CHAPTER
NINE
By the third day of rehearsal, Asher began to get his bearings. At last.
Since the bow-chomping incident, he’d managed to avoid any more corgi-related crises. Willow still frequented his room, but much to her disappointment, Asher had gotten into the habit of securing his belongings. The only downside was that now that the Blue Room was dog-proofed, he hadn’t needed rescuing lately.
He hadn’t set eyes on Amelia in two days.
It was for the best, of course. He might not like it, but his feelings about the situation didn’t matter. He had his head in the game now. His playing was improving. It still wasn’t his best—far from it. He was getting there, though. At least he was no longer so preoccupied with the princess next door that he couldn’t concentrate on the reason he’d come to England to begin with.
But then, midway through the afternoon run-through of Jeremy’s special composition of This is the Day the Lord Hath Made, the wedding anthem, disaster struck.
In the split second before the cello entrance, Asher’s gaze flitted from Jeremy’s white baton to a shaft of dazzling light coming from the auditorium’s doorway. He looked up just in time to see Amelia walk into the theater, framed by the soft emerald hues of the Cadogan Hall lobby.
She was there. At rehearsal.
He lost himself for a second, transfixed by the sight of her. She wore an elegant red dress, nipped in at the waist above a full, swinging skirt. Her lips were painted crimson, and she carried a small clutch bag, covered with satin roses. It was quite the switch from the kimono and ripped jeans she wore around the palace. Asher had never seen her in full-princess mode before, and the effect was rather hypnotic. He felt like he was watching an Audrey Hepburn film shot in Kodachrome tints too bright, too pretty to be real.
But he wasn’t watching a movie. Amelia was real. And she was searching the group of musicians with her cool gaze, only half paying attention to whatever the person next to her was saying. It was odd seeing her that way—with her expression so scrupulously neutral. Asher had grown accustomed to the fire in her eyes. He saw those eyes sometimes when he dreamed, which he blamed on the fact that the room where he slept shared a wall with hers. Now he scarcely recognized her . . .
. . . until her gaze landed on him and her cherry lips curved into an impish grin.
That smile hit Asher with the force of a hurricane. Any progress he’d made in his quest to forget her flew right out the window.
“Reed, wake up,” the cellist beside him hissed.
Asher blinked and forced his gaze back to the maestro’s podium, where Jeremy was waving his baton like a madman and staring daggers at him. Asher jumped into the piece a few bars late and proceeded to make up for his inattention by speeding through the melody, ignoring Jeremy’s pacing altogether.
Brilliant. Just brilliant.
Once the song was finished, Jeremy gingerly set down his baton and stepped away from the podium. Asher watched as he approached Amelia with an outstretched hand, and a proprietary surge of anger passed through him. Asher raked his free hand through his hair, dampened by perspiration, and tightened his grip on his bow until he felt the smooth Pernambuco wood start to bend.
What had gotten into him? He was sweating through his suit jacket and on the verge of finishing Willow’s job on the bow.
All because he was jealous of a simple handshake.
The man was sleeping with his ex, and Asher no longer seemed capable of mustering up any emotion at all where that mess was concerned. But he suddenly wanted to throttle the guy for speaking to the princess.
Face it. You want her.
He did, damn it. But he’d never be able to act on his feelings. Ever. There were far bigger obstacles than Jeremy standing in his way. Like Holden Beckett. And the queen. And the damn royal wedding.
Asher wasn’t entirely sure Amelia felt the same about him, anyway. He was fairly certain it was no accident that he hadn’t seen her in two days. She’d been avoiding him, which could mean she’d made a deliberate decision to put some distance between them.
More probably, there was no need for distance. He’d been a convenient distraction for a few days. She’d been bored. He’d been nothing but a toy, and whatever connection he’d felt had simply been a product of wishful thinking on his part. Princess Naughty strikes again.
That didn’t explain the night they’d met at the church, though. Nor her reason for making this surprise visit to rehearsal. She wasn’t supposed to be there. It hadn’t been listed in the Court Circular, which he’d checked online just this morning.
Perhaps he was still more preoccupied than he wanted to admit.
“May I have your attention, everyone?” Jeremy clapped his hands and returned to his podium. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, we have a very special guest this afternoon. Her Royal Highness Princess Amelia Grace Amcott has decided to pay us a visit.”
