbird was trapped in her chest. She hadn’t been this nervous any of the times she’d stumbled into the palace after a night out drinking with her friends. She didn’t even know why she was so frightened. It wasn’t as if she’d broken any rules.
This time.
“I’m just taking a look around. You’ve been after me for days about the gifts and the thank-you notes. Remember?” Amelia gestured toward the table piled high with treasures.
She didn’t dare look at Asher. She hadn’t figured out how exactly to explain his presence. And while exploring the darkened palace with her wedding cello soloist might not technically be breaking any rules, it didn’t look good.
“You’re working on thank-you notes?” Her mother lifted a dubious brow. “At this hour?”
“I couldn’t sleep, and you know what they say. There’s no time like the present.” Amelia sank into the closest chair. By some miracle, a pristine box of bespoke Smythson of Bond Street stationery sat directly in front of her.
Amelia stared at the intertwined letters embossed on the smooth cream-colored paper. H and A. Holden and Amelia.
“I see,” the queen said in a voice that indicated she most definitely did not see. “How kind of Mr. Reed to assist you with your bridal duties.”
Amelia cleared her throat. “Actually . . .”
Actually what? She couldn’t think of a single logical reason why he should be there.
She could have found the leopard on her own. Why was he there, anyway?
She wasn’t sure, exactly. All she knew was that being assigned to “mummy duty” had been a reality check. The wedding was happening. There wasn’t going to be some kind of agreement between the families. No last minute reprieve. If she didn’t marry Holden, her family name would be dragged through the mud. They might even lose the crown. Giving up her freedom was the only way.
She could save the Amcotts. She would. But being at that school had made the future seem so real. So imminent. She wasn’t ready.
Would she ever be ready?
“Excuse me, ma’am. I can explain.” Asher stepped forward.
Oh God. What was he doing? Anything he could possibly say would only make the situation worse.
Amelia stared at him, imploring him with her gaze to shut his mouth.
It didn’t work.
He aimed a polite smile at the queen and kept on talking. “It’s silly really.”
Then he shrugged. He actually shrugged.
Amelia wanted to die. There was a 0 percent chance her mother would find any of this silly, and the monarch despised shrugging. Her right eye had already begun to twitch, a telltale sign she was about to lose it.
Willow’s ears swiveled like they always did when the dog detected an impending royal meltdown and she slinked out of the room.
“I was looking for the kitchen,” Asher said, patting his stomach for added emphasis.
It was a complete crock of nonsense, obviously. And Amelia doubted her mother would buy it for an instant. Still, a little flutter passed through her when she heard the lie come out of his mouth.
He was covering for her. Granted, he was doing a terrible job. But somehow his subpar acting made the gesture seem even sweeter.
“You were looking for the kitchen? On the main palace floor, tucked between state drawing rooms?” The queen’s gaze flitted toward the massive chandeliers hanging over their heads and back at Asher. Only an idiot would think to look for a working kitchen in this wing.
Asher shrugged again. “I noticed the lights on, and I thought this might be it. Looks like I was wrong.”
The queen sniffed. “Very.”
“My apologies.” He fixed his gaze with Amelia’s. “I’m so sorry to have disturbed you, Your Royal Highness.”
“No need to apologize,” she said, injecting her tone with as much formality as she could manage.
She’d needed a momentary distraction, a little bit of fun. It hadn’t meant anything, obviously. She didn’t even know this man.
“Mr. Reed, the kitchen is off limits to both residents and guests,” the queen said. To Amelia’s knowledge, her mother had never passed through the green baize door that separated the domestic quarters from the rest of the palace. Not once. “We’re more than happy to provide whatever you need. There’s a button in your suite for this purpose. I suggest you use it.”
“Of course.” Asher nodded. “Again, so sorry to intrude.”
He turned to go.
“Mr. Reed?” The queen sighed mightily.
“Yes?” Asher turned around.
“Your room is that way.” She pointed toward the other end of the corridor from where he’d been headed.
He feigned surprise, and Amelia suppressed a snicker. He had to be the worst liar she’d ever met. “Ah, so it is. My sense of direction is terrible.”
He gave a wave and disappeared.
Once he’d gone, the queen turned her sharp gaze on Amelia. Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t say a word. She had a way of simply staring at people until they confessed to something. It worked on Amelia’s brothers with annoying predictability. It also worked on royal footmen, ladies in waiting, and various heads of state. Her mother had once reduced the prime minister to tears without uttering a syllable.
