by Susan Stoker
She raises her eyes to mine. “I’m not a whore, Tristan.”
“I know.” I push a strand of hair away from the face that is now emblazoned on commemorative dishes all over the country. “I was wrong to say it, but I wanted you to hate me.”
“Why?”
“Because if you hated me, it would be easier for me to believe the lies I was telling myself about you. I’ve been trying to cast you as the villain in a story you never asked to be part of. You’re right. You may have been willing, but you never sought this. It was me, Amelia. It was all me. I led you in the maze for the worst possible reason…”
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “To hurt your brother?” she asked. “To see if you could easily take what he considered his?”
It physically pains me to admit it, but I want everything out in the open. “Yes. But understand, I wasn’t expecting what I felt. You’re not the only one who can’t get that night out of your mind. I can’t either.”
She backs away and leans down to pick up her bra. She’s still wearing her heels and is sexy as fuck. My cock starts to surge back to life.
“Well, maybe Sarah will help with that.” Amelia slides her arms through the straps of the bra and reaches behind her back to buckle it. As she does she looks up at me and tosses the hair from her face. “Victoria told me you wanted her to come.”
“Yes, but it’s not fair to her.” I lean down and pick up the panties I’d tossed onto the floor. She has her hand out for them. I don’t want her to get dressed.
“Tristan,” she says, extending her hand further. I hand them over, wishing I had something to say. She has every right to be skeptical.
“I’m not playing you,” I say.
“Does it matter?” She sounds so sad. I stand there watching as she pulls on her panties. She sits down on the sofa and looks up at me. Then she puts her face in her hands. “It’s not like I can just… leave Frederick.”
The statement throws the harsh light of reality on the situation. We both know the moment we’ve shared was stolen from lives that aren’t entirely our own. As much as we’d like to pretend otherwise, to pursue this reckless liaison any further puts everyone we love at risk.
“Do you love him?” I ask.
She pulls on her dress before answering.
“I did, or at least I loved the man who wooed me, but I don’t think that was Frederick.” She’s fastening her dress, and I watch as the swell of her breasts disappears behind the buttons. “I fell in love with the false Frederick, the same one I now realize will smile into a pensioner’s eyes and then later joke that she smelled of liniment. I fell in love with the image of Frederick.” She stands and shrugs. “But maybe this is what I get for not delving deeper. You aren’t the only one with a demanding family, you know. I could have tried harder to crack Frederick’s façade, but down deep maybe I was afraid of what I’d find. Maybe I was afraid to see anything that would make me say no when he asked me the one question I was raised to hear from him: ‘Amelia, will you marry me?’ ”
The back of her hand goes to her mouth and she turns. Her shoulders are heaving with silent sobs. I go to her and wrap my arms around her frame. She took my rough thrusts as if drawing strength from our passion, but at this moment seems delicate and breakable.
I’ve seen women cry. I’ve made women cry. I’ve done them wrong and walked away. And ironically, the one woman I need to walk away from for all our sakes holds me to her without even trying. The Bad Boy Prince isn’t so bad now. I share her sadness, but along with it a growing anger at the system that gives us everything but a way out.
“I have to go.” She composes herself and allows me to wipe her face with a handkerchief I retrieve from my pocket. As I dab under her eyes, I note how fearful they look. “Do you think they’ll know? By looking at me? Do I look like a woman who just fucked her fiancé’s brother for the second time?”
“No. You look like a beautiful, sad woman.”
“This weekend is going to be hell,” she says. “I wish I didn’t have to go.”
“I’m glad you’re going,” I say.
“It’ll be torture, Tristan.”
“I’d rather feel torture than feel nothing.”
She scoffs at this. “Good heavens. You’re the lucky one here. You have options at least. You can take comfort in someone else if you must.” I know she’s thinking of Sarah.
“I won’t,” I say, and I mean it.