Asher fixed his gaze with hers, and he saw it again—the familiar spark in her eyes that hadn’t been there moments ago. Like emeralds aflame.
He arched an eyebrow. Amelia’s cheeks flared pink, and she looked away.
“Let’s give Her Royal Highness, the bride, a warm welcome.”
The bride.
A muscle in Asher’s jaw ticked. The room burst into applause as Jeremy escorted Amelia downstage to greet the musicians.
It was customary for the strings section of an orchestra to be situated at the front. The violins came first, followed by the violas. Then the cellos.
As nonchalantly as he could, Asher watched Amelia introduce herself to the first chair violinist. The violist said something, and Amelia smiled politely and nodded. While the people surrounding her laughed, Amelia took the opportunity to sneak a glance at Asher. He winked at her, and when she responded with a subtle quirk of her bow-shaped lips, he went instantly hard.
What the hell was wrong with him?
He was publicly flirting with the princess of England at the rehearsal for her wedding ceremony. If anyone in the room could be privy to the thoughts running through his head, he’d probably be thrown into the Tower.
He needed to get a handle on himself. No . . . what he needed was a damn reality check.
He let out a tense exhale and averted his gaze. In a matter of seconds, she was going to be standing right in front of him. He was going to have to look her in the eye and pretend she wasn’t his first thought when he woke up every morning and that he didn’t lie in the Blue Room at night and dream about her willowy legs wrapped around his hips while he drove himself into her. He was going to have to shake her hand while everyone watched, all the while wishing that he could touch her under vastly different circumstances.
There was something very wrong with him. He shouldn’t be having those kinds of thoughts about an engaged woman. Amelia wasn’t his. She never would be. Which was probably for the best. She drove him a little crazy.
He couldn’t deny how adorable he found her wacky streak, though.
A headache began to gather at the base of Asher’s skull. He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids, willing it to go away.
He heard the clearing of a throat, then Jeremy’s sharpened tone. “And this is Mr. Asher Reed, our cello soloist.”
Asher opened his eyes and found Amelia gazing up at him with the naughtiest Princess Naughty expression she could possibly have mustered.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Reed,” she purred.
“The pleasure is all mine, Your Royal Highness,” he said, taking her hand as she extended it toward him.
Her skin was every bit as soft as he’d remembered. As exquisitely smooth as rose petals. When their fingertips touched, Asher was struck with a jolt of awareness so strong that he nearly swayed on his feet. Amelia’s eyes widened, and her lips parted, just the slightest bit.
She feels it, too.
How could she not?
She took a deep breath, but left her hand right where it was—nestled inside his. “How are you enjoying your stay in London?”
“It’s had its challenges, but I’m finding my way.” Asher couldn’t help himself. He dragged the pad of his thumb along the inside of her cupped palm. It was just a tiny, secret way to acknowledge the fact that he was no stranger. He knew Amelia, probably better than anyone else in the building did.
She let out a nearly imperceptible gasp. Asher looked down at their intertwined hands and smiled to himself when he saw goose bumps on her graceful arms.
“Good on you, then,” she said.
Yes, good on him.
“Our second-chair cellist is from Liverpool and a member of the London Philharmonic,” Jeremy said, shuffling Amelia further down the line.
She cast a final glance at Asher, and then introduced herself to the other musician.
As they shook hands, Jeremy leveled Asher with a glare. He leaned toward him and lowered his voice to a murmur. “The moment this is finished, you and I need to have a word.”
And just like that, Asher’s frustration returned. Full force.
ONCE AMELIA HAD MET each and every musician, Asher applauded alongside the rest of the orchestra and watched her make her way back to Cadogan Hall’s lobby. Even before she was fully out of view, Jeremy met Asher’s gaze and jabbed an angry pointer finger in the direction of the foyer. Within seconds, Asher found himself once again being berated in the storage room.
He couldn’t help but wonder if the location was an intentional choice. Perhaps a power move on Jeremy’s part? There was something undeniably humiliating about being dressed down by your conductor in the presence of a mop and bucket.
“Damn it, Asher. You told me you were prepared for this.” Jeremy jammed his hands on his hips. His elbow banged into an industrial-sized vacuum cleaner, and he let loose a stream of curse words.