But Asher Reed just looked her straight in the eye and lied. For me.
He was beginning to feel less like a stranger, and more like something else. A friend.
“Honestly, Mum. You should be more careful who you allow to sleep here. He seems mad as a box of frogs.”
Mad. Charming. Disarmingly attractive.
And much to her astonishment, trustworthy.
THE PRESS CALLED HER Princess Naughty.
The nickname was part of nearly every article Asher had found online since he’d woken up and begun scrolling through blogs and websites. The coverage was plentiful. The queen’s corgis even had their own Instagram page.
But the biggest surprise had been the Princess Naughty label.
How had Asher not known?
Probably because he’d been too busy in recent years playing his cello to keep up with the latest royal gossip. The same went for celebrity gossip. And gossip in general.
He didn’t own a television, preferring to fill his apartment on Greenwich Street with his extensive vinyl collection and various musical instruments. He had a piano in his dining room, which Serena had always despised. Its presence meant he couldn’t host dinner parties, which had irritated her nearly as much as Asher’s inability to name a single Kardashian or properly match any of the Real Housewives with their city of residence.
He probably should have seen the handwriting on the wall when it came to their relationship. Whenever Asher imagined Serena and Jeremy alone together, they weren’t in bed. They were parked in front of bad reality television.
But he hadn’t pictured them alone together in quite some time. Lately, he’d stopped thinking about them altogether. Seeing Serena again after so many days had been easier than he’d expected. Even seeing Jeremy again hadn’t been as difficult as he’d imagined it would be.
Asher’s playing hadn’t been stellar though, and he was certain Jeremy had noticed. Everyone had noticed. But now that the initial awkwardness was over, he could get on with things. This was England, after all. Land of the stiff upper lip. Keep calm and carry on and all that.
He felt strangely hopeful today. And he was dreading rehearsal a little less now that he had something else occupying his thoughts. Someone else.
Princess Naughty.
“Your breakfast, sir.”
Asher jumped at the sound of James’s voice and clicked the X in the corner of the browser window on his laptop. He didn’t particularly want to get caught Googling Amelia, although judging from the page’s narrowed gaze, that ship had already sailed.
Asher sighed. He really wished people would stop sneaking up on him in this place. “Good morning, James.”
“Good day, sir.” A sea of corgis swarmed around James’s feet. James navigated deftly through them and positioned the silver tray on the elegant dining table adjacent to Asher’s bed.
The table was large enough to seat twelve. Asher couldn’t fathom why a guest suite in Buckingham Palace would need such a large table. But frankly, that was the least of the palace’s nonsensical attributes. “You really don’t need to keep addressing me as sir. Call me Asher, please. I’m not accustomed to being waited on.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t. It’s protocol. I could be sacked for breaking the rules.” James uprighted a teacup and began to pour steaming liquid into it, while the dogs followed his every move.
They were no doubt hoping James would slip up and drop something. Good luck with that, Asher thought.
James shot a nervous glance at Asher and cleared his throat. Now that Asher looked more closely at him, he noticed that the page seemed rather pale. “You’re not accustomed to being waited on. May I ask if that’s why you went in search of dinner on your own last night rather than ringing for help?”
“You heard about that?” For some reason, this seemed like a very bad sign.
“Yes sir, I did.” He unfolded the napkin beside Asher’s plate and placed it on Asher’s lap. This seemed like overkill. Asher could unfold his own napkin.
He was beginning to feel underdressed in his pajama bottoms and old Juilliard sweatshirt, even though for all practical purposes, this meal was room service. But he figured the napkin thing and the overall formality of this in-room dining experience went along with being called sir, so he didn’t protest. Besides, James hadn’t quite met Asher’s gaze when he’d asked about last night’s shenanigans, and that didn’t bode well.
Asher frowned. “What happened last night hasn’t gotten you into trouble, has it?”
James shook his head and said, “No,” in a quiet tone that indicated the exact opposite.
“I’m sorry. I . . .” Asher sighed and stared at his eggs, as if they could somehow help him explain. But there was no explanation. He’d seen the panic in Amelia’s luminous eyes and said the first thing that sprang to mind. “. . . I won’t let it happen again.”
“I appreciate that, sir. I’m available anytime you require assistance.” James’s gaze flitted toward the wall that divided the Blue Room from the princess’s bedroom. “With anything.”
What was that supposed to mean?
