Royally Mine: 22 All-New Bad Boy Romance Novellas

by Susan Stoker

  Chapter Ten

  Lady Amelia

  I’m making the best of my situation. I’m a dread shot and don’t care for guns. Frederick is impatient as he tutors me on how to shoot the clays. It is Lady Sarah who comes to my aid. She’s very knowledgeable but far more forgiving as she instructs me on proper form.

  “Didn’t you shoot at all in your youth?” she asks. She’s my age, but already has the air of someone so much older. She reminds me of Frederick.

  “I did,” I say. “But I never became proficient at it.”

  Around us, the clays are exploding in midair within seconds of being pulled as other shooters blast them from the sky. My shoulder is already sore from where the shotgun kicked on my last failed attempt. It doesn’t help that Frederick is watching with his disapproving scowl. It helps even less that Tristan is on my opposite side. I’ve spend the last three days avoiding him without making that avoidance seem too obvious. He’s been equally artful. At meals we nod and speak to one another. We both weigh in when small talk is made. We’ve affected a convincingly casual reserve toward one another, laying the basis for a permanent distance.

  “Let’s try again.” Beside me, Sarah places the stock end of her gun against the hollow of her shoulder, guiding me through the process as she blasts a clay pigeon moments after it’s ejected. I marvel at how she follows it with her eye. And I marvel at myself a moment later when I try and finally blow one to smithereens.

  The photographer, Robert, who has been waiting for a shot of me shooting a gun, seems thrilled.

  “Well done!” he exclaims. “Your form was stellar on that one.”

  “I’ll end on a high note,” I announce, and hand my gun to a waiting attendant and turn away. I don’t want anyone to see me rubbing the spot where the gun has kicked. Even if my form was impressive, the bruise will be even more so.

  I look up to see Tristan staring at me. His expression is one of concern. He takes a step toward me then stops and looks away.

  “I’m quite proud of you, you know.” I turn to see Frederick at my side. “You made up for not shooting birds by hitting those clays.”

  “I don’t want to disappoint you,” I say. And I mean it.

  “Well, you didn’t. Not today.”

  I ponder his words. “And on other days?” I push a strand of hair from my face. “Frederick,” I say quietly. “Neither of us should be unhappy.”

  “And we won’t be,” he asserts. “We’ll have a shining life together, you and I. Once the stress of the public eye is off us, things will relax. You’ll see, Amelia.”

  I search for confidence in his words, but it is lacking. I want to pull him aside, inject him with truth serum, and give him a shake until honesty spills from his lips. I want to tell him I won’t be hurt if he calls it off.

  “She’ll make a fair shot, Frederick.” Sarah walks over, grinning broadly. She’s more comfortable in her tweeds than I am, and it shows. Beside me, my fiancé relaxes at her approach.

  “And you make a fine teacher,” he gushes. “I lack the patience, you know.”

  “You’ve been remarkably helpful, Sarah,” I add. “It’s appreciated.”

  “Yes,” Frederick agrees. “Thanks to you, the pictures Robert is sending to the press will meet all expectations.”

  I imagine my mother’s raised eyebrow when she sees me shooting skeets and almost laugh.

  “Are you stalking deer with us tomorrow, Amelia?” Sarah asks.

  “You know I’m not,” I reply.

  “You should,” she says. “There’s nothing finer than taking down one of those beasts. I’ll be stalking with Tristan.” She glances over to where he’s placing guns in the Range Rover. “I only hope he’s in a better mood. I’ve had to do most of the talking today.”

  Sarah waves Tristan over, and he reluctantly joins us.

  “What do you think, Tristan?” she asks. “We were just discussing tomorrow’s hunt. I think it will do Amelia good to go with us, but she’s balking. Balking at stalking.” She laughs heartily at her own joke. “Perhaps you can convince her. We all know you have a way with the ladies.”

  Her boldness creates an instant tension she seems unaware of. She nudges Tristan’s arm with hers as she inclines her head toward me. “Go on, Tristan. Work your magic.”

