Royally Yours

by Emma Chase

  And then suddenly, D-Day is here.

  Or more to the point . . . the night before D-Day. Both Edward and I are in the palace, but we might as well be in two separate countries. He’s spending the evening with the male relatives and lords who have a role in the wedding. They’re in the private library on one side of the palace, while I’m stuck with my bloody batty aunts, cousins and other female relations in the music room on the other side.

  The men get cigars, liquor and probably stag films . . . while we ladies get tea and crumpets and a private performance from a renowned female opera singer.

  But tradition is tradition. And this is who we are—so this is who we must be.

  When the opera singer concludes her last song, the sky is black from the moon being snuffed out by heavy clouds. We all clap gently.

  And now begins the mind-numbingly polite, pointless chatting portion of the evening.

  “Where will you and Prince Edward be honeymooning, Your Majesty?” Matilda, my uncle Warwitch’s wife, asks.

  Edward received his new title last week—Prince of Wessco—in a ceremony he would’ve missed if he’d had his way. But he attended because it was expected.

  He attended for me.

  “Saint Augustine’s. A small, privately owned island off the Dutch coast.”

  There’s a sparking flash of white in the sky outside the large arched window. Lightning.

  “And do you have all your unmentionables packed for your new husband to enjoy?” my cousin Calliope—the one who told a “fictional” story about a young queen’s death by poisoned wedding cake earlier—asks me.

  “The staff is taking care of the packing,” is my non-answer reply—a trick I learned from my father.

  Because the answer is yes. I wanted delicate and beautiful lingerie, but I also wanted things that were meant to be torn, shredded. Articles that would shatter Edward’s self-control—that would make him feel wild, like he makes me feel.

  When I needed advice on choosing such things, I was sure just whom to go to. And when I did, Miriam flung her arms around me and exclaimed, “I knew you were my sister!”

  But I’m not going to tell any of these women that. Because they aren’t my friends—most I barely know and those that I do, I don’t like at’all.

  A burst of thunder rattles the window, turning my head again.

  And I realize there’s somewhere else—somewhere infinitely better—I could be, right now.

  I pop up from my chair. “I have to go.”

  From across the room, my sister desperately mouths the words, Take me with you. And then she winks at a waiter, clearing drinks from the table.

  “Go where?” asks Lady Dorchester—the most notorious gossip in the Wessco aristocracy.

  “I . . . ah—”

  “Urgent government business.” Cora Barrister comes to my rescue. “We just got the call. Very urgent. The Queen must go.” She turns to me, a knowing look in her sparkling blue eyes. “You must go straight away, Your Majesty.”

  “Yes.” I take Cora’s hand, squeezing. “Thank you, Cora.”

  The thunder crashes outside the window again.

  “Until tomorrow, Ladies.”

  They each dip their head to me as I make for the door. In the outer hall, I kick off my shoes, pick them up . . . and I run. I run through the halls of the palace and I don’t stop running until I get to the other side. To the library.

  I don’t knock—I don’t have to. There’s a guard outside, and I’m the bloody Queen, so he opens the door for me. The library is filled with deep chattering voices and thick ashy smoke. It’s so thick, Edward spots me before I spot him.

  “Lenora?”

  That brings the attention of the men in the room straight to me. They all bow and immediately stop talking. Automatically, my back straightens and my face slides into neutral.

  “Pardon the interruption. There is a matter I must speak with Prince Edward about.”

  Edward follows me out into the hall.

  “Leave us,” I tell the guard.

  “What’s the matter, Lenny?” He cups my jaw. “You’re all flushed.”

  I glance at the door to the library. “Are you . . . enjoying yourself?”

  “Not even a little. If I have to spend five more minutes talking to those pompous wankers, I’m going to climb up, take your great-uncle Ethelbert’s historical gun off the wall and shoot them all.”

  I nod, chuckling. “There’s something I want to show you. But we must hurry or we’ll miss it.”

  Edward gestures for me to wait and steps back inside the door. “Gentlemen, there is urgent wedding business that needs my attention. But . . . the bar is stocked, the cigars are plentiful, so please carry on and enjoy yourselves. Good evening.”