Asher frowned. Just how much did the page know?
He knows Amelia was in your room two mornings ago, and now he knows the queen found you alone with her last night, someplace you shouldn’t have been.
Asher could see how that might look bad. But whatever he had going on with the princess wasn’t like that.
Was it?
Of course not. Even if it were, Asher didn’t quite understand the meaning behind the page’s cryptic glance. Was he offering to help Asher sneak around with Amelia?
“I’m at your service, sir.” James nodded.
“I see.” Asher didn’t see. He didn’t know what the hell was going on with any of the people under this gilded roof.
He almost wished he could check into a hotel. Or a bed and breakfast. Someplace where he didn’t feel like he was being watched like a hawk. Someplace where his room wasn’t a revolving door for entitled dogs and wayward princesses.
His gaze dropped to his eggs again. Leaving the palace wasn’t actually what he wanted. The truth of the matter was that Asher was beginning to want things he knew he couldn’t have. He might have even wanted them all along, since the moment he’d played Adagio for Strings in the Abbey.
His hands tightened into fists in his lap. What you want isn’t part of the equation. She’s getting married, and she’s a princess, for crying out loud.
“Anything you need. Anything at all,” James said. “I just ask that you use the call button. I need this job, sir.”
Perfect. He’d apparently nearly gotten the page fired. Yet another reason why he needed to steer clear of Amelia from now on.
If only he could.
Asher held up his hand like he was swearing an oath. “I won’t venture off on my own again. If I leave the room, you’ll be the first to know. You have my word.”
Asher could do one thing right while he was in England. He’d probably botch his solo on the wedding day, thereby ruining his career, and he was definitely having inappropriate thoughts about the bride. But he could at least manage to not get James fired.
“Thank you.” James exhaled, and the color returned to his pale face. “That’s a great relief.”
James smiled, and the absence of a “sir” at the end of his sentence came as a relief to Asher. He could use a friend in this country. Hell, he could use a friend, period. Preferably, one who didn’t call him “sir.”
“Her Royal Highness has already left for her morning engagement, in case you were wondering,” James said.
Asher bit back a frown. “I wasn’t.” Liar.
“She won’t be here this evening, either. She’s going to the opera tonight with Duke Holden.”
Asher put down his fork. He suddenly didn’t feel hungry. The corgis heaved a collective sigh and wandered away. “Should you be sharing this information with me?”
James lifted his shoulder in a nearly imperceptible shrug. “Official engagements for all members of the royal family are printed daily in the Court Circular. It’s public record. Anyone can access it. The opera appearance isn’t technically an official event, but it should be in all the papers. It’s hardly a state secret.”
Great. More things Asher could Google later in private. He was becoming some sort of cyber stalker.
It had to stop.
“James, do you know anything about a leopard?” What was he doing?
“Any leopard in particular?” James asked.
He was going to make Asher say it.
Fine. “The leopard that belongs to the princess. Is it here in the palace?”
“No, I’m afraid not. The palace isn’t exactly the place for a leopard. I’m quite sure Her Royal Highness is aware that it was never here in the building.”
Was she, now?
So the leopard hunt hadn’t really been about the leopard at all. Was it possible that she’d just wanted to spend time with him?
“I could look into the leopard’s whereabouts if you like,” James suggested.
Asher shook his head. “Never mind.”
The princess wasn’t any of his business. Neither was her leopard.
“I appreciate your help, James. But just so we’re clear, I’m here to play my cello. That’s all.” No more mind games with the queen’s dogs. No more Princess Naughty. He had a performance to worry about. And the way things were going, there was much cause for concern.
“Absolutely. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear,” James said, but there was a hint of mirth in his tone.
He shot a knowing glance toward the desk in the corner of the room.
Asher was almost afraid to follow his gaze. Sure enough, when he did, Princess Amelia’s image smiled at him from the screen of his laptop.
Busted.
THE LAST TIME AMELIA had been to the Royal Opera House was for a Duran Duran reunion tour. She and Eleanor—accompanied by security officers, of course—had worn neon crop tops, high-waisted jeans, and heaps upon heaps of rubber bracelets. They’d teased their hair until it was so big it nearly reached the rafters. Amelia danced and sang all night. She’d even gotten her bodyguard to bust a move or two. The next day, she’d been so hoarse she’d barely been able to squeak out a sound during her speech at a teen advocacy program in Islington.
It had been fabulous.