“Maybe you should.” Her voice is quavering again and she closes her eyes, steeling herself. “We both know this can’t be, Tristan. I think you wanted Sarah here because you know that. As much as it hurts, I need to see you with someone else. In two months, I have to marry your brother.”
“Do you?” I ask angrily.
“You know I do,” she says softly. “Even if I don’t want to, I can’t risk throwing your family into scandal. Or mine. We both know what the press would do. And the royalist faction? They’d run me out of the country. At the moment, this wedding is the only thing keeping your family afloat.”
She’s right. Again. And then she’s gone.
Chapter Eight
Lady Amelia
I’m being practical. I’m being rational. But these things feel after the fact. I should have been practical and rational before running off to the stables. I told myself I’d been seeking closure with Tristan, but what I really wanted was what I just got.
This could be a pattern—fucking him and then coming up with all the reasons I can’t fuck him. But I can’t let it happen again. I’d rather be Tristan’s whore than Frederick’s wife, but the truth is, I don’t have that choice.
Maybe by the end of our weekend at Balmoral, Tristan will have regained his aloofness with the help of a shiny new object. Sarah. Already the worm of jealousy is turning as I picture her limbs tangled with Tristan as he pounds into her in an effort to forget me. My having given him my blessing for such an activity doesn’t make it any easier.
The path back from the stables is quiet. One day, years from now, this will be our home—Frederick’s and mine. We’ll raise our children to run along these manicured shrubs, the birth of each child reminding the public why they support a monarchy. It will all be so traditional, so nostalgic as I stand beside Frederick outside St. Mary’s hospital holding our newborn son or daughter (he’ll want a son first). A royal baby. How grand. What a lovely distraction from the workaday woes of a public living vicariously through us.
I round a corner and hear my name being called. I turn to see Frederick walking briskly toward me. Even in the fading light, I can see the anger in his expression.
“Where have you been?” he asks. “Victoria said you just left without so much as an explanation.”
“I wanted a walk, Frederick,” I say.
“You’ll have plenty of opportunities to walk this weekend.”
“What does it hurt?” I snap at him. “You were occupied, and it’s not as if Victoria needs me to hold her hand while she drinks tea. And what is it to you, anyway? You often disappear without explanation. We’re both adults, Frederick. If I want some time alone, I’ll take it.”
I turn and continue to walk, half expecting him to storm off in the opposite direction, but he moves to my side.
“It’s lovely this evening,” he says.
“It is.”
He’s trying to patch things up, just as he tried to do after the ball. Does he sense now, did he then, that something was different about me? That I had a secret? Is he secretly sensing that all is not so secure as he imagines? Is he starting to realize that I’m changing, too? Because I am. I will no longer answer his coldness with warmth.
I stop. “Frederick,” I say. “I’m not shooting this weekend.”
“Amelia…” he begins, but I raise my hand. I’ve decided to stop feeling sorry for myself and to use what power I have in this relationship.
“No,” I say. “I told you I didn’t want to do it. I can’t bear the thought of killing
something.”
“My grandmother expects it!” His tone is petulant.
“Your grandmother will surely find this disappointment trivial in the big picture. And so far as expectations go, I have my own. I’ll not be treated like a child to be ordered around, Frederick, nor will I have my sensibilities dismissed. Understand?”
He puts his hands in his coat pockets and looks off to the side.
“Is this some sort of retaliation for how I treated you at the service?”
“Everything isn’t about you, Frederick,” I say. “I simply don’t want to shoot. But since you asked, I did not appreciate the way you spoke to me.” I step to him, take his hand. It’s cold, and he doesn’t grasp mine in return. I look up at him. It feels disingenuous to ask again, but I must.
“Do you love me, Frederick?” I’m desperate for him to tell me. I’m desperate for some softening. He told me he loved me once the day he proposed, but not since. And I need to hear it. I need that affirmation to remind me why I must put aside this fascination with his brother.