Asher would’ve laughed, if he hadn’t seriously suspected he was about to be fired.
“I am,” he said.
Another lie. It seemed as if he’d told more of them than he had the truth since he’d been in London.
Jeremy let out an incredulous laugh. “You’re screwing with me, right? Because that . . .” He shot a pointed glance toward the auditorium. “. . . was garbage.”
Harsh, but true.
Asher’s latest attempt at his solo had sounded like something straight out of a college recital. He couldn’t seem to get his bearings. Not only was his confidence in the toilet, but once Amelia had walked into the theater, he’d been distracted beyond reason.
He was relieved Jeremy only wanted to give him another lecture about his playing, though. For a moment, he’d wondered if his hidden communication with Amelia hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Hidden communication? Who do think you are now? James Bond?
England was doing a number on him. He’d be lucky to survive the trip and get out with his sanity intact.
“This is rehearsal.” Asher shrugged. “Isn’t that what practice is all about? Working out the kinks?”
Jeremy’s brows rose. “Those were some serious kinks. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” It’d be a cold day in hell before he agreed with Jeremy about anything, especially his playing. Even if it had indeed sounded like garbage.
“Well, you’re wrong. And for God’s sake, Asher, the princess is here.”
“I’m aware.” More accurately, Asher was aware of little else.
Every nerve ending in his body was still on high alert. She lingered somewhere in the building, milling about. Every so often, he could hear the lilting sound of her laughter drift through the partially opened door. It had a floating, effervescent quality, like Mozart’s Sonata no. 17 in C.
Jeremy jammed a hand through his hair. “We talked about this, and you told me everything was fine. I vouched for you, Asher. If you screw this up, it’s not just your head on the chopping block. It’s mine, too.”
Asher highly doubted that. If he botched his performance on the big day, he’d probably never book an important gig again. Jeremy, on the other hand, might be finished in royal circles, but he’d still have the rest of the world clamoring at his feet.
“You have some balls, I’ll give you that.” Asher glared at his former mentor. “But if you think trying to blackmail me with your reputation is going to work, you’re fucking crazy.”
Jeremy’s face went red, either from rage or shame. Asher wasn’t sure, but he wouldn’t have bet any money on the latter. “You gave me your word. Are you mucking this up on purpose? Do you have some kind of twisted, self-sabotaging revenge plan?”
Right. As if Asher had canceled all his commitments and squirreled himself away for weeks on purpose, in hopes that the British royal family would come knocking at his door so he could take a huge, humiliating dive in front of billions so that people would blame the conductor.
“What you’re suggesting is not only insulting, but also categorically incorrect. If you think I’m still hung up on Serena, you couldn’t be more wrong.” Seeing her again had confirmed it. There’d been no hint of awareness, no attraction whatsoever.
He had more important things to worry about than his love life, or lack thereof. Although, his floundering career hadn’t kept him from devoting a great deal of thought to Amelia . . .
“Get it together, Asher. This is the last time we’re going to have this conversation. Understood?”
AMELIA LINGERED IN THE lobby longer than she should have, chatting with the Cadogan Hall staff and patrons from the London Symphony, who’d made the arrangements for the wedding’s orchestra rehearsals. She managed to keep up with each exchange, despite continually scanning the space for another glimpse of Asher.
She didn’t even know why she was holding out hope of seeing him again. It wasn’t as though they could have any sort of real conversation in public. But that didn’t seem to matter. Every time she thought she spied him out of the corner of her eye, her breath caught in her throat and her face went warm.
It was ridiculous, really.
And improper on every possible level.
She needed to leave, before she managed to forget about Holden and her engagement altogether.
“Amelia?”
She jumped at the sound of someone calling her name. Clearly she had an even guiltier conscience than she realized because whoever had said it sounded a lot like Holden, her elusive fiancé.
Amelia turned around and froze. It was Holden. He was there, now, striding toward her from the other end of the lobby.
Of course it’s him. Who else would be calling you by your first name?
“Amelia.” Holden bent and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. It was only then that Amelia registered Lady Wentworth’s presence beside him.
Holden took a step back and gave Amelia a questioning glance. “What are you doing here, darling?”