  He comes back out into the hall, arms open. “I’m all yours.”

  I take his hand. “Come on, then.”

  And we both run. I lead him down the hall of portraits, where dozens of my ancestors watch over us, and then passed the Capella Suite—the room where I and all my siblings were born. Finally, we reach the narrow white door at the very end of the Eggshell Hallway—named after the wallpaper that gives the appearance of cracked eggshells.

  “Where are we going, Lenny?” Edward asks.

  “You’ll see.”

  Behind the door is a winding staircase with narrow brick walls and no windows. And I lead Edward up and up and up, until finally . . . we’re there. We exit through another door at the top and walk out onto the roof of the Palace of Wessco. It hasn’t started raining yet but the breeze is cool and clouds are low. I spin in a giddy circle before him, the air crackling with electricity and static all around us.

  Then, grasping Edward’s hand, I point to the sky a bit farther out from where we stand. “Watch . . . there.”

  And as if I commanded it, the lightning flashes in a jagged, bright line of white against the pitch-black sky. Another strike comes just a few seconds later—tinting the clouds in dark purple. And then another, and another in hues of orange and pink. Because the palace is so high, every strike of lightning is visible for miles around. It’s a light show—nature’s fireworks. A few seconds later, the thunder booms so loud I feel it in my bones.

  Edward smiles at the sky. “It’s beautiful. Amazing.”

  “I used to come up here when I was a little girl. When I was . . . well . . . when I was lonely. I would watch the lightning and feel the thunder tremble and I knew there were others, seeing and feeling the very same thing. And it made me feel—not alone.”

  He turns to me, his features tight and his eyes bright—burning with emotion.

  “You were the first person I thought of when I saw the storm,” I tell him over another boom of thunder. The vibration rattles beneath our feet. “The first person I wanted to share it with . . . the only person. I wanted you to know that.”

  He takes my face in his hands and slants his mouth across mine. I can taste desire on his tongue—feel his need, his want for me, with every press of his lips. The bristles of Edward’s stubble tickle my cheek as our mouths move and meld. The kiss is hot and hurried, and then with the next great burst of thunder . . . the kiss becomes very, very wet.

  The rain shower pours down over us, slicking our clothes to our skin, drenching our hair, our bodies, our fused lips.

  Edward presses his forehead to mine and the water runs in little rivulets down his cheek.

  “Come to my room.”

  I nod, because I would go anywhere with Edward.

  And it’s such a big change from who I was just a few short months ago. And yet, following him feels like the rightest thing I’ve ever done.

  We run through the pouring rain down to Guthrie House. In the foyer, we don’t wait for the staff to bring us towels, but instead go right up to Edward’s bedroom.

  I try to wipe the water off my face and arms with my hands.

  “You’re always getting me wet.”

  Edward comes up behind me, with a towel in hi
s hands, chuckling, “I do seem to have that effect on you.”

  He rubs the towel over my arms, my neck, patting my dripping hair. I feel his mouth right up against my ear, and I shiver at the promise in his voice.

  “We need to get you out of these clothes.”

  I glance back at him over my shoulder. “It buttons down the back. Will you help me?”

  He smirks, making my knees go wobbly. Slowly, he undoes the buttons of my mint-green dress, one by one. “It’s my honor to serve my Queen.”

  His rich voice is so smooth and decadent, I can’t even tell if he’s joking.

  When I step out of my dress, Edward shakes it and hangs it on the back of the chair to dry. He’s much less careful with his own clothes—his shirt ends up in a slapping wet heap on the floor, before it’s joined by his trousers.

  And Edward is naked and I’m practically naked, but there is no shyness. No awkwardness or anxiousness.

  I gaze at the impressive, hard erection between his legs . . . and I am not ashamed to want it. Crave it. Desperately. To want to touch his cock with my hands, my fingers, my mouth, my tongue—touch him everywhere and for a very long time. The thought creates a throbbing ache low in my stomach—because I yearn to feel his touch in return.