“We’ve discussed this, Amelia. It’s a silly question. I proposed, didn’t I?” he replies. Then, instead of a ‘yes’ to my question, he offers up a concession. “If you don’t want to shoot, you don’t have to. But I’m packing a gun for you anyway. Perhaps when you think on the tradition, of how the public enjoys these photos, perhaps you’ll see a way to change your mind.”
“I’m mindful of the image, Frederick. But I’ll not live my life thinking of how every move I make will look on the front page of a paper. Nor will I violate my principles. Take the gun if you must, but I won’t be shooting with you.”
I turn and walk away from him then, feeling strangely empowered by having taken a stand. I should feel wicked, forcing Frederick to stand down as his brother’s seed dries on my thighs. But I don’t. He didn’t say yes.
I know it will further irk Frederick when I announce I’m tired and ask to take dinner in my room, but that’s what I do. I’m in no mood to spend time making empty small talk or listening to Frederick’s father recount his stalking exploits. The royals are a hunting family, but I vow to bend this tradition a bit. Should my children share my misgivings, I’ll not have them pressured to participate.
In the quiet of my room, I run my own bath and, feeling paranoid, wash out my panties in the sink and hang them to dry. But I can’t wash away the signs of my lovemaking with Tristan. The crop marks that scored my buttocks left two welts that throb with delicious hurt. There are faint bruises on my white thighs where Tristan wrenched them apart. My pussy is not as sore as it was after our first time, but the inner walls that clenched his turgid cock are still tender.
As I sink into the brimming water, I move my fingers to my nethers, tracing the same path Tristan’s tongue traveled earlier. The fingers of my other hand move to the nipple his mouth had drawn from. I can’t have Tristan, but is it so wrong to take pleasure in the memory of the only man who’s ever satisfied me? How can I respond to Frederick when we are together again, unless I close my eyes and think of his brother? Will it always be the three of us in the royal bed?
I do not know. I can only hope that this weekend will put some emotional distance between me and my fiancé’s brother. Tristan had already tried. I won’t stop him a second time.
Chapter Nine
Prince Tristan
So far so good. I’ll have to take this a day at a time, and after an evening of pondering how to handle my mad attraction to Amelia, I’ve decided to handle it not like the royal rake I pretend to be, but the man I must become. I will not shame her for what I provoked. I will not focus on real or perceived flaws to put me off the woman who soon be a member of this family. Instead, I will look past this, and see her only as a beloved sister.
I don’t plan to fully shake my bad boy image; it’s too much fun. But I can’t be bad with Amelia.
The Scottish estate of Balmoral is a great place to sort myself. As a child, I’d take long walks here to think. Wildlife is abundant in these verdant hills—red deer, grouse, foxes, rabbits. Rocks dotting the landscape provide cover for those observing or stalking, and the clear streams are abundant with silvery salmon.
In my teens, I got into falconry. My father bought me a huge female goshawk that I dubbed Gia. I hunted with her for over ten seasons before retiring her to a nature center in Gatwick. Being out here today watching the hawks fly over makes me want to pick up the art again.
Sarah is at my side as we follow the gundogs into grouse habitat, and I’m glad for the original instincts that told me she’d be a good diversion, because she is. It didn’t surprise me that my family would be delighted that Sarah is attending. She’s well-bred and earthy, but not so pretty as to eclipse bride-to-be Amelia. Having Sarah in my company will set tongues to wagging about whether the Bad Prince is finally turning his sites toward more suitable women.
It’s escaped my family’s notice—but not mine—that Sarah isn’t as innocent as she seems. Her family stays out of the public eye, but I’ve heard rumors of wild partying in Madrid and even whispers of a pregnancy scare. My initial intention was to arrive here with disdain for Amelia and a ready partner in Sarah. But after what happened with Amelia, I’m not ready for anything beyond conversation.