Now here she was, alongside Eleanor’s dad, watching Madame Butterfly. Quite the switch.
It wasn’t entirely horrible. Not the opera part, anyway. The performance was quite beautiful, actually. Lush and heartbreaking. Amelia kept catching herself craning her neck in the royal box, searching for a glimpse of the cello players in the orchestra pit. There were so many of them—twelve, in all. She liked watching the sweeping movements of their bows, gliding in unison as the music swelled around her. She wondered if Asher was back at the palace, practicing. Then she wondered why on earth she cared.
“What do you think? Are you enjoying Madame Butterfly?” Holden handed Amelia a champagne flute.
The lights had just gone up in the middle of the second act, during Butterfly’s vigil as she waited for her long-lost husband to return. It seemed like a cruel place for an intermission. Amelia had a lump in her throat, and she couldn’t seem to swallow it down as the royal party made its way to the private dining room connected to the royal box.
She paused to answer Holden’s question before taking a sip of her Dom Perignon, until she realized the comment hadn’t been aimed at her.
“Lovely! The duet was breathtaking. Absolutely exquisite,” Lady Wentworth, situated directly opposite Amelia, gushed. “The best so far this season, wouldn’t you agree?”
Holden nodded. “Perhaps, although Fidelio was excellent.”
Amelia had never heard of Fidelio before. Maybe she should ask Asher about it the next time she saw him.
Because that makes so much more sense than asking one of the people right here.
She bit the inside of her cheek as a form of self-punishment. She really needed to stop thinking about Asher Reed. Their little leopard hunt was meant to be a distraction from the stress surrounding the wedding. Somehow, Asher himself had become a distraction . . . right around the time he’d kissed her. And again when he’d lied to the queen so she wouldn’t get in trouble.
No one lied to her mother. Asher was either crazy or the most confident man Amelia had ever come across. Either way, she liked it. She liked it a great deal more than she should have.
Focus. You’re here with your future husband. Remember?
Even worse, Gregory was in the royal box right alongside them. Was it Amelia’s imagination, or had he been staring at her all night?
She turned slightly to her left and sure enough, there he was.
“You look lovely, Amelia.” Gregory’s gaze swept her from top to bottom. Amelia somehow managed not to gag. “Almost like a glowing bride-to-be.”
She smiled sweetly at him. “Exactly like a glowing bride-to-be.”
“Apologies. Just a slip of the tongue.” He shrugged one of his hideous shoulders.
In actuality, Gregory wasn’t terrible-looking. Once upon a time, Amelia had actually considered him to be quite handsome. Oh, how times had changed.
He swirled his glass. “Have I mentioned that the editor in chief of the Daily Mail is a good friend of mine?”
He had indeed. Countless times.
“Is he now? How fascinating,” she said flatly.
God, she despised him. He was all but threatening her while she was on a date with his brother.
“Nice old chap. We went to Eton together,” he said.
Amelia took a gulp of champagne. Not a dainty, princess-like sip. A gulp. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to find Holden. It’s been lovely chatting with you.”
She turned her back before he could respond, stood, and made a beeline for Holden.
Technically, this was the first actual date of their courtship. They’d made a few public appearances, of course. But those occasions had all involved events that were part of the court calendar. Madame Butterfly was not. This was their first night on the town as a couple. The fact that it came less than a week before their wedding might have been odd, if not for the fact that they’d been engaged for a whopping twenty-five days or so.
Holden had a very devoted circle of friends. Thanks to her friendship with Eleanor, Amelia knew all of them. Some better than others.
With the notable exception of Gregory, the entourage was a comforting presence. She wasn’t ready for a romantic evening with Holden, and his friends provided a convenient buffer.
“Amelia, that’s a stunning dress you’re wearing. You look beautiful, dear.” Lady Wilhelmina Wentworth leaned over and brushed her fingertips on the satin skirt of Amelia’s crimson ball gown.
It was a motherly gesture, and it made Amelia smile. Lady and Lord Wentworth had been close friends of Eleanor’s family for as long as she could remember, especially in the years following her mother’s death. Lady Wentworth was practically Eleanor’s surrogate mother.
“Thank you.” Amelia stood a little straighter and returned the compliment. “You look lovely as well. Is that a locket you’re wearing?”
Lady Wentworth’s hand went to the gold pendant hanging from a long, dainty chain around her neck. “Yes, it is. I’ve had it for years.”
