Royal Pain

by Megan Mulry

  Max had bristled at that part of their deal way more than she would have anticipated. She had seen his tiny studio apartment down in Hyde Park near the UC campus and it certainly didn’t look like he had a ton of dough to spare. His clothes were immaculate, but she assumed he was just naturally fastidious. He didn’t have a car. He was a student for chrissake. He didn’t need to be saddled with the expense of entertaining her.

  “No need to get peevish,” she laughed. “I suppose it won’t kill me to let you buy me dinner. Just don’t get cocky.”

  “Too late for that, I’d wager.”

  Bronte laughed again then told him she’d see him the following night. The following night—she turned the words over in her mind after she hung up the phone. She was hoping that the intervening week of heavy petting at the movies and in the park and at Navy Pier and anywhere else they could get their hands on each other meant that she was no longer a flat-out slut for wanting to actually have proper sex with him after their proper meal.

  What would Kate Middleton do? The silly rejoinder popped into her mind. She’d been so immersed in all the royal wedding commotion the year before—for work, of course, keeping her finger on the pulse of contemporary culture and all that. At least that’s what she’d told herself. The truth was that Bronte simply loved all of the fairy-tale romance mixed with modern glamour and a real-life happily ever after. The footage she had seen of Charles and Diana’s wedding had seemed surreal, with the virginal Diana looking like a newborn calf being led to slaughter. Kate, on the other hand, looked like a woman who was about to get exactly what she’d always wanted—while wearing killer clothes.

  Royal gazing had been one of Bronte’s favorite pastimes since she was a teenager. A harmless habit. But with the onset of her own happily never after, Bronte had forced herself to remove all the royal tabs from the top of her computer screen and all the royal watchers from her Twitter stream. She’d thrown in the towel on romance altogether. Tough-as-nails single gals in Chicago did not have time to lurk around the Internet checking the length of Pippa’s coat or whether Eugenie was wearing her hair down or in a chignon these days. (Three-quarters length and down, of course. Pertinent facts had a way of filtering into Bronte’s psyche, as if by osmosis, via the collective unconscious. Some things just couldn’t be helped.)

  As Bronte sat at her desk daydreaming about what Kate would wear on her first proper date—and whether or not she would take it off after dinner—she overheard Cecily’s side of one of her frequent conversations with her best friend, Giacomo Pietrello, and nearly fell off her chair. After Cecily hung up, Bronte marched into her boss’s immaculate office.

  “Are you insane?”

  “Probably… but about what in particular?” Cecily grinned.

  “About choosing not to take perfectly good Valentino castoffs, for example.” Giacomo was one of Valentino’s top designers in their New York atelier. “You are not the only size eight in the world who might benefit from such manna from heaven, you know? You might think of the little people every once in a while!” While Bronte was venting her sartorially jealous spleen, Cecily had picked up the phone and hit her speed dial. She spoke in quick Italian, laughed, and hung up.

  “A little red dress is on its way. It will be here tomorrow afternoon in time for your proper date.” Cecily raised one eyebrow then flipped her hand toward the door with a smile. “And you are a size six, not an eight. Now out!”

  Bronte tried to remain calm, but it was impossible. Even Kate would have let the same little squeal of delight escape at the thought of an honest-to-goodness Valentino red dress to call her very own.

  And, oh, how Max ended up loving that little red dress.

  It was hard to say which one of them had been more flummoxed by the other’s transformation. Having only seen each other in a parade of T-shirts and jeans for the previous days and weeks, when Max opened the door to Bronte’s flat and saw her in the little red Valentino dress, he clasped both hands over his heart, as if to stave off an attack. Bronte was similarly stunned by Max in full, debonair splendor. His broad shoulders and trim waist were even more appealing in his perfectly tailored navy suit, a few curls of brown hair touched the collar of his crisp white shirt, and he had finished it off with a pale-green Hermès tie. (They were going to have fun with that tie later, Bronte promised herself.)