“I’ve been so looking forward to the shooting,” Sarah says brightly. She handles her gun with ease. Her family is from the country, and my family has hunted on her family’s estate on several occasions. We’ve fanned out across the area, and are watching the dogs as they run about looking for birds to flush.
“I don’t understand why Lady Amelia would refuse to shoot,” Sarah says. “Is she the prissy sort?”
Two days ago, I’d have agreed with great sarcasm. But having endured Frederick’s grumbling over Amelia’s decision only endears me to her more. I find myself defending her.
“I don’t find her prissy at all,” I reply, trying to keep my tone casual. “She apparently doesn’t fancy killing things. Many people don’t these days.”
“Yes, but most of them are commoners.” Lady Sarah stops, watching the dogs. “And if I may be so bold, Lady Amelia should have told Frederick she wasn’t all in for this sort of thing before taking his ring.”
At that moment, the dogs flush a covey of grouse from the bush. Three birds explode into the sky and Sarah lifts her gun and fires, dropping two to the ground with one shot. But any admiration I may have felt is already buried under my distaste. The smile on her face is broad, and I do not judge her for enjoying the thrill of sport. But I do judge her for thinking anyone should be forced to do something they hate as a condition of matrimony.
Another covey of grouse flushes into the sky. My brother fires, bringing one down. I raise my gun and site it on a bird, then lower it. My heart’s not in the hunt today, but the bird dies anyway when my father shoots it.
I lower the barrel and walk over to where they are collecting the birds. The palace photographer is getting a tight shot of Frederick’s and Sarah’s hands clutching the feet of their dead birds. The creatures loll from their grip, blood dripping from the feathers.
“Well done,” I say to Sarah when the photographer is finished.
“Thank you,” she cries, handing the birds off to the gamekeeper. “I’m having a grand time.”
Victoria, who’s coming up the hill with another party, calls to Sarah then, and she excuses herself as she heads in the other woman’s direction.
“She’s an exceptional shot,” Frederick says to me, and I glance over to see him watch her go. There’s something of admiration in his eyes. “Shame she’s not a bit better pedigreed or fairer of face. She’s just the sort of woman I’d have found easy to be with.”
I’m stunned at this admission. “Amelia seems easy enough,” I say.
“Amelia has become petulant,” Frederick says.
“Yes, she won’t hunt. What a crime.” I’m deliberately sarcastic.
“It is a crime. Every royal spouse hunts, Tristan.”
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“So one can’t break tradition?”
“Tradition matters,” he says, and I glance over to see him staring almost longingly at Sarah, who’s talking to Victoria.
I almost ask him why he’s marrying Amelia if he feels this way, but we both know the answer to that. He wanted someone pretty and biddable, and now that he’s finding she has the spine he lacks when it comes to our family and its arcane traditions, it’s too late. She’s wildly popular and beneficial to the monarchy. I know what he’s thinking as he stares at Sarah. He’s made a mistake and perhaps should have selected a fellow snob who’d have not outshone him. But that’s what you get when you select for convenience.
“Look,” I say, deciding to be kind for once. “Amelia’s agreed to shoot skeets this afternoon, right? That’s a start. Maybe she’ll eventually take up shooting birds. Maybe not. But surely a marriage is built on more than just that?”
I’m trying to help, but as always, I just end up making Frederick irritated.
“What do you know of relationships, Tristan? Women are just bedsport to you.”
“Not all women,” I say as he turns away. “It may surprise you, brother, but I am capable of caring.”
He barks a laugh. “Well, if a woman makes you care enough to end your prowling, then she must be very special. If she shoots, more’s the better.” He turns to me. “But you aren’t talking of Sarah, are you?”
I shake my head and laugh. “Not hardly,” I say. “This family only has time to deal with one relationship at a time. I’ll have plenty of time to publicly court once you’re wed and settled.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Frederick says, and I find myself silently agreeing. I’ll believe it when I see it, too. All morning I think of nothing but the one woman I can’t have. How will I ever get through this holiday?