by Emma Chase
The congregation stands and double doors open, and there in the center . . . there she is.
Wrapped in snow-white satin and lace, snug around her waist, long in the back, elegant through the shoulders and down her arms . . . she shines like an angel fresh from heaven. There’s a lace veil over her face, so I can’t make out her features yet, but the tiara on her head—a new one of emerald and diamonds that was commissioned just for this day—winks and sparkles as she walks. Alone.
Because she’s not being given away. She’s giving herself.
As she glides down the aisle to me, I press my hand to the breast of my shirt pocket, feeling the hard ridge of my brother’s glasses, and I send my whispered words out across the ether.
Thank you, Thomas.
Thank you for bringing us together. For seeing what my destiny could be before I did.
I was made for this . . . for her. To cherish her, protect her and challenge her, to guide her and follow her—to be the man she needs, so she can be the woman, the queen, she was always meant to be.
At last, she arrives by my side, facing me.
Slowly, I lift her veil, revealing the shimmer of her diamond eyes, the rose hue of her porcelain cheek, the delicate china of her tiny nose, and the soft swell of her pink lips. My voice is low, so only she can hear my whisper of rapturous awe.
“Dear God, Lenny . . . you take my breath away.”
Her answering smile is worshipful and lovely.
I offer her my arm, and she threads her lace-covered limb through mine, and we turn toward the altar and step up together to the Archbishop. The cathedral is bursting with thousands of guests—the wedding is televised, so there are millions more watching—but when the time for vows comes, it’s just she and I . . . Lenora and Edward. In this moment, together.
Surrounded by the glow of candlelight and the sweet scent of lilies, we look into each other’s eyes and pledge our lives—ourselves—to one another.
“I, Edward Langdon Richard Dorian Rourke, take thee, Lenora . . .”
“I, Lenora Celeste Beatrice Arabella Pembrook, take thee, Edward . . .”
“. . . to be my wife,”
“. . . to be my husband,”
“to have . . .”
“and to hold . . .”
“from this day forward . . .”
“for better or worse . . .”
“for richer, for poorer . . .”
“in sickness and in health . . .”
“to honor and cherish . . .”
“to honor and cherish . . .”
“till death shall we part.”
“till death shall we part.”
We slide simple bands of gold onto each other’s fingers, and it’s as though the words, the pledge, the promise is being wrung from the depths of our souls.
“All that I am is yours . . .”
“All that I am is yours . . .”
“all that I have, I give to you . . .”
“all that I have, I give to you . . .”
“with my body, I honor you . . .”
“with my body, I honor you . . .”
“within the sacred laws of man . . .”
“and the love of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.”
“Amen.”
“Amen.”
The Archbishop clears his throat, and his voice echoes through the cathedral as he proclaims, “I now pronounce, henceforth, that they be man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”
I may . . . and I really, really must. Can’t wait another damn second.
I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her in close. I cup her cheek and bend my head and kiss my beautiful wife. Our lips move together with passion and tenderness, but more than that—with joy.
Then, to the sounds of the congregation’s applause, we walk together back down the aisle. Security didn’t want us riding in the open-topped carriage, because of the earlier attempt on Lenora’s life, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted. The people will want to see us, celebrate with us, she said.
And when my stubborn girl makes up her mind, it’s futile to resist.
So I take her hand and lead her down the stone steps of the cathedral, through a hail of falling white petals. I help her step up into the cherrywood carriage and climb in behind her. Together we ride through the streets toward the reception at the palace, waving to our people, who are overjoyed for us.
And this time . . . I don’t mind the waving one bit.
ALMOST THE ENTIRE FIRST HALF of my and Edward’s wedding reception is spent taking photographs. Official photographs, private photos, portraits, exclusive photos for the press, shots with us together, shots with us alone, shots with the full wedding party and parts of the wedding party . . . photos with the page boys and flower girls. The marriage of a queen is a once-in-a-lifetime event, a historical occasion, so it’s to be expected.
Photos are a royal’s full-time job.
Finally, Edward and I are permitted to go to the party. We dance and drink wine and feed each other cake. And still the cameras capture each moment.
And then I’m whisked away from him—one final time—to get a few shots on the balcony, in my dress with the setting sun behind me. I step back into the magnificent ballroom and a voice comes from my right.
“You look very happy, Chicken.”
I walk to him, where he leans against the large, round marble column.
“I am, Alfie. If all arranged marriages ended up like this, every royal should have one.”
He chuckles and the wonderful, jolly man who has been such a kind constant in my life shines his sparkling blue gaze down on me.
“He would be so proud of you . . . for so many reasons.”
My throat tightens and my eyes grow warm with emotion.
“You have already surpassed all he hoped for you.”
I put my hand on his arm, his shoulder, squeezing.
“Thank you, dear Alfie.”
I wander around the ballroom, nodding to guests and returning their well wishes—looking for my new husband.
My husband.
How in the world did that happen? Just the words in my head make my arms and legs go giddy and my stomach tumble with simmering desire.