  Max hired a car and driver to chauffeur them around for the night, and Bronte winced slightly at the needless expense. He called her out.

  “If you are constitutionally unable to enjoy spending a little bit of dosh on a night out, we need to have a talk.”

  She laughed and decided, for one night at least, to let go of her financial hang-ups. “Fine! All right! I give in. Go ahead and spend. I’ll do my best to turn a blind eye to all this wild extravagance.” He obviously wasn’t the starving student she thought he was if that suit was any indication.

  Max looked out the window of the relatively grimy dial-a-car and hid his amusement at Bronte’s idea of extravagance. She was in for a few surprises when she came to London. And it was definitely when she came, because as far as Max was concerned, there was no if about it.

  They arrived at a small French restaurant and Bronte gave a brief note of thanks to the powers that be that she had never been wined and dined by any Texan suitors at this particular establishment.

  “Since you have rescinded financial equality,” Max said after they were settled side by side in an intimate booth and looking over the outrageously expensive menu, “I was thinking maybe I should just take the reins altogether. I think I’ll order for you, feed you, intertwine my arms through yours as we drink a memorable bottle of Léoville-Las Cases…”

  He brought his water glass to his lips and watched her face transition from brief, affronted shock, to humor, to something seductive and willing.

  Right before he took a sip, he said, “Oh, Bron, please don’t look at me like that until we’re finished with dessert.”

  “Okay,” she purred with false compliance. “Whatever you say, Your Grace.”

  He almost spewed his water at her offhand remark, but instead pretended it had gone down the wrong tube and brought his napkin to his eyes to conceal his surprise.

  She patted him on the back gently. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he sputtered, “fine, just excited I guess.”

  Bronte finished rubbing his back then put both of her hands in her lap. “Me too. And nervous all of a sudden.”

  He took one of her hands in his and gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t say that. It’s one of my favorite things about you. You are never nervous.”

  Her blood sped at the idea that he already had a favorite thing about her—one of many, apparently—then she swatted herself back into reality.

  “Everybody’s nervous sometimes.” Bronte reached for her water glass. “Even Kate.”

  Max looked at her with confusion. “Who?”

  “You know, the Duchess of Cambridge.”

  If he had been drinking water that time, Max would have spewed that mouthful for sure. The way Bronte had phrased the sentence made it sound like you know the Duchess of Cambridge. Whom he did, in fact, know.

  He paused again, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Either Bronte had spent the past two days scouring the Internet and knew all about his family and connections and had decided to taunt him into confessing, or she just happened to be stumbling blindly into it.

  Bronte burst out laughing. “I mean, of course you don’t know her know her. But you know what I mean. She’s always so authentic and calm and pretty and smiling and, you know, perfect.”

  How the hell was he supposed to reply to that? Silence was always one of his best allies.

  “Oh forget it. You men are all the same, pretending it’s all silly princess worship or whatever. Still, I bet it’s hard work being perennially cheerful all the time, and I certainly wouldn’t want to do that in a million years.”

  Well, Max thought, that wasn
’t an acceptable alternative either. He smiled suggestively. “I’m sure her position has its… advantages, wouldn’t you say?”

  Bronte took the bait. “Oh, all right. William is pretty cute, I’ll give you that.”

  Max didn’t know whether to laugh or cry that the future king’s cuteness was at the top of Bronte’s list of royal inducements.

  “And?” Max prodded.

  “Oh. Fine. One might also become… fond of… the clothes. And maybe the jewelry.”

  Max smiled and Bronte gave him a small punch on the arm.

  “What are you smiling about? I am not horribly shallow. Every girl likes clothes and jewelry.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “So Kate is just like every girl, then?”

  “Yes,” Bronte agreed, then shook her head. “No! You are twisting my words. She may have been like other girls—past tense—but she can never be like other girls again. That’s the part that I think is weird and sad.”

  Max watched as the waiter poured a bit of wine for him to taste. He sniffed it quickly to make sure it wasn’t rancid, then waved the waiter to fill both glasses. He hated all that pompous swishing and gurgling nonsense.

