by Zoey Oliver
“Anyway, Abi does what she wants,” he continues. “My mother didn’t want her to attend university, thought it was a waste of time for a noble woman, but look how that turned out.”
Abi crosses the threshold of the doorway a moment later and disappears out of sight into the palace. I resist the urge to take off at a sprint, to run the length of the path in mere seconds and bolt up the marble steps just to keep her in view. I need a closer look, that’s for damn sure — and I’m going to get it, I don’t care how off-limits she is.
“I just find it odd that she’d jump straight from college to marriage. Doesn’t she want to do anything first? Travel? Have some fun? Maybe do something with her degree?”
Spencer kicks at the pebbles with his left foot then straightens up and lets out a big sigh. “I’m staying out of it. She’s an adult now, and this is what she wants, I guess. I’m just here to enjoy the festival, you know?”
I eye Spencer doubtfully, but let his comment go. Neither of us have ever been the festival-going type — especially not the overly formal Grand Harvest Festival, hosted annually by the royal family, going back more generations than I care to count.
As the King and Queen of Ostwyn, my parents are the current hosts, and they look forward to it every year— as they would, being the kind of people who revel in tradition and enjoy the pomp and circumstance of formal events. But the festival has never really been my cup of tea, nor Spencer’s. We usually skip as much of it as we can, except for the Black Diamond poker tournament.
But this year, rather than ducking out to a party in Doremont or heading off to one of the private clubs in Glogsten, I’ll act the part of my royal upbringing and be a gracious co-host when needed.
People have been arriving all week, flooding into the capital city for the festival. By the time the opening ceremonies commence in a few days’ time, the palace will cease to be a quiet place of refuge from the world and instead fill to the brim with guests and a jam-packed schedule of official events to preside over.
I’m facing thirty days of this relentless merriment — Grand Harvest is a month-long festival; precisely twenty-nine days too long for my taste.
But this time, a sweet little surprise has landed on my doorstep.
Perhaps I have been cooped up in solitude too long. Maybe it’s time to get back to doing what I do best, and flex my muscles, all of them. I could use a tasty diversion from this antiquated madness and Abigail looked absolutely delicious waltzing into my palace.
I bet she’ll look even better in my bed.
Chapter 2
ABIGAIL
I close the door to my suite and sag against it. The hard, cool surface feels nice on my back. I’ve been standing for eons, greeting visitor after visitor as they stopped by to say their hellos. “Please tell me that’s the last person for a while.”
My head assistant and best friend, Emily Morenzo, checks her phone. “I think so. That’s nearly everyone who’s arrived at the palace so far, according to the guest list, which the staff updated about an hour ago. But there will be more this evening.”
Striding into the adjoining bedroom, I look back at Emily. “Oh, I know. Believe me, I know.”
She gives me an empathic frown and tosses her phone on the chaise lounge. “It’s not too late to feign a dire illness. I’m happy to stand guard outside and warn everyone that you’ve got the plague or something.”
It’s a distinct possibility. Coming back home is like stepping a century or two back in time. If I were to claim sickness, it would be attributed to my frail female condition and the rigors of travel. Convincing Mom would be a different story. I reach the nearest window and begin tugging on the sash.
“Lovely thought, but I fear my mother would simply arrive with a biohazard suit and insist I join the activities, anyway.”
Emily snorts. “I can actually see that happening. What the Baroness wants, she gets. No stopping her.”
“Exactly. There’s no turning back at this point, unfortunately. Apparently, it’s been set in stone since before my birth.”
“So, what now? Would you like something to eat? Or shall I start unpacking your things?”
“Neither,” I say, tugging on the sash again. “Just come help me open this. I desperately need some fresh air. This room smells like mothballs and a century of dust.”
Emily joins me, and together we manage to get the stubborn sash to budge little by little, stubborn creak by stubborn creak, until the window is fully open, and a refreshing breeze is welcomed into the room. One by one, we open the remaining windows in the wide, spacious bedroom, all six of them.