  “If I possess any magic, it’s in knowing what a woman wants.” He winks at her, a clever diversion to shift the focus by flirting. I’m grateful, but seeing her knowing smile and his responding grin hurts more than I thought it would.

  “I had meant for you to work your magic on her, Tristan,” Sarah says. “But I see your trick. You’re putting me under your spell. By all means, continue.” She walks away and he follows. They are both laughing.

  “Have a care, Tristan,” Frederick calls after them, but Tristan is obviously ignoring him, and so is Sarah, who’s shooting Tristan with a coquettish look.

  “Don’t worry,” I say to Frederick. “I believe Lady Sarah is quite capable of taking care of herself, even with your brother.” We’re both hoping nothing comes of the flirtation, but for totally different reasons.

  “Let’s hope if she likes him she at least makes him wait a bit,” Frederick says. “Sarah would be a nice addition to the family should Tristan decide to settle. And I’d like to think that Sarah’s smarter than the silly tarts who fall on their backs for him with no more than a word or a glance.”

  My face flames scarlet at the comment, and I’m seized with guilt. What am I doing? What would Frederick think if he knew? Doesn’t he have a right to know? But would he want to? Would he care, beyond what the subsequent fallout would mean for his family’s tenuous hold on their lifestyle?

  The rest of the afternoon is torture. Lady Sarah and Tristan are conspicuously absent, and I struggle to blink back tears when I hear Frederick and Victoria remarking on how the two seem to have hit it off. I’m nearly mad with imaginings I tell myself I need to avoid. I imagine Sarah divested of her boots and trousers, the garments thrown hastily aside as Tristan throws her on the floor of one of the tucked-away hunting cabins that dot the highland estate. I imagine her sturdy legs spread, her lusty response as he drives into her. Why am I having these thoughts? I try to drive them from my mind, but they only grow stronger. Frederick is right; no woman can resist Tristan’s charms. It’s scandalous how many women he’s had, and I know nothing of what was said between him and his former lovers. Was it torture parting with them, too? Maybe it’s something he says to all his lovers, to make us feel special.

  I sleepwalk through the rest of the day, and when Lady Sarah and Tristan return for dinner, they are relaxed and talkative. I steal as many glances at the two of them as I dare, wondering if the cause for their relaxation is because Tristan has already moved to the next easy mark, the next woman whose station is no match for a man who can have her on her back with just a word and a glance.

  At the end of the evening, I go back to my lonely room thinking this holiday can’t get any worse. I have no idea that I’m wrong.

  Chapter Eleven

  Prince Tristan

  I know as soon as I see the paper how he’s betrayed her. It sickens me. I know I shouldn’t involve myself in the matter, but I’m livid.

  I’m up earlier than the rest of the family save for Grandmother. The queen has always been an early riser, and I know she’s seen the paper because she reads it in bed while having her morning tea and toast.

  She’s in the sitting room when I arrive.

  “Did you see this?” I ask, putting the UK Today on the table. Grandmother glances down and nods.

  “Yes, Robert did a wonderful job with the photos.”

  I sit down across from her. “These photos are a lie, Mam.” I feel the need to bring her up to speed since she wasn’t with the shooting party.

  “Oh? How so?” She turns the paper around as I point to the photos. One is a nice shot of Amelia shooting, but the photo is cropped in a way that she’s just shooting up. The other is the ti
ght shot of a pair of hands clutching the bloody birds. “Crack Shot,” the headline blares. Underneath, the subhead reads, “Soft-Hearted Amelia Turns Predator at Balmoral Under Proud Eye of Future In-Laws.”

  “She didn’t shoot,” I say. “Not birds, anyway. She’s opposed to it.”

  “I know. Frederick has complained about that on more than one occasion,” my grandmother says. She furrows her brow. “I confess to being shocked at these pictures when I saw them.”

  “That’s Sarah and Frederick holding the birds,” I say. “The other is of Amelia shooting skeets.”

  The article, which quoted a school chum who remembered Amelia as the girl who once rescued a butterfly from a spider’s web, also quotes an anonymous source from the hunting party who describes how Amelia enjoyed getting her first kill. The story is clearly intended to appeal to the traditionalist readers.