  It’s just like Edward said . . . we’re going to belong to each other.

  But I think we already do.

  “There’s something I want to show you,” Edward says.

  But he doesn’t move, and neither do I. We look into each other’s eyes, like we’re reading each other’s minds. Because the next thing I know, we’re pressed right up against each other, arms wrapped around each other.

  Edward bends his neck, kissing me furiously, greedily.

  “Fuck, I’ve missed you.”

  I taste rainwater on his lips.

  “I think about you every night,” I confess between kisses.

  “So do I,” Edward says. “If I think about you any more, I’m going to jerk my dick right off.”

  I convulse in his arms, laughing wildly.

  “It’s not funny. I’m not joking,” Edward insists, backing me up toward the bed—a dangerous, predatory glint in his eyes. “It’s a very serious matter.”

  He lifts me under my arms, onto the bed. I’m on my knees, eye level with him, my arms on his shoulders, and slowly our laughter fades away.

  Edward looks down between us and sighs as he traces the waist of my black silk knickers. “I like these.”

  His hand skims up my waist, slipping a finger under the strap of my bra. “But this . . .” He shakes his head mournfully and clicks his tongue. “This monstrosity has got to go.”

  He makes quick work of the clasp and slides the satin down my arms—tossing it over his shoulder. And then he stares at my breasts, like he’s hypnotized. He cups one in his large hand—rubbing the nipple with his palm.

  My head rolls on my neck. “What’s this lesson called?” I moan.

  He licks his lips. “This lesson is called, your tits are beautiful and if I don’t get my mouth on them right now, I’m going to go mad.”

  And then he’s kissing me, climbing on the bed with me, laying me back and sliding on top of me. And the weight of him—the feel of his taut, tan chest pressing down on me—is electric. Heavenly.

  Edward kisses down my neck, then lower still over my collarbone. He holds my breast up for his mouth—his lips closing around my nipple with a groan. And then I can’t hear anything except the sound of my own gasps and my own pounding heart.

  “Oh . . . oh . . . yes . . . please . . .”

  The feel of Edward’s sucking mouth, his swirling wet tongue, robs me of all my senses. He licks his way over to my other breast—palming and pinching the first as he laves and flicks at my nipple.

  I feel the hard ridge of his cock—hot and big—between my legs. Pressing against me. Sliding up and down against the tight cleft of my opening—separated only by a thin, shifting, strap of silk.

  “Edward—?”

  “We won’t.” He kisses my breasts, nibbles around the soft swells. “It’s all right, Lenny. Not yet—I promise.” His breath is warm and minty on my face as he lifts up onto his elbows and smooths my hair, looking down at me with so much affection in his eyes.

  “Trust me.”

  I cover his hand with mine and twine my leg around his—pulling him closer.

  “I do. I trust you.”

  And my body goes loose and lax with that trust. Edward shifts his hips, thrusting up—he doesn’t penetrate me, but his erection slides up and down against my knickers, between my lower lips. I’m slippery and warm from the rubbing, gliding, wet friction. His hips retreat, then push back again, and the hard head of his cock glides back and forth right over my clitoris, igniting a spike of hot pleasure that tears through me. I tingle everywhere and burn for more.

  “Oh . . . oh . . .”

  Edward holds my gaze while his hips circle again and again. “Yes?”

  “Yes,” I gasp. “Oh, yes . . .”

  “Do you want to stop?”

  “No,” I pant.

  His hard cock hits that spot again, and my back arches and my muscles clench—to get closer. To get more.

  “Don’t stop, Edward.” My voice is keening, shameless.

  Edward drops his forehead to the pillow beside me, and as his hips pump wilder—harsher—his breath bites out in pants against my neck.

  He palms my bottom, pulling me against him—giving me more, taking me farther, higher. “Move with me, love. Yes . . . just like that.”

  My arms clutch at him and my hips rotate—matching his thrusts. Edward turns his head, slanting his mouth over mine, sucking on my tongue. And the beautiful sensation is rising, filling me with feeling. Like I could burst with bliss.

