by Leslie North
Ella was standing in the doorway.
His first thought was that she’d decided to take him up on the offer of a ride after all now that she knew who he was. His cock twitched in anticipation and he leaned toward her, but managed to rein himself in before he told her to hop on. He’d have to let her down gently. Inviting her earlier had been a mistake, though not one he could make himself regret. He needed to focus all his energies on picking a wife, and having a fling when he was supposed to be interviewing candidates would be indiscreet. If only she could’ve been one of the eligible ladies. Then, all his problems would be solved.
But as she strode toward him, she showed no sign of her earlier attempts at flirting. Instead, she said, “I can help you pick a queen.”
He blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?” he asked after a moment.
She kept advancing, stopped only when she was at his side. Dear God in Heaven, the way she wore that tiny black dress should be illegal. “I’m great at organization,” she said, and it took him a moment to refocus on her words instead of her body. “Just ask Daphne and Anna. I can make spreadsheets, lists of qualities, do research on the candidates. You won’t have to suffer through trying to figure out which woman is the most charitable and diplomatic while five others are trying to pet your biceps.”
He winced. “You noticed that?”
She snorted. “Who didn’t? Not that I can blame her.” Her eyes went wide and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she said through her fingers.
He laughed out loud, noticing for the first time that she was still carrying a champagne glass from the party. “Are you drunk?” he asked.
She let her hand fall back to her side. “Of course not. At most, I’m very lightly buzzed. I had to have two glasses of champagne when I found out the mechanic I’d been fantasizing about was the fucking king. But don’t worry, my organization skills are still very much intact. We can start working now, if you want.”
He shifted in his seat to lean closer, trying to smother a smile. Apparently champagne brought out her dirty mouth. He liked it. A lot. “You were fantasizing about me?”
“What? No! Why would you say that?”
“Because you just said you were.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Champagne. Goes straight to my head. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s fast becoming my favorite beverage.” He handed her a helmet before he could think better of it. “Hop on.”
She hesitated, turning the helmet over in her hands. “Why?”
“I know a quiet spot where you can tell me all about your organizational skills.” And maybe more. He knew all the reasons why having a fling with her would be a bad idea, but God help him, he was considering it anyway. Maybe she’d turn him down, save him from himself.
But she smiled and pulled her ponytail out, shaking her hair loose—he had to shift in his seat again to hide his growing interest, was she trying to kill him?—and pulling the helmet on. “I’m only a little bit buzzed, but are you sure I’ll be okay to ride?” she asked, setting the champagne glass on the floor.
“Sure. I’ll go slow. All you have to do is hang on,” he answered.
She climbed on behind him, nestled up close with a shiver of cold. He cursed himself for not bringing a jacket, but on the other hand, she felt amazing tucked up against him like that. She even smelled good, too, like lilacs and summertime and sex waiting to happen.
He revved the engine and pulled away.
Her dress rode high on her thighs, and her arms wrapped even tighter around him when they took corners. By the time they arrived at the spot he’d picked out—a little hill under the stars, with a beautiful view of the rising moon—he was in the mood for a lot more than some organization. She was too, judging by her reluctance to pull away from him and get off the bike. But she straightened and plunged ahead with her pitch anyway, struggling to tug her windblown hair back up into a ponytail.
“You’re probably considering ending the party and conducting more professional interviews,” she said, reading his mind. “But you should remember, you’re choosing a wife as well as a queen, so there’s bound to be romance involved at some point. You should take advantage of that, use the women’s willingness to have a go at it. If you get too uptight some of them—maybe the perfect one—could lose interest.”
He sighed, dropping his helmet on the seat. She was right, unfortunately. But even if she was reminding him of his duties, he wasn’t quite ready to give up on his much-needed quiet time just yet.
“Okay,” he told her, and took her hand. It fit perfectly in his. “But while I’m interested in hearing more of your proposal, what do you think of just enjoying the night for a few minutes? You did interrupt some rare alone time. I was planning to relax under the stars, reconnect with my country a bit.”
She looked aghast and tried to pull her hand away. “Oh. Of course, I’m so sorry. I can give you some space—”
He tightened his grip, the idea of putting space between them suddenly unimaginable. “I wouldn’t hear of it. Let’s sit and watch the moonrise together. It’s nice, having you here.”
She ducked her head with a small smile, acquiescing. He tugged her to the wide tree stump he liked best and they sat together, hand in hand, watching the moon.
For the first time all night, there was nowhere else he would rather have been.
5
The next morning, Ella woke up dead. At least that was how it felt. Her tongue was thick and fuzzy, her ears were ringing, and her head felt like a colony of very dedicated miners had taken up residence inside. She groaned, rolling out of bed and onto the floor. Stupid champagne. Stupid two glasses of champagne. Usually she wasn’t such a lightweight.