  “Well, you probably know more about it than I do,” Bronte said. “Willa has some royal friends, I think. You must have met your share at Oxford, right?” She tasted the wine and let her eyes slide shut at the pleasure of it. “Yum. That is some good wine you chose.”

  “Thanks,” he answered quietly. Now what? Did he just blurt out that he was probably one of the royal friends to whom Willa had been referring? He knew he was slipping dangerously close to prevarication.

  She was waiting for him to answer.

  “Yes. I guess I have met my share.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And everything! Are they happy? Are they snooty? Standoffish? Rude?”

  A slow smile came to Max’s face as he thought of his father, his aunt, his grandmother… and his mother. In that order. “I suppose, yes.”

  “What do you mean ‘yes’?” She took another sip of wine. “Mmmm. This is particularly delicious.”

  He loved seeing the color rise in her cheeks as the wine hit her system. The skin across her neck and chest was turning a pale pink, probably from the alcohol, but maybe from the company—he hoped.

  “Up here,” she joked, pointing his gaze back up to her eyes and away from the plunging V at the front of her dress.

  “Sorry. I mean, of course I’m not the least bit sorry. You look gorgeous, by the way.”

  “Why thank you.” She bowed her head slightly as she took the compliment. “Without sounding too corny, you make me feel pretty.”

  She might as well have stuck one of the gleaming knives into his chest. His heart simply stopped for how badly he wanted to make her feel stunningly beautiful every minute of every day for the rest of her life.

  “So?” She nudged him with her elbow. “Go on, give me some royal scoop.”

  “Bronte, the thing is—”

  At that very moment, the overly attentive waiter loomed over them and cleared his throat as if he were about to begin Hamlet’s soliloquy. And before Max could tell him to hive off, he launched into his well-rehearsed spiel with the grand conviction that the dinner specials took precedence over Max’s conversation. Bronte reached under the table and grabbed Max’s hand in hers, trying to prevent herself from bursting into laughter. The waiter was such a narcissistic idiot.

  Max squeezed her hand back and watched as her eyes gleamed with humor.

  “…the dory is then lightly breaded in a subtle blend of hand-shaved fennel…”

  On and on he went, describing every ingredient of every dish. When he finished, Max was quite certain the aspiring thespian took a tiny bow.

  “We’ll need a few minutes to process all that, I think,” Max said.

  “I quite agree.” The waiter nodded and exited stage left.

  Bronte pulled her napkin up to her face and proceeded to laugh until she cried into the fine white linen.

  “Oh… God…” she finally gasped. “How could you keep a straight face?”

  Max had one arm around Bronte’s shoulder, and his other hand lightly traced the stem of his wineglass. He looked into her face and rethought his decision to tell her anything at all about his ducal future. She was so joyful and vital. What was the point of undermining that? If things proceeded according to Max’s wishes (as they usually did), the two of them would have a lifetime to fulfill the expectations the outside world would impose upon them. For the next few weeks, he just wanted to be with the woman whose eyes could sparkle like that with sheer, unadulterated joy.

  The rest of the meal sped by in a blur of suggestive banter punctuated by jammy wine, under-the-table hand-holding (and thigh-holding… and inner-thigh-holding), and rich food (some of which he actually did feed her from his own fork).

  They decided to give up on dessert altogether.

  “Since you refuse to obey my request that you cease looking at me with that open, smoky look in those misty green eyes of yours, I am forced to put an end to this date.”

  Bronte gave him a little pout and unconsciously wiggled in her seat. “An end to the dinner portion of the date, you mean?”

  “Yes,” he said in a low voice very close to her ear. “And stop moving your hips against the banquette like that or we won’t even make it back to the car.”

  Chapter 4

  Bronte’s apartment was closest, so they opted for that. After a quick ten minutes of mauling each other in the back of the Lincoln Town Car, they tumbled through the front door of what Max referred to as Bronte’s lower-ground-floor flat.