Edward is much different at large functions than I am. My father would’ve said he’s good at “working a room.” He’s confident, jovial—an entertaining host and easy conversationalist. The type who’s never had an awkward moment.
Which is why I think nothing of it when I spot him chatting it up with an attractive, tall blond woman across the way. I’ve never seen her before, but as I get closer I see she seems to be just a bit older than me . . . except there’s an air of worldliness about her. Of experience.
And then I hear their voices.
“We can sneak off right now—I’m quick but talented; you won’t regret it.”
“You’re embarrassing yourself. And you’re barking up a very wrong tree.”
“Perhaps not for long. They say the Queen is as cold as—”
Edward’s harsh voice chokes off her reply. “Not another fucking word.”
A fire rages, right near my heart. Maybe it’s because I’ve never known this kind of happiness, so I’ve never thought about what I would do to protect it. To keep it. Turns out, I would do a hell of a lot.
They notice me—she notices me, and bows.
“Your Majesty. It’s—”
“Don’t ‘Your Majesty’ me—who the hell do you think you are? Or more importantly, who the hell do you think I am?”
Her eyes dart around the room, filling with mortification.
“You think you can walk in here—into my palace, my wedding—and proposition my husband right under my nose? That I’m the type of woman who will let that go unanswered?”
I don’t hiss, because I’m not a snake or a cat—my words are careful, calculated and completely committed, because I’m a queen.
I snatch her wrist in my grip. “Try to take what’s min
e again and I will burn everything you love to the ground. And then . . . I will burn you to the ground. Now go.”
I turn away, dismissing her as she scurries off. And that’s when I see that I may have been louder than I realized. Because they’re all there—dignitaries, the Prime Minister, the Archbishop, the Advising Council—looking at me, and judging by their expressions, they all heard me.
I cross my arms and lift my nose.
“I’m not sorry. Not even a little.”
Edward laughs . . . and it warms me right down to my toes. Then he takes me in his arms and kisses me—deep and lusty—bending me back into a full dip. And that gets the attention of the whole ballroom. There are gasps, several murmurs of approval and more than one camera flash.
It’s just like a movie.
Or a fairy tale.
Toward the end of the reception, I change into an ivory traveling outfit with gold filigree with matching gloves and cap, and Edward swaps his uniform for a blue button-down shirt and navy jacket, without a tie. We say our goodbyes to the crowd at the palace gates and climb into a Rolls-Royce, in a burst of flashing camera bulbs. We arrive at the airport hangar where the royal private jet awaits to take us to our island honeymoon.
Once we’re seated in the soft leather seats, it’s as if my limbs are weighed down by a hundred pounds and my eyelids have completely thrown in the towel.
I yawn big and wide.
“It was a long day,” Edward says, toying with the netting on my cap.
“It was,” I agree, even though it’s technically only eight in the evening. “A long, lovely day.”
He kisses my forehead and gently pushes my head to his shoulder. “Sleep now. I have plans for you—for an even longer, lovelier night, and I want you well rested.”
Everything warms—my cheeks, my stomach, my heart. And that’s the last thought I have, before dreamless sleep swallows me whole.
“Wake up, Lenora,” a melodic voice calls, pulling me to consciousness. Then it goes dirty with suggestion. “Open your eyes, Lenny, and I’ll give you a kiss.”
My eyes pop open straight away.
Smirking like the devil he is, Edward pecks my lips and wiggles his eyebrows. “I’ll give you a proper kiss later. We’ve landed—the car’s waiting.”
“Oh. What time is it?”
“Just after one in the morning.”
I stretch my arms, and check my hair and makeup in the mirror. Then I stand and bump into the long, fluffy coat Edward is holding open for me.
“Put this on,” he says. He’s wearing one too.
“What in the world?”
That’s when the cabin door opens and a whirl of frigid air bursts through it. I blink as I look out the door—at the dark sky and giant white mounds of snow that surround us.
Maybe I’m still asleep.
“This . . . doesn’t look like Saint Augustine’s Island.”
Edward nods. “There’s been a change of plans.”
“Where are we?”
“It’s a surprise. You’ll see.”
And something in the way he says it makes my stomach flip with excitement. I slide into the coat and Edward gestures toward the plane door.
“After you, Your Majesty.”
The car is heated when we climb in, with a thermos of rich hot chocolate waiting for us. We slip our coats off and drive for about an hour, on winding roads flanked by big, tall, snowy evergreen trees.
Edward pulls a black silk scarf from his pocket and holds it up.
“We’re almost there. I want you to put this on.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Kinky.”
Edward told me all about “kinky” a few nights ago. Very intriguing.
His strong lips slide into a chuckle, then he wraps the scarf around my eyes, blocking out my vision completely. Moments later the car rolls to a stop. I feel the brisk wind on my legs when the door is opened, and Edward’s large, warm hand envelops mine as he guides me out of the car.
“Don’t let me fall,” I tell him.
“Never,” he says, against my ear, before sweeping me right off my feet, into his arms. I rest my hands around Edward’s neck as he carries me.