  And then I do. And Edward bursts with me. I feel his hot semen on my stomach, and his grunts in my ear.

  “Fuck, fuck . . . fuck . . .”

  The masculine carnal sounds of his release feed my own and I moan into his shoulder, pressing my teeth against his skin as the pulsing pleasure wracks through me—and I go tight and stiff beneath him. Both of us taking and giving and feeling the rapture of the moment together.

  Later, after Edward has gotten a cloth from the washroom and cleaned us both up, and we lie in a heap of tangled limbs in his bed, he presses his lips to my temple.

  “This isn’t why I brought you to my room, I swear.” He thinks on his words, and then rephrases. “Well . . . it’s not the only reason.”

  I smile. “Yes, you said you wanted to show me something.”

  He kisses my forehead, then slips from the bed. I sit up so I can watch him cross the room. I admire his tapered waist, the hard swell of his arse, and how the muscles in his back ripple as he moves.

  There was a time I thought God had forsaken me. But looking at the bare perfection of this man, I realize . . . I must be God’s most favorite person ever.

  I pull the blanket over my shoulders and shift to sit on the side of the bed, my feet hanging off. Edward opens his top bureau drawer, takes something out and walks back to me, crouching down.

  His hair falls forward into his eyes, and his grin makes him look young and boyish and so very handsome. “Give me your hand.”

  I hold my hand out to him and he slides the ring—his mother’s ring—off my finger.

  Then he walks over and throws it out the window.

  “Edward!”

  “Don’t argue with me about this. That ring is cursed.”

  He comes back to me, and this time he doesn’t crouch down.

  He kneels.

  Edward flips the box open and inside is a ring—a perfect pearl surrounded by small glittering diamonds on a gold band.

  “Edward!” I gasp. “Is this your pearl?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “It’s your pearl now.”

  He takes the ring from the box, holding it between his fingers. His voice is rough and his eyes are tender. “Will you marry me, Le
nora? Will you be my wife and let me be your husband? Not because your kingdom demands it, but because you want to?”

  I’ve never been a crier, but it looks like that may be changing too. Because tears well in my eyes and blessed happiness clogs my throat.

  “Yes, I will marry you, Edward, because I want to. And because I think my favorite title will soon be that I am Yours.”

  He slides the ring on my finger and lets out a shout of joy. I laugh as he lifts me up, wrapping my legs around his waist and slanting his mouth across mine in a deep, sweet kiss that goes on and on.

  And it’s perfect. A moment of perfect, pure happiness. The kind you remember and look back on and cherish your whole life.

  But those moments of pure happiness are much like the cherry blossoms Thomas and I once admired in the garden. They’re so beautiful when they come, but you have to enjoy them while you can . . . because they don’t last forever.

  “ARE YOU NERVOUS?” Michael Fitzgibbons asks, in the vestibule behind the altar in St. George’s Cathedral. In the last months he and I have become very close—good friends—and there was no one else I could imagine asking to stand beside me as my best man today.

  I snort. “No.”

  “Most grooms are usually terrified the day of the wedding,” he says. “And this is bigger than most weddings.”

  I peer out the door—celebrities and royals and businessmen of every stripe pack the pews. Cameramen are stationed in the chorus box to convey every moment to the thirsty public. Outside on the pavement you can’t even move through the throngs of people waiting for a glimpse of her . . . of us . . . wanting to be a part of this day.

  “I just want to get it over with. Have her be mine, officially.”

  Michael smiles impishly. “The Queen’s a keeper, yeah?”

  The anxious palace events secretary, the one in charge of this whole show, scurries into the room. “The Queen has arrived outside. Places, please, Prince Edward, Lord Michael.”

  I tap Michael on the back. “She certainly is that.”

  I stand at the altar, in my officer’s military uniform, spine straight, arms folded behind my back, the perfect image of a storybook prince. The music begins—the mournful notes of a piano first, then bagpipes, then strings and horns . . . all building and swirling together into a surging rendition of the bridal march.