  “I love telling people I live in a basement… it’s positively medieval, don’t you think?”

  Max stood in the small living room and ran his fingers absently across the back of the pale-green velvet sofa as he watched Bronte make her way around the charming apartment, turning on a lamp, unlocking and opening the French doors out to the small, intimate garden at the rear, which was just starting to come into bloom.

  “And this,” Bronte said, gesturing Max out toward the garden, “is what makes it all worthwhile.”

  As she turned back to see if he was coming out to join her, she bumped directly into his solid form, both of her hands flat and firm against his muscled shoulders, then moving, more slowly now, down over his chest. Max’s arms circled her small waist as his mouth captured hers in a fierce, possessive kiss, totally unlike the more exploratory variety they had shared up until then. This was the knowing kiss of more to come. This was a kiss full of promise.

  Bronte gave herself up to it entirely. Her tongue caressed the underside of his tongue; she nipped at his lower lip; her hands made their way up his neck, skimming over muscled shoulders, then finally, her fingers dug greedily into his thick, brown, wavy hair. The strong cords of his neck flexed involuntarily at her touch. Her lips moved to his neck as his hands made their way under the hem of her very short red dress. Then he pulled her flush up against the length of him, his erection firm against her belly, sending shocks of warm anticipation between her legs.

  “I think I may be panting,” she whispered into his ear.

  “I am totally in favor of panting,” Max breathed huskily, and then repositioned his hands to a tight hold around her waist, easily lifting her up and swinging her back into the apartment and onto the oversized velvet sofa. She kicked off her high-heeled shoes, then propped herself up on her elbows to watch as Max whipped off his suit coat, loosened his tie, and nearly tore his white dress shirt as he pulled it over his head. Bronte could not help the lascivious grin that stole over her face at the sight of his miraculous stomach.

  “Well, if you aren’t the cat who got the cream, miss.”

  “Yes, sir. Get your ass over here.” With that demure invitation, Max and his rock-hard torso were lying along the length of Bronte’s body in moments.

  “Do you want to get rid of this bothersome bit o
f a dress or shall I?” asked Max peevishly. “I need skin… now… badly…”

  “I think you should. I’m feeling rather self-conscious of my skinniness all of a sudden.”

  “In that case, maybe a slower approach is in order.” Max gave her hips a firm yank, moving her entire body far enough down the couch to have her fully reclined, putting her arms above her head, and clenching her wrists gently but firmly in his grip.

  “How am I supposed to touch all that fine flesh of yours if I am in a half nelson?” Bronte whined.

  “First of all, this is not a half nelson, and second of all, I need to—how shall I say—narrow your focus for a few moments to relieve you of this absurd body image situation.”

  “As you wish, m’lord.”

  “And stop calling me that,” Max replied tartly.

  “I can’t help it if I have a thing for Regency romances… just play along, you big spoilsport. This is a fantasy I’ve been fine-tuning since middle school. What’s it to you if I like to imagine you as some rakish duke or fallen-away marquess? I mean, you have to admit your accent is deliciously plummy.”

  “Very well then,” Max growled. “I am a fallen-away marquess.”

  “Oooh! Yay! That’s the spirit!”

  There, he thought to himself. Technically I’ve told her the truth. Then he started in on a loving disputation of Bronte’s misguided view of her stellar body.

  She gasped as his left hand held her wrists while his right made a slow trail along the side of one breast, through the red silk material. One of his legs moved firmly between her thighs, exerting pressure and heat there. His thumb grazed her nipple, and her back arched in response as her breasts responded to his touch.

  “So beautiful,” he half whispered, half moaned right before he slid the plunging V-neckline aside and took the taut nipple into his mouth, through the sheer-lace fabric of her bra. His free hand was making a slow, determined path up the inside of her thigh as his mouth made its way over to the other breast. Before Bronte realized what he was doing, he had lifted the hem of the dress and revealed her pale, smooth stomach.