It’s only later that I realize that through all of Edward’s surprises and changing of plans, the kinky silk scarves, and the carrying me around . . . I never hesitated. I never questioned or worried that he would allow me to be hurt or embarrassed.
I never doubted him for a moment.
The temperature changes again, and though I can’t see, I hear a door close behind us and I know we’re inside. I’m set on my feet and the coat is stripped away.
Edward unties the scarf and slides it from my eyes.
And my breath leaves me in a rush.
Because it’s a bedroom, but the ceiling is curved, domed—it and the full wall in front of me are made entirely of clear glass.
We’re on a hillside, covered by snow and dense forest. But above us, the sky is jet black . . . except for a river of the most magnificent colors. Swirls of greens and reds and deep purple—all dancing together. What did Edward call it in his letter, so long ago? A living symphony of color.
Aurora borealis.
“We’re in Finland,” Edward says from behind me. “This is called the North House. There are smaller, simpler cabins down the hill for rent, but you don’t have to worry—I’ve bought them all out too. I’ll make a campfire for you, outside if you like. It’s just us here, now. Just you and I.”
And it’s all . . . so much. A flood of feeling washes through me, drowning me, and I put my hand over my mouth but I can’t keep it in. And I burst into great, heaving tears.
Edward takes me in his arms, holding me as I shudder with sobs.
“Don’t cry, Lenny.”
And I try to explain, to make him understand.
“I never thought I would have this.”
He tips my head back, wiping at my tears. “Aurora borealis?”
“You.” I grip his shirt and look up into those beautiful eyes. “I never thought I would have you. I never even let myself hope for you, dream for you, and yet somehow here you are. You have changed my whole life, Edward. You’ve changed me, and I couldn’t do this alone.”
He smiles gently and strokes my face. “Yes, you could.”
“But I wouldn’t be me, not who I am now. I would be some other, emptier version of me.” Another tear falls and another, and my voice breaks. “You are my joy and my heart . . . you are my home . . . and I would be lost without you.”
He holds my face tight in his hands, and his words are low and forceful. “You will never be lost. I will be with you always. The vows were wrong. When death comes, he can have my body . . . but my soul will stay with you, I swear it.”
And my heart is so very full, so full of all that he has given me and all that I feel for him.
SLOW, SLOW, SLOW . . .
It’s a mantra in my mind, a reminder. A restraint.
Because, God damn, how I want her. Not even in my wildest, most selfish adolescent days did I want to take and take a woman like I want to take her.
Wild and hard, lazy and long.
I kiss her soft lips, and touch her face, and move us backwards toward the bed. And Lenny looks up at me, her eyes round and silver as the moon, and she reaches for my shirt, opening the buttons one at a time. She may be the innocent, inexperienced one, but when she pushes my shirt off and skims her hands across the burning skin of my chest . . . and follows those hands with her velvet kisses . . . I’m the one trembling.
I may not be a king, but here, now—she makes me feel like one.
More than a king—her hero, her husband, her mesmerized slave, her ravenous lover—it’s all the same now. All wrapped up together.
Lenora’s mouth trails down my stomach and her torturous wet tongue traces the ridges of my abdomen. My hands clench tight at my sides—yearning to grab and tug and pinch and cup.
But I let her have her way—let her explore and taste
until her sweet heart is content.
She bites her lip and pauses at my navel, suddenly unsure.
But then my little Queen rises to the occasion . . . and sinks down on her lovely knees just for me.
And, fuck, my cock aches at the sight.
My trousers are opened and the belt slid out with the hiss of leather. Then quickly, like she just can’t wait for it, Lenny pulls my trousers down my hips, freeing my hot, rock-hard flesh. I step out of the pool of fabric at my ankles and I feel her needy, keening breaths against my thighs.
She grips my dick in her delicate hands and slides her palm firmly up the shaft, just like I taught her. Lenora wets her lips, opens her mouth and takes me in the fantastically wet, scorching cavern of her mouth, where she worships me with tight suction.
My head rolls back on my neck and my eyes close and I can’t fucking watch her anymore, or I’ll come on her tongue.
She moans around me—I hear it, I feel it.
And my control stretches to a tenuous, razor-thin thread.
I grip her arms and yank her up—harder than I should. I kiss her until she can’t breathe, can’t think—sucking on those velvet lips, grazing them with my teeth, dominating her with the thrust of my tongue.
And my heart pounds in my ears, slow, slow, slow . . .
I undo the pearl buttons of Lenora’s suit jacket and slip it off. Her arms are lithe and long. Delicate. I raise them straight up over her head as I breathe deeply. I look into her simmering eyes and let her see the bare, raw desire in mine. How much I adore her—how blessed I am that she’s mine.
I skim my palms down her bare arms. Then down her sides, stroking the pale flesh of her breasts with my thumbs along the way.
The skirt is gone next. I get on my knees and slide it down her legs, leaving Lenora only in a thin ivory satin slip. I kiss her stomach on my way up, the lilac-scented valley between her silken breasts. My large hands slide up her thighs, pushing the slip over her head—so she’s bare to my eyes . . . to my heart.