What was she doing there?
Amelia wasn’t quite sure. She just knew that having Asher in the room right next door to hers, yet not setting eyes on him for two days was slowly driving her crazy.
There’d been no reason to pop into his room. No more corgi disasters. No calls for help. Either Willow had somehow become a model of obedient canine behavior, or Asher had decided to avoid contact with her. Knowing Willow as well as she did, Amelia settled on the latter. And she didn’t like it. Not in the slightest.
They’d had something, hadn’t they? He’d kissed her. He’d lied for her. To the queen of England. That at least made them friends, didn’t it? Partners in crime, if not more? It seemed that way at the time. And then . . .
Nothing.
She didn’t quite understand it. Granted, she’d been avoiding him, too. With good reason.
She liked him quite a lot. He was handsome and charming. And somewhere beneath his tortured musician exterior, he was kind. Kind in a way she hadn’t experienced before.
Most people she met were so enamored by the whole royal thing, they fawned all over her. Asher was the opposite. He somehow left her with the impression that he liked her in spite of her royal status rather than because of it. It was a refreshing change.
Still, she knew her place. She was getting married. She really shouldn’t pursue any kind of relationship with him. Not even friendship . . . not when she’d somehow developed the annoying habit of going breathless when they were in the same room together. So she’d gotten ahold of herself and given him up.
She’d just never expected him to do the same.
“Amelia? Is something wrong?” Holden’s voice broke through the fog in her head.
She nodded, pasted on a smile, and glanced back and forth between him and Lady Wentworth. “Not at all. I had an opening in my diary, so I thought it’d be a nice idea to visit the orchestra, especially since so many of the musicians are from other countries.”
Like America.
She swallowed. Was she making any sense? For all she knew, Asher was the only non-Brit in the entire building.
Lady Wentworth nodded and said something about one of the violinists being from Italy. Amelia had forgotten she was a patron for the orchestra. That explained her presence at the rehearsal, but now that she’d had a moment to recover from the shock of running into Holden, she realized she didn’t know why he was there either.
“And you?” Amelia asked.
He smiled, but took a moment to answer. “Same as you, darling.”
“I see.” She tried to force a similar endearment out of her mouth, but nothing happened. “I’ll let you get on with it, then. It was a lovely surprise running into you both.”
Amelia moved to hug Lady Wentworth. She was ready to get back to the palace. This little escape had suddenly become the epitome of awkward, and it was all her fault. She should have known better than to come here.
She’d just wanted to watch Asher play. She still heard him sometimes at night. Even through the thick Buckingham walls, if she listened very hard she could hear the plaintive strains of his cello. Sometimes she recognized the tune from the list of songs on the wedding repertoire. But more often than not, it was the song he’d played for her in the Abbey. She liked that one best of all.
Hearing wasn’t the same as seeing, though. She liked the look of furious concentration on his face when he played. She liked to watch the muscles in his shoulders and upper arms ripple beneath his suit jacket, moving in time with the strokes of his bow. There was a beauty to his melody that had nothing whatsoever to do with sound.
“We should be getting inside. Mr. March is expecting us.” Holden’s gaze darted toward the auditorium.
“Mr. March?” Amelia said absently. She wanted to leave so very, very badly that half of what Holden said was flying right over her head.
“He’s the conductor,” Lady Wentworth said. “Surely you met him during your introductions to the orchestra?”
“Right. Of course.” Amelia’s face went hot. “Silly me.”
Would this conversation ever end?
“You two go on. I need to get back to the palace. So many things to do before Saturday!” Saturday. The wedding.
Oh God.
“Good-bye, darling.” Holden reached to give her arm a pat, but over his shoulder she could see the conductor and Asher engaged in a terse conversation in a small room off the lobby.
“Enjoy the music. It’s quite wonderful,” Amelia said, drifting toward the exit.
She paused for a moment while Holden and Wilhelmina headed to the auditorium, silently forbidding herself from glancing in Asher’s direction until they were fully out of sight. Once they were gone, she allowed herself a tiny peek.
Whatever was happening in the small room didn’t look good. The conductor—Mr. March, apparently—was talking and gesticulating wildly while Asher stood listening, stone-faced and silent. She couldn’t tell what was being said, but she got the distinct feeling Asher’s performance hadn’t been up to par.
