by Susan Stoker
“I picked my dress,” I say, but he ignores me.
“Now we have to endure this bloody weekend.” He loosens his tie angrily. “You’ll be shooting with us.”
“I don’t shoot,” I object. “We’ve been over that. I can’t so much as kill a fly. I’m fine riding, but stalking…”
“You’re going shooting,” he says definitively, and there’s a harshness to his tone that makes me realize that the man I fell in love with was nothing but a façade. “All princesses shoot. You won’t have to do it after the marriage, but the palace photographer will be there. You’ll wear your sporting kit, you’ll shoot, and you’ll hold a dead bird against scenic backdrop. And I’ll not listen to your whining, understand?”
He stares at me. “And you’ll act happy, Amelia. You’ve looked dour all day. I’ll not have my brother thinking…”
“What’s Tristan to do with this?” I fire off the question hastily, and get the instant feeling that Frederick regrets making the statement.
“Nothing.” But I know how he does regret it because he won’t look at me as he answers. “He’d love to think you were miserable. He’d gloat over it.”
I ponder this, and now I’m the one who speaks in haste.
“If you’re truly concerned about how happy I look, you could try a little harder to make me happy. Are you aware that you bite my head off every time you speak lately, that you treat me like an incompetent? Good lord, Frederick. You don’t even show me affection!” I swallow a lump in my throat. “It’s as if you don’t love me.”
“Love.” He ejects the word from his mouth as if it’s bitter on his tongue. “Come now, Amelia. We both know royal marriages are more political than romantic.”
“What are you saying?” I ask. “Are you telling me that you don’t love me?”
“What if I didn’t?” he asks, dodging the question. “What would you do? Leave me? Step down from what is now your duty? Don’t tell me that you’re not enjoying the admiration. You eclipse me now. We can’t go anywhere without cameras snapping at you, without five paragraphs devoted to your shoes while I garner nary a mention in the same story.”
His bitterness takes me aback. He’s jealous. My fiancé, who once seemed proud of the image I’ve carefully worked to project, is resentful of its effectiveness.
He insisted that I be the perfect complement because he needed a partner to soften his image. And now that I’ve subverted my will to him—now that my entire focus is on crafting the perfect image—he resents me for being better at the game than he is. I fall silent and look out the window, just as Frederick is doing. It’s a metaphor. We’re trapped in the car, watching life whisk by us. We’re both miserable. Both miserable fakes. And the only thing worse for me than realizing the truth is replaying Tristan’s sarcastically pointing it out. How can I possibly make it in this family? I feel deflated and defeated, but as the car rolls up to Windsor Castle, Frederick reminds me to be on my best behavior, as if I’m a small child. And I know what he means. It’s time for me to act again.
But it’s hard. It’s so hard. I’m somber as I enter the sitting room where Victoria and Peter are having tea with a pretty young woman. Victoria introduces her as Lady Sarah Winthrop, a friend of a friend. She tells me she’s back from traveling abroad, and has been invited to attend the weekend at Balmoral with the family. Sarah is pretty and fresh-faced, and has an easy laugh that Frederick would surely say is too loud. When Sarah stands to leave the room, Victoria confides in me that she was invited to shoot with Tristan. I watch the leggy woman exit and feel a catch in my throat.
“And how does Tristan feel about it?”
“Oh, he was happy that we invited her,” Victoria replies. “He said her company will be refreshing. And you know Frederick; he’ll be pleased to have photographs emerge from the weekend showing Tris in the company of someone he considers acceptable.”
I imagine myself holding a bloody grouse I’ve been forced to slaughter as I fake a smile for the palace photographer. The thought sickens me nearly as much as the image of Tristan enjoying the company of another woman. I know I’m wrong to feel this way. Wrong. And bad.
“Where is Tristan?” I ask innocently. But there’s nothing innocent about my query. Tristan’s coolness combined with Sarah’s presence feels like a double slight.
“He’s at the stables,” Victoria replies. “He should be with Frederick and Father.”
I nod. Frederick excused himself as soon as he arrived to help Prince Edward prepare the guns for the shooting. It’s a tradition of theirs, and usually Tristan takes part.