“There,” she says when we’ve finished. “Better already. Well, the air is better, at least. Not so much anything else, unfortunately.”
As Emily commandeers the large desk in the corner of the sitting room and begins unpacking her laptop and a stack of files, I wander around the suite, a large, brightly decorated two-bedroom space in the north wing of the palace — my home for the next four weeks — looking at the paintings on the wall and nosing around in the drawers and cabinets.
Emily’s gaze roams around the room and she watches me with curiosity. She’s only a two years younger than I and I’ve grown to love her like a sister. We became fast friends many years ago after she took the position as my personal assistant just as I was beginning my university program. She’s never been to Pridemore Palace before. I’ve not visited here in all that time. Well, except for once, but Emily wasn’t with me then, and I didn’t stay long.
I feel heat rise across my cheeks as the memory of my brief visit flashes through my mind. I shake my head quickly, dismissing the vivid images. I’m sticking to my official story — this is my first return to Pridemore since I went off to boarding school. Otherwise, I’d have to explain why I came and went so quickly that day.
“I haven’t been here in seven years,” I say aloud. “It seemed so much bigger when I was a kid. Like I could get lost if I took a wrong turn.”
“I bet you were a real firecracker as a kid,” Emily says.
“How’d you know?” I ask with a smile. “I was a handful, that’s for sure. I used to hide in cabinets just like this one,” I say, nudging a long credenza with my foot.
My best friend tilts her head. “What for?”
“Oh, I was snooping on the adults. I loved sneaking about, spying on everyone. I made a game out it, pretended I was a detective.”
Emily smiles. “Abi, the case-cracking sleuth. I love it.”
I smile back, much more ruefully than Emily. “More like Annoying As Shit Abi. That’s what they called me. I would follow the boys down to the lake; they were the most fun to spy on. They were always up to no good.”
She raises her eyebrows at me. “The boys?”
I shake my head. “Just my brother and his friends.”
“Would this include the illustrious Prince Henry that I’ve heard so much about?”
I grab a throw pillow from the chaise and toss it at her. “Hey, I haven’t mentioned him that much.”
“Oooh, it’s not what you said. It’s how you said it. All dreamy-eyed and wistful.” Emily makes an over-the-top passionate face and raises her voice. “Oh, Prince Henry, you’re sooooo handsome.”
“You’re imagining stuff. I did no such thing.”
She throws herself across the desk with dramatic flair. “Henry, take me away… or just… take me. Please, now!”
“You are such a brat!” I say, but I’m already laughing so hard I have to lean against the credenza to catch my breath. “You make me sound like a silly teenager in a cheesy movie!”
Emily stands up, grinning ear to ear. “Well, you were a silly teenager then. Maybe you should revisit that before you get locked away in stuffy ball gowns and endless Ladies’ committee luncheons for the rest of eternity.”
I tilt my head, still trying to catch my breath. “What do you mean?”
“He’ll be here, right? Henry. This is his home. Maybe, I don’
t know… you have a fun little tryst. A secret tryst, of course.”
I give her a get-serious look. “That is not happening.”
“Abigail, you need to let loose a little. Please, for me — have some fun before you’re married to Sir Stiffass.”
“As enticing as a distraction sounds, he doesn’t think of me that way. I was just the obnoxious little sister, the very uncool, awkward girl who tried to tag along to everything and told on them when they wouldn’t let me join in. Truthfully, I really was a pest.”
“Abigail, Super Pest Detective. Your childhood story is really coming together in my head now,” Emily teases.
“In my defense, there wasn’t much to do around here as a teenager, except narc on other people or find creative ways to get into trouble. I chose the former, he chose the latter.”
“Well, maybe it’s time for you to choose the latter. You could use some… trouble. A nice, long, hard night of really big trouble. I mean, you know what they’ve said in the tabloids…”
My cheeks grow hot at her words. “Emily!”