She swung her feet out of bed and then paused. Two glasses might’ve been enough to give her a hangover, but they weren’t enough to wipe her memory. She’d watched the moonrise with the king last night, just the two of them on a hill beyond the Summer House. She smiled despite her pounding headache. It had been the most romantic thing anyone had ever done with her.
And now she had to help him marry another woman.
Her smile fell. She was going to need coffee. Lots of coffee.
By lunchtime, her desk was covered in spreadsheets and she’d concocted a rubric and grading system for the girls, skewing it only ever so slightly to push her stepsisters to the forefront. Ella was in her element. Over the years, she’d become quite the task manager, partly due to her innate love of organization and partly because her loving but self-involved stepmother wasn’t the best at remembering day-to-day tasks when there was always some scheme to get a new man, dress, or party on the horizon.
She paused to polish off her third cup of coffee. Once she got everything laid out, how was she supposed to tell the king? Should she send a request to see him through the footman, or would that be rash? She didn’t want to give anyone, especially her stepmother or the Queen Mother, the wrong ideas about them.
Like an answer to prayer, a knock sounded at the door. When she opened it, an expressionless guard handed her a letter sealed with red wax and then pivoted and walked away before she could ask any questions. She closed the door, turned the letter over in her hands, and opened it. It started off “Dear Ella” and ended with “Best, Phillip,” and her heart leapt. She knew this was strictly business, likely about the project she’d proposed, but she always had loved a handwritten letter. She sat down to read it.
* * *
Dear Ella,
Thank you again for endeavoring to help me sort through the eligible ladies. Can I ask you to send all communication through the guards? They are well-trained and quite discreet with these kinds of matters.
I had such a good time with you last night. I look forward to more meetings as we continue our project together. Next time, I’ll bring the champagne.
Best,
Phillip
Ella fanned herself with the envelope, grinning. Oh, he would bring the champagne,
would he? She dug in the desk drawers and found some parchment and sat down to scrawl her reply.
Dear Phillip,
Thank you for your instructions. I’ll be sure to direct all communication through the guards. I’m almost finished with an initial rubric and background research on the girls, and will send it along when it’s finished.
I had a good time last night too. I usually don’t like champagne but if anyone could change my mind about that, it would be you. Maybe next time we could pack a picnic dinner and take that sunset ride you mentioned.
Best,
Ella
Proud of her flirting skills for once, Ella folded her letter in half and found an envelope to seal it in. She was on her way to the door to call for a guard when her gaze fell on one of the printouts on the desk, the one with her stepsisters’ pictures on it. Guilt froze her steps. What was she doing, sending a flirty letter to the king? It would only lessen her chances of succeeding at her most important reason for being here. That was the whole reason she wasn’t attending the party as an eligible girl herself even though she was technically as qualified to become queen as Daphne and Anna.
Torn, she struggled with herself for a moment before lifting her chin and walking the rest of the way to the door. It would be a shame to waste her wit and charm—what she had of it, anyway—by not sending this beautifully flirty letter to Danovian royalty when she had the chance. She would stop flirting with the king immediately after it was sent. It would be fine.
But even as she stepped into the hall to search for a guard, she couldn’t help grinning again at the prospect of getting more correspondence from Phillip. Handwritten letters felt like a delicious secret between the two of them, almost as good as cuddling up against him on the bike last night.
Maybe a little more flirting wouldn’t hurt.
Phillip reined his stallion toward the stables, thankful that this ride was finally ending. Not that the ladies accompanying him—Anna and Daphne, Ella’s bosses—were terrible company. In fact, they were decent riders, and not too bad at conversation either, although for her part Anna seemed more interested in the flora and fauna of his country than chatting about the obligations of queendom. But he’d hardly been able to think of anything besides Ella since he’d sent her that letter an hour ago, and even though riding usually calmed him, now he couldn’t focus enough to enjoy it.
Damn it, why couldn’t Ella be nobility, or at least willing to stay in Danovar instead of trying to escape it? No other girl had ever affected him to this degree.
“Are we back already?” Daphne asked, smiling at him. She’d been doing some kind of slow striptease during the ride back, taking off her jacket and then her vest until she had to be freezing in the crisp morning air.
He gave her his official king smile, full of lips and teeth and no sincerity. “Indeed,” he murmured. His instincts told him neither of these two were the right match, but he was considering keeping them around for the rest of the party anyway. If they stayed, so did Ella.
He reined his stallion into the stable yards and dismounted, waving goodbye and leaving his stallion with the groom while he hurried into the shelter of the stables. Once alone, his shoulders relaxed and he let himself blow out a breath.
“My King?” said a wry voice. Phillip turned; it was Drake, holding out an envelope. A letter from Ella? Pulse quickening, he accepted it and scanned through it, grinning in victory at the flirtatious tone. She did feel the spark between them and, judging from this letter, she might be open to letting things develop further.
He had to write a reply. He couldn’t wait another second. Duties and eligible ladies be damned, he was going to ask Ella to have a fling with him. He wanted one last hurrah before his country demanded he get married to someone he didn’t love, and he couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather it be with than her.