“It’s late to be riding,” I say casually.
“I doubt he’s riding,” Victoria replies. “He’d rather be partying than going with us to Balmoral. Father says he’s in the barn sulking over having his fun curtailed. Besides, if he’s riding today, he’ll have to saddle his own horse. I imagine the grooms are quit for the day.”
My heart quickens in my chest. My thoughts are reckless. Frederick occupied. Tristan at the stables. I’m naïve to think the stables will be empty of workers, but enough may be absent that I can catch a moment alone with my future brother-in-law. And I must do this. I must.
I absent myself with the excuse that I, too, need to prepare for the weekend trip. But instead of going to my room, I make my way through the warren of rooms and then outside to the garden, where I stroll toward the stables.
The horses in the Windsor stables live better than most people. The queen loves her horses, and of the painful belt tightening concessions made by the monarch in the past few years, reducing the budget for the royal horses was the hardest. The Buckingham Palace stables—referred to as the Mews—were hardest hit, and save for a few horses on display for visitors, have been turned into something of an equestrian museum. The number of horses used for state occasions is pared down now, and most of them reside here at Windsor, along with the family’s personal horses including Frederick’s pricey new polo pony.
The horses have been fed; as I enter the stables, I can hear the soft sounds of their munching on hay, the scent of it mingling with the smell of horses. It’s a pleasant odor I’ve loved since childhood, and I wish this weekend’s activity was a hack rather than a hunt.
I hear the soft sound of clopping hooves and turn to see a tall figure leading a large gray horse into a stall at the end of the aisle. I feel a flutter in my chest. Tristan. I walk quickly down the aisle now, looking left and right. I pray I can catch him alone, if just for a moment. I need… I need… I don’t know what I need. Closure?
He’s coming out of the stall as I reach it, and we both stop in our tracks. I stare at him, forgetting myself as my eyes drink in the image he cuts in his riding clothes—the polo shirt tight across his toned chest, his muscular thighs hugged by the breeches tucked into tall boots. He’s untacked his horse in the stall. The bridle is draped over his shoulder, and he’s balancing his English saddle over his muscular forearm. In his other hand is a riding crop.
I’ve been walking so quickly down the aisle that I’m breathing a bit heavily, although that could be from nervousness.
“What are you doing here, Amelia?” he asks, and I realize I’ve not prepared an answer.
He shuts the stall door and begins to walk down the aisle. I walk beside him.
“I need to talk to you,” I say, my heels clicking on the hard floor as I work to keep pace with his long-legged stride.
“Shouldn’t you be in the parlor having tea with my sister?” He looks straight ahead, walking faster now. “Surely there’s wedding talk to be had. Flowers and dresses and such…”
I’m worried I’ll have to jog to keep up, but he turns into a tack room and I pivot with him, entering and shutting the door.
“Did I wrong you in some way, Tristan?” I ask, my voice shaking. He’s turned to put his saddle and bridle on a rack, forcing me to speak to his back. “Did I offend you in some manner the night you posed as my husband so you could fuck me?” He’s not
the only one who can be sarcastic.
And now he does turn, and there’s a sneer on his handsome face. “Oh, please. Don’t pretend you didn’t know.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but I can’t.
“Did I ever lead you on?” I ask, the hurt I feel rising in my tone. “Did I, Tristan? Even if I knew, even if I…” I hastily drag the back of my hand across my eyes to stop the tears before continuing. “Even if I responded to you, did I ask for what happened?”
He’s briefly derailed by my question and says nothing, so I rush to fill the silence with more of what I need to say.
“I didn’t ask for it. But I am asking for an explanation for your coldness. I did not instigate what happened, and for someone like you to treat me with disdain…”
“Someone like me?” He punctuates the question with a short mirthless laugh. “You mean the notorious rake? The cad? The vile seducer of women?” He bows dramatically. “Allow the Bad Prince to beg the pardon of the virtuous whore who is set to marry my brother…”
When he rises, so does my hand. I’ve never slapped anyone in my life, but I’ve never been this angry. The crack of my soft palm against his smooth cheek resounds throughout the small room.