She shrugs unapologetically. “I know you didn’t cut loose in college, Ms. Studious. So, you’re running out of time.”
I shake my head and walk to the closest window, hoping the cooling breeze will help return my cheeks to a normal shade. I look at her over my shoulder.
“You’ve read the papers, right? And watched all those celebrity gossip shows? Henry has women dripping off him like sugary icing on a hot cake. I’m surprised he can even manage to walk down the street without needing a police barricade with the sheer number of women throwing themselves at him. I’m sure — even if I were interested in such a thing, which I most certainly am not — that his social card is more than overflowing with plenty of ‘activities’ to keep him occupied.”
Emily sighs as I return to staring out the window. “You have a point. He is quite the playboy. But… never say never. It could happen…”
Her words ring in my mind. Soon, I’ll be saying forever and ever to some man my parents have picked out for me. Some guy eager to ensure his position of status and wealth. Some guy with the power to save my family from a sad fate simply with the words “I do.” He gets my family’s prestige and my hand in marriage, and my family gets to keep our titles and our ancestral home, Beauregard. It’s a story that goes back eons. These next three weeks, they aren’t about being wooed and falling madly in love with a handsome suitor.
I’m not here to be swept off my feet and kissed passionately, much less carry on like a starry-eyed teenager with a head full of lusty thoughts and impossible dreams. I’m here to make an important decision for the future of my family, to pick a husband and assume my duties as Lady Strathmore of Beauregard. My entire existence has come down to this, to uphold tradition and fulfill my responsibility to the estate.
My eye catches movement in the garden below. I look down and let out an audible gasp. Speak of the devil. Prince Henry, walking amongst the fall mums and late-season fruit trees with my brother.
Henry looks up at the sound of my gasp, searching along the exterior walls of the castle for the source of the noise. His face is so familiar and yet so different than I remember — even from here I can tell that the pictures I’ve seen in the press are true — time really has enhanced his smoldering good looks. His jawline is firmer, his cheekbones more chiseled than I remember.
His haircut is different than the most recent photos of him in the press. Gone is the length; now it’s much shorter, and is currently being tousled by the evening breeze just enough to give it that enchantingly messy just-woke-up look.
As I stare down at him, his eyes fixate on me. I quickly step back from the window, clutching my hands against my chest, vaguely aware that my heart has been skipping beats for the last few seconds.
After all these years, the mere sight of him can still take my breath away.
Emily’s right.
Whether I like it or not, I’m in trouble.
Big, big trouble…
Chapter 3
HENRY
Bright splashes of silk and satin swirl in every direction as gentlemen lead their partners across the grand space. A small orchestral band on one end of the ballroom is playing through a greatest hits list of classical dance music. People dressed in formalwear are milling about the edges of the room, sipping from dainty teacups and tall champagne flutes as they chat agreeably.
Speaking of formalwear, my tightly tailored pants — burgundy to match the fitted, gold jacket strewn with regal symbols in the form of ribbons and cords — are much more restrictive than the simple jeans I’ve grown fond of. While I can’t adjust, I do allow myself to pull at the high, tight collar of my jacket, pulling it away from my neck to get some breathing room, and my heated skin thanks me.
Standing around stiffly all day in colorful, tailored suits straight out of the nineteenth century, smiling graciously at people while making idle conversation about banal topics — these are things I’ve never enjoyed. But my father is ready to retire and I’m next to take the Crown, if I’m able to convince the Royal Council I’ve knocked off my notorious ways and am worthy of assuming the title of King.
The crowd gathered here tonight is a much different scene than the dance floors of the trendy nightclubs and private dives I frequent. Well, used to frequent.
Pounding music, pulsating lights, women wearing next to nothing, grinding against one another. Powerful men skulking about, eyeing each other warily, looking to establish dominance. Blowjobs and designer drugs passed around like party favors.