She disagreed. Strongly.
Granted, his playing hadn’t had the same magical quality that it had in private. It had been a little tentative. He seemed to be holding back for some reason. But he was a genius. Couldn’t this horrible Mr. March see that? And this was rehearsal. She was sure Asher would be brilliant on the big day.
Her wedding day.
For a moment she envisioned the Abbey overflowing with flowers and guests in brightly colored fascinators and felt a familiar yet annoying pang of . . . something. Dread? Disappointment? Guilt?
All three probably. But she squared her shoulders and ignored it. She didn’t like the way Mr. March was talking to Asher. She was halfway tempted to do something about it.
She wouldn’t, obviously. That would be inappropriate. Borderline crazy. Simply showing up at rehearsal unannounced had been risky enough.
Risky, but worth it.
Asher hadn’t made any outward indication that he knew her. But that simple skin-to-skin contact had been unmistakably intimate, especially when he’d taken his thumb and run it slowly along the hidden inside of her palm. That’s the moment she knew she hadn’t been imagining things. They had a connection of some kind.
They still did.
Not that it mattered. After the wedding, she’d certainly never see him again. But at least now she knew.
He cared.
So did she. Why else would she be standing there in Cadogan Hall at the moment?
Why was she still standing there?
Amelia sighed, turned, and headed for the door. She was a princess. People stalked her, not the other way around. The fact that she’d manufactured an excuse to crash Asher’s rehearsal shouldn’t be satisfying on any level. It should be humiliating.
She squared her shoulders and marched across the smooth tile floor. Her security officer, Ben again, nodded as she approached and reached for the door. But as he held it open for her, her footsteps inexplicably veered off-course.
Ben frowned as she walked right past him, toward the room where Asher and the conductor were still having their awkward tête-à-tête.
What am I doing? Had she lost her mind?
Yes, apparently she had.
“Excuse me for interrupting, gentlemen,” she said brightly, joining their meeting without bothering to knock.
At the sound of her voice, the conductor’s head whipped around quickly enough to give him a case of whiplash. Good. Amelia didn’t particularly like him at the moment.
“Your Royal Highness,” he blurted. He gaped at her for a second before bowing at the waist.
Amelia took the opportunity to glance at Asher. As usual, she couldn’t get a read on what was going on in his head. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word. He stayed put with his arms crossed and an impassive look on his face. Their eyes met, and something in his gaze hardened.
She felt very silly all of a sudden. Asher was a grown man. A world-class cellist. He could take care of himself. This wasn’t the palace, and Mr. March wasn’t an unruly corgi. It wasn’t just the two of them in their pajamas anymore.
She’d miscalculated. Clearly.
Too late. Here I am.
She glanced around, and realized the three of them were standing inside some kind of supply closet. Odd.
“Can I help you with something, Your Royal Highness?” the conductor asked.
“Yes.” She took a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed rehearsal today, particularly the cello solo.”
Over Mr. March’s shoulder, she could see Asher scrubbing a hand over his face and sighing. Whatever was going on, it didn’t seem as though she was helping.
“Oh.” The composer’s brows crept up his forehead. “That’s . . . ah . . . marvelous. This is the cello soloist right here, actually. Mr. Asher Reed.”
He gestured toward Asher, whose suddenly tense jaw and razor-sharp eyes made him look somewhere between angry and mortified. Possibly both.
“Yes, I remember.” Amelia nodded. If he’d been anyone else, she would’ve offered her hand again. Given his a shake.
She didn’t dare. The air in the room was already thick with unspoken emotion. She was certain Mr. March could tell that she and Asher knew one another. If not, he was as blind as he was deaf.
Amelia smiled at Asher. Her lips twitched, the way they usually did when she realized she’d said something indiscreet to the press. “Your playing is exquisite, Mr. Reed. It means a lot to me that you’re here.”
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness. I’m honored to play for you.” He dipped his head, and when he looked up, his gaze softened. Just a little, but enough to make Amelia feel warm all over, like she’d just stepped into the sun after a dreary London winter.
Then she blinked, and in a flash, his expression was neutral again. Amelia thought that maybe it had never changed to begin with.