I’m shocked at what I’ve done. And so is he. We regard each other as wary adversaries, but around us the air crackles with a tension neither can deny. And my gaze strays to the riding crop he’s still holding a second before he grabs me.
Chapter Seven
Prince Tristan
Why couldn’t she have just left well enough alone? A woman with any self-preservation would have seen my coldness for what it was—an attempt to push her away for both our sakes. But Amelia has turned out to be far pluckier than I’d told myself she was. I was trying to build that wall higher with hurtful words when she’d derailed me with a slap. That slap was more than just a slap. It was a spark that reignited my simmering passion.
She’s struck me. This proper, waiflike beauty has hit me. I notice everything, and in the split second before her hand met my face, her gaze had moved briefly to the riding crop in my hand. And when I felt the sting on my cheek, I saw it not as a rebuke, but a challenge. At that point, my reaction was beyond either of our control.
The Prince of Pain, the papers had dubbed me, and Amelia is begging me for a response.
“That was a mistake, my lady,” I say, jerking her soft body up against mine. Her eyes, so angry a moment before, are suddenly wide and uncertain, her lips parted. I wanted to kiss them, but first things first. I am consumed by the need to see what I hastily plundered in the maze weeks earlier. The tack room is quite large, and features a worn leather sofa perfect for my intended purpose. I push Amelia over the arm, growling at her to stay still.
I lift the hem of her pleated skirt, and my cock stiffens almost painfully at the sight of a perfect bottom just made for smacking. I press the hand holding the crop against the small of her back, restraining her. My other hand roams her left buttock. Her panties are surprisingly skimpy, barely covering her alabaster cheeks.
“You need to be taught a lesson, Amelia,” I said. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be taught a lesson? To be… corrected?”
She doesn’t say no. She doesn’t cry out. She just whimpers one word. “Please…”
I bring my hand down across the expanse of both cheeks. It’s not a brutal slap, just hard enough to sting. Her bum flattens and rebounds to blush rosy with the imprint of my palm. She stifles a cry and wriggles, but doesn’t try to escape. I smack her again, this time rubbing away the heat of the blow.
“Is this what you want?” I ask. “It is, isn’t it? You need a good smacking. That’s why you’ve come here. Your life is out of control and you need to feel mastered, to feel claimed. To feel wanted.”
I’ve never spoken to a woman like this when I’ve smacked her, and I’ve smacked my share. It’s always just been sexual, but it’s deeper with Amelia. I step back, raise the crop and bring it down, and she emits a little scream as it falls.
“Tell me why you’re really here,” I say, and bring the crop down again. There are several handprints overlaid with two distinct welts now. Her bottom is a beautiful, bouncing canvas. She’s sobbing, but also arching backward. Does she realize what she’s doing to me? Is she really so innocent as to be ignorant of how her body invites me to continue?
I jerk her panties down and off before tossing them aside. I push her legs apart with the toe of my riding boot. She’s trembling.
“Would you like to raise your hand to me again, you little minx? Or have you learned your lesson?”
“Tristan…” she says.
I’m not done. I have a question to ask, but I boldly push my fingers between her legs to show her I already know the answer before I ask it.
“Why did you come here?” I raise her to standing and turn her to face me. “Was it really indignation that brought you to me?” I give her a gentle shake, as if it will help dislodge the truth. “Be honest, Amelia.”
“I’ll be honest if you will,” she says in her pretty, quavering voice. Her lip is trembling, and she’s rubbing her sore bum in a way that excites me. She’s a chastened little girl in the body of a grown woman.
“Fine,” I say.
“I can’t stop thinking of you,” she says tearfully. “I’ve replayed what happened in the maze over and over and over. And today, when you were so cold…” She bursts into tears. “Perhaps I am bad! Perhaps I am false and a whore. But will you really put this all on me?”
“God, no.” I reach for her face, tip it up to mine. I bring my mouth down on hers. Her lips are so soft, her mouth fragrant. “I’m sorry,” I whisper into her ear after pulling my lips from hers and blazing a trail of kisses to her lobe. “I thought it would be easier if you hated me, if I hated you.”