  “Frederick is behind this,” I say.

  “Then let Frederick handle it, dear.”

  “Really, Mam?” I ask. “Why is it fair that I get called out for behavior unbecoming a royal while a lie like this is ignored? This is a woman Frederick is supposed to care for! What does it say about our family to allow this?”

  “I’m not saying we should ignore it, just that it seems to be between the two of them, Tristan.” She sighs. “I’m sure Frederick would not have done this if he thought it would cause her any lasting upset.”

  As if on cue, Amelia enters the room and as soon as I see her face, I know she’s upset, and I know why. Frederick is at her heels. He’s urging her to calm down, to listen. She ignores him and walks over to the queen.

  “Forgive me, ma’am,” she says. “But I believe I may need to end the holiday early with your kind permission.”

  Frederick shoulders his way in front of her.

  “Don’t grant it, Grandmother. Amelia is in a snit.”

  My grandmother looks at me and then back at the couple. “I assume this is over the papers?”

  Frederick looks at me, and I can see the first glint of suspicion in his eyes. “Let me guess. Tristan came here to blow this up.”

  “She didn’t shoot birds yesterday,” I say. “What you did was untenable, Frederick.”

  “I’ll not be lectured by the family whoremonger!” Frederick raises his voice, but an icy glare from my grandmother has him moderating his tone. “This is none of your concern.”

  “I’m making it my concern,” I say. “I was there. This is a lie. Is that what we’re doing now? Trading in lies?”

  “Thank you, Tristan.” Amelia’s voice is soft, and her eyes betray pure gratitude. She ignores Frederick and turns to the queen. “I’ve done all that is required to uphold the image this family values. What’s been done here is unnecessary, and unnecessarily hurtful. I would beg the palace issue some sort of clarification.”

  “You dare make demands of us?” Frederick asks, and she turns to him. There’s fire in her eyes now.

  “I absolutely do,” she says with steel in her voice. Then she looks back at my grandmother. “May I be excused from the rest of the holiday?”

  “We’ll send a car to take you home,” my grandmother says.

  “I’ll just go to my flat in London,” Amelia says. “I can’t bear the nattering of my mother today. I think I’d rather be alone.”

  “I understand.” My grandmother nods. “We’ll sort this.” Then she looks at me and Frederick. “With civility.”

  After a moment, I hear my name called. “Did you hear me, Tristan?” I realize I’ve been staring at Amelia the whole time.

  “Yes, Grandmother,” I say. “With civility.”

  “I’m going to pack my things,” Amelia says. “Thank you, ma’am.” She curtsies and when she turns to leave, Frederick starts to follow, but my grandmother calls him back.

  “Leave her be, Frederick,” she says. “One never follows a furious woman.”

  “She has no right to be furious,” he says.

  “Who’s furious?” Lady Sarah has entered the room. “Are you talking about Lady Amelia? She just flew past me in the hall. Have I missed something?” She walks over to the table and pours herself a cup of tea. “You’d think she’d be happy, having once again garnered the front page of every paper in the country.”

  My distaste for her roils. The day before I’d flirted with her enough to draw her away when it became clear that she was exploiting Amelia’s discomfort with hunting. But my intention in luring her away went beyond relieving Amelia of her company. I wanted to find out what was behind Sarah’s needling, and it wasn’t difficult to do. Sarah is a talker, and she revealed a keen interest in my brother. She asked me if I thought he’d noticed her shooting, and wondered if he’d be interested in coming to her family’s estate again. She also took every available opportunity to point out the “curious” match my brother and his fiancée made, and even boldly inquired as to what they may have in common.

  I deflected most of her questions, but made note of them. But her queries, combined with a look of barely disguised glee at Amelia’s distress, makes me realize that this woman has designs on my brother.

  “You’re in the paper, too,” I comment, leaning down to tap the photo of her hand.

  “Really?” she says with a wink at Frederick. “I hadn’t noticed.” She turns to Frederick. “Are we still on for deer stalking today?”