“Drake, do you have any—” he started, but the head of security was already holding out a blank piece of parchment and a new envelope, one sardonic eyebrow raised. “Good man,” Phillip said, taking them and searching for a nearby flat surface. There was none. Unable to fathom waiting long enough to walk all the way to his office, he motioned at Drake to turn around and used his back to write on instead.
“I’m positive this wasn’t in the job description,” the guard muttered, but good-naturedly.
Phillip ignored him, too busy writing.
Dear Ella,
A sunset ride sounds magnificent, but I don’t think I can wait that long. In fact, I want to make you an official offer right now: have a fling with me. There’s something between us that I don’t want to deny any longer and I hope you feel the same. If you do, meet me at the stables as soon as you get this. I have all kinds of ideas on how we can get started.
Best,
Phillip
He folded the letter, stuck it in the envelope, and sealed it. This was a terrible idea, but still his heart was racing at the idea of sparking something with Ella. She could be here in minutes. He could bring her up to the hayloft, where they wouldn’t be interrupted. He could take her up against the wall—or maybe she’d like it in the hay, a little bit dirty, a little bit rough. They had all day, and he’d be more than happy to keep trying things until he figured out what made her moan the loudest.
Or maybe she’d like to take it slow, get to know each other first. That was okay too. He could see them taking long afternoon rides across the grounds, on his bikes and on horseback too, if she knew how to ride. The picnic she’d mentioned sounded great. He was up for anything, as long as it meant spending more time with her.
Damn, he had it bad.
Drake cleared his throat and Phillip refocused, realizing the man was still standing in front of him. “Yes?” he asked.
Drake hesitated. “There’s probably something you should know, sir,” he said, and then stopped.
Phillip’s smile vanished. He knew that tone. Something was wrong. And from the way he was holding that letter, it was about Ella. “Go on,” he said, though he wanted to snarl at him to shut up. He didn’t want whatever was wrong to ruin what was just coming to life between him and Ella.
“I did some digging after you asked about her yesterday,” Drake said. “And it turns out Ella’s last name is Fernstone.”
Phillip blinked. The puzzle pieces came together one by one. “Same as Daphne and Anna,” he said slowly.
Drake nodded confirmation. “She’s the daughter of Nathan Fernstone and his first wife, Bethany. Ella actually inherited the title of marquess herself upon his passing.”
Phillip let it sink in. This could be perfect. Ella was a member of the nobility, which meant she was just as eligible as her stepsisters to become queen. If she felt the same way about him as he did about her, all his problems could be solved in a better way than he’d ever thought possible.
But…why hadn’t she told him? Had she planned to lead him on, seduce him with a forbidden tryst in hopes of bypassing the competition? The thought of her betrayal soured his stomach. He eyed the letter still in Drake’s hand, considering whether he should take it back, rip it up, cut his losses. But the thought of turning his back on Ella was torture, so instead, he found himself taking back the pen and another piece of parchment, and slowly writing a second letter.
He would ask for an explanation. Maybe she had one. If she did, perhaps all his problems could still be solved. And if not…well, best to know now, before he got in too deep.
But as he finished writing, sealed the second envelope, and sent Drake away with both letters, he couldn’t help but think he was already in so deep that he might never find his way back.
6
It was half an hour before Ella appeared.
Philip straightened when he saw her, breathless and searching for him at the entrance to the stables. He’d started to worry that she wouldn’t show up at all, which could only mean she didn’t have a good explanation. But here she was, hurrying toward him, apology in her eyes and his letters in her hand.
Phillip narrowed his eyes. He’d thought they were done pretending. Maybe she hadn’t come with a good explanation after all. “You can drop the act,” he said tightly. “I know you’re their stepsister, not their assistant.”
She huffed, holding up her index finger. It was bleeding lightly from a pinprick injury. “I have a war wound from the sewing machine to prove it!” she said indignantly, frowning. “And for the record, I never claimed to be their assistant. You just assumed that.”
“You let me assume.”
“I didn’t, not on purpose. I only…I wasn’t thinking about it, I guess. I’m here to help Daphne and Anna, not to cast my own name in the running. I just wanted a chance to live my own life. Is that too much to ask?”
Phillip swallowed as her words hit home. Could he fault her for wanting the same thing he did? A chance to pick your own destiny, to live the way you wanted rather than under the weight of obligations.
She bit her lip and looked away. “And actually…I didn’t know I inherited the title of marquess, not until your letter just now. My stepmother never told me.”
Phillip stared. “She never told you that you were nobility too?”
“No, I mean, I knew I was nobility, I just assumed that she’d been the one to get the title after my dad died. She never talks about anything having to do with his death, and I didn’t really want to dig too deep into the records surrounding his passing either.” She winced. “It was too painful, you know? For her and me both, I guess.”