“I can’t hate you,” she says. “You’ve made me feel alive. The pleasure. The pain… I’d forgotten I could feel, Tristan. But with you…”
“Amelia.”
“Please,” she says, and she locks her eyes on mine and I see such sad desperation, such longing.
My god. What have I done? And why can’t I stop? I don’t even realize my fingers are undoing the buttons on the front of her dress until I’m slipping it off her shoulders. Her bra follows and she stands there, not passive… no… Amelia isn’t passive. She’s drawing me in, nodding as I undress her.
“Yes, yes,” she says, urging me on as I unhook her bra.
Good god, she’s more beautiful than I imagined. I’m corrupting this sweet, beautiful young woman. Her pale body is svelte but shapely. Her breasts are perfect pears, the areolas darker than I imagined, the nipples sweet, perfect, and tight. My mouth drops to one and I draw on the tip with an urgent longing. The nipple hardens against my tongue, and my hands move to grip and squeeze her sore bottom. She wriggles against me but I hold her fast. She moans. She wants to be held, to be restrained.
“Don’t fight me,” I say. “Don’t fight this.”
“I can’t. I won’t.” She breathes the words in hot pants of excitement.
Her back is against the sofa I’d just spanked her over. Now I shove her back and she falls, legs splayed as I dive between them, driven by the need to taste her. I find her clit immediately; it’s exposed itself from beneath its fleshy hood and I capture it gently as I drive two fingers into her slick pussy. She bucks hard against my mouth, against my hand. I feel her pussy clench and quiver around my forefingers as the waves of her orgasm subside.
Her salty sweetness lingers on my tongue as I step back and pull her to standing before turning her around and pushing her face forward back across the arm of the leather sofa. I admire the line of her back, the little knots of her spine just visible through her pale skin. My hands span her long, slim waist. I smile as my gaze finds the two perfect dimples just above the flare of buttocks marked by my punishing smacks.
I can’t get my cock out fast enough. Amelia’s posture is one of perfect submission. She’s ra
ised her hips, and her legs are spread. She’s looking back at me, her hair spilling around where her head rests on the seat of the sofa.
We’re not in a maze now. We’re in a room with a door and the world we know seems a world away. I take my time, easing into her pussy slowly, holding her hips still so she can’t push back. I want to savor the delicious sensation of sliding into her inch by inch. I watch my cock disappear into her body, the halves of her bottom a perfect, pale peach. Her cheeks are spread, and above where my cock slides into her pussy I can see the dusky crinkle of her bottom hole, and think of the hidden pleasures yet to be enjoyed.
And I’m all the way in her, now. I push the wickedness of what I’m doing out of my mind. I am blameless, for who can resist such a woman? Is it my fault that Frederick has left her so wanting? Amelia isn’t just passionate; Amelia is Passion. And if there will be regret, let it come later. For now, we are concentrating on the coming of ultimate pleasure.
“Not yet,” I tell her as I feel her climax building. “Wait.”
“I can’t,” she says, and my hand slides beneath to pinch a nipple.
“You will wait,” I growl, and she moans and mewls and the sound of her submission combined with the feel of her hot, slick sheath quivering around my cock almost unmans me. But I hold back, not wanting this moment to end.
“Amelia,” I say. “Amelia.”
“I want to come,” she says. “I need to come. Tristan. Please. Please let me come or I’ll die.”
“Such dramatics!” I laugh low, my hands sliding up and down her waist. There’s a sheen of sweat on her skin, and I’m warm as well. A droplet of sweat drips from my face onto her back. Plop. I watch as it traces a rivulet down and around the dip of her waist.
“I want to feel you,” I say. “Come on my cock, my little sweet.”
The rhythmic pulses of her pussy draw my release. Our bodies are complementary instruments in a carnal symphonic duet. The shuddering of our mutual release goes on and on. Afterwards I raise her to standing and turn her toward me, regretting the feel of my cock slipping from the warmth of her body.