  “Absolutely,” my brother says.

  “Don’t you think you should see to Amelia instead?” I ask.

  “Absolutely not!” my brother fires back, and I see Sarah turn away to hide her smile. “She’s free to run back to London if she wishes, but if she expects me to coddle her, she’s wrong.”

  “Is that prudent, Frederick?” My grandmother has been observing the exchange in her own quiet way.

  “You’re the one who told me not to follow an angry woman, Grandmother.”

  “You don’t chase her from the room, dear,” she said. “But neither do you ignore her distress.”

  “I won’t ignore it,” Frederick says. “I’ll just deal with it when I’m good and ready. And I’ll be ready after holiday. She’ll be fine until then. Amelia needs to learn now that I won’t reward sulking.”

  I glance at my grandmother. Her face is unreadable, but I know mine isn’t. I can feel the heat rise to my brow, and I clench my fist. I have never wanted so badly to punch anyone as I want to punch Frederick at this moment.

  “Will we see you at the hunt?” Lady Sarah calls as I leave, but I don’t answer.

  I know it’s wrong, what I’m about to do. I know it’s reckless and risky and the opposite of what I should be doing. A rational man would take the advice of his queen and stay out of the situation. But a man in love is not rational, especially not one prone to following his needs. And I need Amelia. I need to comfort her. I need to hold her. I need to feel her against me.

  The most willpower I can muster is to wait until the hunting party has left before I drive off from Balmoral.

  “Don’t do this,” my inner voice declares. “Don’t do this. If you do, it’ll be worse than anything you’ve done. If you do, it’ll be the ruin of you, of her, of the family.”

  I press the accelerator and head toward London. They can think of me as the bad prince all they want. Tonight, I plan to save a lady in distress.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lady Amelia

  Is it worth tearing down an institution to be free? As I watch the landscape whisk pass on the way to London, I try to predict what will happen next. Frederick will be angry at me for leaving. He’ll punish me with coldness, even as he concedes in his own way that the pictures were hurtful. He will refuse a retraction but offer an apology. But he won’t break up with me, not needing me the way he does. Neither leaving Balmoral in a huff nor making demands of the palace are big enough sins to end a relationship he needs.

  It will take a bigger sin.

  There was a reason I told the queen where I was going. My flat is private and seldom used. Will he fol
low me? Will Tristan come to me? Oh god, how I need him. I need the man who dared to defend me, the man who has dared to love me not once but twice. It’s reckless and stupid to say I love him. It’s reckless and stupid to want him.

  My flat has the smell of an apartment that’s gone stale from lack of use. That’s another reason I came here. The press, which is hungry for any candid shot of me ahead of the wedding, is always camped out near my parents’ estate. They know I stay there when I’m not with my future in-laws. They line the road to and from the front gates on some days, trying to catch a snap of me through the car window. No one is expecting me to come here, and I was borne home in a nondescript car.

  Outside my flat, the ordinary people of London go by with their ordinary lives. A couple leans into one another as they walk a short-legged terrier. Across the street, a man sits on a bench texting on his phone. The weather is overcast, but still nice enough for weekenders to enjoy a stroll or biking. At the end of the day, they will go home. Maybe the couple will make love and fall asleep with smiles on their faces. Maybe this walk was the only peaceful moment and they’ll fight before bedtime. But tomorrow, should they decide to part ways, they’ll have the freedom to do so. “This isn’t going to work,” one will say, and leave. How I envy that.

  I drag out a four-pack of cinnamon-scented candles and place one in each bedroom, one in the living room, and one in the kitchen. Then I change out of the dress I was wearing into a pair of jeans I haven’t worn since my engagement. I pair it with a soft sweater and walk into the kitchen to put on the kettle. That’s something else I miss—making tea for myself. I turn on the radio and listen to the headlines. The economy is big news, as always. More budget cuts, but a possible silver lining if economic projections hold. A storm is moving in from the west. It’ll be a rainy week for Londoners, the announcer says. Pack your wellies.