Every weekend was a string of sex, hundred-dollar shots, and unsavory behavior. I used to love it.
Now it’s just the memories of a former life, one that came with relentless media coverage and scandalous headlines. I didn’t use to care. Let them take their pictures and write their stories. It just brought in more women and more salacious connections. It was a life before my self-imposed seclusion. There are days I yearn for it — the excitement, the energy, the constant pursuit of pleasure. But tonight, here tonight in this ballroom, I don’t miss it.
None of it holds a candle to Abigail.
I watch her being swept across the dance floor — a study in elegance and beauty. She’s changed into a light blue ball gown with flowing layers. When she sashays across the dance floor, it’s like she’s channeling the waves of the ocean, the crystals on her gown sparkling in the lights like the kiss of sunshine on the sea.
An elbow nudges me in the left side, pulling my attention away from Abigail.
“Henry, the scotch in the study is calling my name,” Spencer says, his voice agitated. “Come on, man, let’s go.” He nods his head toward the intricately carved wooden double-doors under the arched entrance to the ballroom.
We’ve been here for over an hour, which is entirely my doing. I said we’d just stop by long enough to make a quick appearance then feign an excuse to leave as soon as possible.
But I didn’t expect to be so mesmerized by her. Abigail’s sweet smile and grace are enchanting, and I can’t bring myself to exit the room and retreat to the study where she’ll be far away from my sight.
Over the past hour, I’ve willingly entertained more conversations with visiting dignitaries than I normally tolerate in a year’s time and found numerous other excuses to stay, but Spencer is quickly reaching his limit. If he’s noticed my fixation with his little sister, he’s not letting on. But if I keep standing here gawking at her, it’s going to be painfully obvious — to him and everyone else in attendance.
Yet, I’m still dragging feet about leaving.
“I think I should dance at least once before I go. It seems the proper thing to do. It would please my mother, at the very least.”
Spencer lets out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, whatever. You do that. Meanwhile, no one expects anything from me, so I’m leaving. I’ll be in the study sampling your extensive collection of rare liquors, if you come to your senses and decide to depart from this ci
rcus show.”
“I’ll be there soon,” I promise, but the words feel empty even as I say them.
He makes his way through the onlookers clustered in groups around the edge of the room and through the arched doorway.
It’s a relief to see him go. I’d looked forward to his arrival, eager to catch up and reconnect with a good friend. But now that he’s here… things are different. I’ve realized I don’t have new, scintillating tales of conquest and wild stories to share. I don’t know what we’d talk about if I were to join him in the study.
I’m not the same man Spencer remembers — the guy who was up for anything, ready to keep the party going for a week straight, from trendy night club to some tech hipster’s penthouse to a mogul’s billion-dollar yacht, never slowing down, a different woman at every turn.
I return my attention to the activity in the room, and my eyes are immediately drawn to Abigail. My pulse races at the view — not just because she’s a sight to behold, but because she’s dancing with Finley Prescott.
Fucking Finley.
The arrogant, conniving bastard who’s been trying to out-do me since birth. The man who would behead his own mother if he thought it’d help him gain a smidgen of power. The man I wouldn’t piss on if he were on fire.
It shouldn’t surprise me that he’s here — of course my parents invited him. He’s managed to deceive most everyone into thinking he’s God’s gift to the court, a noble man of fine breeding and impeccable character. His family has risen precipitously over the last couple generations, thanks mostly to the small fortune they have accrued. I’m one of the few who knows who he really is and his current proximity to Abigail is enough to set me on high alert.
My jaw tightens as I watch him lean in and whisper something to Abigail. Her eyes go wide, and she pulls back from him a bit, but he leans in again. God, I hate everything about that man. What others pass off as his smile, I know is a sneer; what they call charisma, I recognize as aggression. His hand slides down Abigail’s waist, getting dangerously close to the curve of her ass. Her eyes dart to the side, and she stiffens.