“It’s very pretty. Are those your initials I see engraved on it?” Amelia squinted. “Oh! It’s yours and Lord Wentworth’s. How sweet.”
The older woman nodded. “Yes, W and H, for Wilhelmina and Henry.”
The lump in Amelia’s throat showed no signs of dissipating as she tried—and failed—to imagine herself thirty years into the future, proudly wearing a locket with hers and Holden’s intertwined initials etched onto its surface. She couldn’t even bring herself to look at their initials on the wedding stationery. “I love it.”
Holden slipped his arm around Amelia’s waist. “Shall we sit down? We’re having pudding before the curtain goes up.”
Pudding. While poor Madame Butterfly sat sobbing her heart out.
Amelia reminded herself that the tragedy playing out onstage wasn’t real. It was make-believe, just like her pending marriage. “Yes, let’s.”
A waiter entered the red-velvet room, carrying slices of Battenberg cake on cut crystal plates. Lord Wentworth commented on the perfectly symmetrical pink-and-yellow squares of the cake’s sponge filling, and Amelia took another sizeable swallow of champagne. She’d never much cared for Battenberg cake. Too much marzipan for her taste. She was almost certain Holden knew this, as they’d discussed it when choosing cake for the wedding reception.
He’d obviously forgotten. He glanced at her untouched plate. “Are you not hungry, darling?”
Darling. So they were using endearments now? Gregory was grinning from ear to ear.
Amelia reached for her glass and realized it was empty. “Not really, no. But the champagne is rather nice.”
Holden motioned for a waiter to come refill her champagne flute. She sipped away and did her best to ignore Gregory while Holden and his friends discussed the upcoming opera season. They had some strong opinions about the inclusion of Les Pigeons D’Argile on the repertoire, which Amelia could understand. Who wanted to see an opera about pigeons?
All in all, it hadn’t been the worst date of Amelia’s life, probably because it didn’t actually feel like a date. She felt more like a child who’d somehow been placed at the grown-ups’ table by mistake.
She wished Eleanor had come along. Maybe next time she could. It wouldn’t be strange to bring her stepdaughter along on every date, would it?
A bell chimed, signaling the end of intermission. Thank God. She was suddenly very ready for the night to be over.
The final act of the show was devastating. Amelia could barely watch. When Butterfly blindfolded her son so he wouldn’t see her take her own life, Amelia reached for Holden’s hand and squeezed hard. He squeezed back, and the tiniest bud of hope blossomed deep in her soul. Maybe their marriage could work. Maybe she was worried about nothing. Holden was a good man. A good father. Things could be so much worse. She was acting like a spoiled child.
When she returned to the palace, she stopped by the banquet room on the way to her suite. She didn’t bother turning on the lights. She simply stood staring for a moment at all the extravagant gifts, things that would soon decorate the home she and Holden would live in as husband and wife.
Tomorrow she would start writing the thank-you cards. It was a small victory that she could bring herself to walk into the room now. She told herself it was because the night at the opera had helped her accept her fate, conveniently forgetting that Asher had been the one to help her first cross the threshold.
But as she walked the length of the Queen’s Hall with Willow chasing the beaded train of her ball gown, Amelia began to hear the wafting tone of Asher’s cello. It filled the darkened hallway, washing the palace in lyrical beauty that sounded almost heroic. The ache she’d heard in his music when he’d played for her at Westminster Abbey was still there, but this time it was buried beneath a frenzy of rapid notes and bright spots of unrestrained passion.
Amelia raised her hand, poised to knock on the door. Willow pranced expectantly at her feet.
She paused.
I can’t keep doing this.
She was attracted to Asher. More attracted than she’d been to anyone in a long, long time. If she’d been free to explore her feelings, she wouldn’t bother knocking. She’d walk right in and surprise him. He’d pretend to be frustrated by the interruption, but she knew better. A blind man would have been able to see the appreciation in his dark gaze when he looked at her. Amelia’s heart beat hard at the thought of it.
She drew her hand back.
Her wedding was in less than a week. Asher wasn’t her friend. If he were, she wouldn’t spend quite so much time imagining how it would feel to have his musical hands on her body. Or what it would be like to kiss him again. As much as she wanted to invite herself inside to sit at the foot of his bed and watch him play, she couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
Instead, she pressed her palm to the door, closed her eyes, and let the deep, sultry tones of his music vibrate through straight down to her toes.
How long she stood there, she couldn’t really say.