Royally Wed

by Teri Wilson

  He took a few deep breaths. Going forward, everything would be fine.

  Then Asher made the mistake of climbing out of bed.

  First, he tripped over the furry lump that had situated itself—intentionally, no doubt—directly in his path to the bathroom. Then he flipped on the light and identified the furry lump as Willow.

  He called her name. She didn’t bat an eye at him, but instead kept on gnawing on the stick in her jaws. Asher turned toward the toilet and wondered, naïvely, where a corgi would get a stick at Buckingham Palace. He stopped, turned back around, and realized it wasn’t a stick at all. It was his cello bow. His very rare, very expensive, Tourte bow, handcrafted in France in 1820.

  “What the fuck?”

  Willow lifted her head, panting with glee.

  “Give me that.” Asher lunged to rescue his bow, but just as his fingertips brushed the smooth surface of the stick, the impertinent dog snatched it up and took off with it.

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  “Bad dog,” he yelled.

  Yes, he was definitely screaming this time. Not in terror, as the princess had accused him of before, but in anger. He was royally pissed off. The bow was irreplaceable. One of a kind. He’d paid nearly $200,000 for it at auction.

  Willow bounced into a downward dog–type position and wiggled her backside. The bow dangled from her mouth. By some miracle, it was still in one piece. But even from three feet away, Asher could see teeth marks all over the narrow shaft.

  At best, it would probably need to be smoothed out and recambered, to realign the curve of the bow. There definitely wasn’t time to get all of that done before the wedding. Asher would have to play with a chewed-up bow . . . if the damned dog didn’t snap it in two.

  She readjusted her bite, and Asher’s heart nearly stopped when he heard a sickening crunch. He managed to keep breathing as he realized it had a fresh new set of bite marks but wasn’t broken in half. Yet.

  He held out his hand. “Give me the bow. Now, you monster.”

  He walked slowly toward her. With every step he took, the dog’s stumpy tail gave a little wag. When Asher was about an arm’s length away, he dove again. And missed. Willow scurried under the bed, dragging the bow with her.

  “No!” Asher screamed. “This can’t be happening.”

  “Oh, it’s happening,” someone behind him said. “I’m just not sure what it is.”

  The princess. Again.

  Asher’s eyes closed. Maybe he was having a nightmare. Maybe if he kept his eyes shut, counted to three, and opened them again, he’d be back in New York, miserable and unemployed. Ah, the good old days.

  He opened his eyes and once again found himself facedown on the palace’s powder blue carpet.

  “Mr. Reed, is there a reason you’re screaming at the floor?” There was no mistaking the amusement in the princess’s tone.

  Asher was in no mood for jokes. He rose onto his hands and knees and glared at her. “Yes, as a matter of fact there is. Your beast of a dog is under the bed with my priceless cello bow. And she’s eating it.”

  “Oh.” Her face fell. “For the record, she’s not mine. Willow belongs to my mother. Huge difference. Massive. And why does she keep coming in here?”

  The princess’s brow furrowed and she bit her plush bottom lip, drawing Asher’s attention directly to her mouth. The subsequent surge of arousal that shot through him caught him off guard. He shouldn’t be turned on while on his hands and knees screaming at a dog. Nor while he was about to lose a couple hundred grand.

  “Because the corgis have the run of the place. It’s the number one rule of Buckingham Palace.” He’d shot her own words right back at her. “Or so I hear.”

  Her mouth, which, nonsensically, was still the primary focus of his attention, curved into a wry grin. “Touché, Mr. Reed. But Willow doesn’t like anyone, and she clearly likes you. It’s quite odd.”

  “I really don’t care. I just need to get my bow back before she destroys it.” He peered under the bed. Willow’s eyes glowed back at him. Asher’s bow, the world’s most expensive chew toy, rested on top of her paws.

  He groaned, rose to his knees again, and sat back on his heels. When he glanced up at the princess, he realized she was staring at his bare torso. Again. Specifically, his abs.

  He cleared his throat. “Could you stop ogling me long enough to give me a hand here?”

  Her face went crimson. Asher had probably shattered every last shred of royal protocol, but he didn’t give a damn. He’d bow, curtsy, or do whatever she wanted once he had his bow back in one unbroken piece.

  “Fine, I’ll rescue you one more time,” she huffed, looking anywhere and everywhere except at him. “But you should probably stop waltzing around the palace half-clothed.”

  He snorted. God, she was unreasonable. “Duly noted. Henceforth, I’ll try to remain fully clothed in the privacy of my own room at all times.”

  “Excellent.” Her kimono billowed behind her as she headed to the other side of the bed. Asher would have made a crack about the fact that she wasn’t entirely dressed herself, but he didn’t exactly mind her satin kimono, silk pajamas, and bare feet. He rather liked them.

  Still, he’d managed not to outright stare. At least he hoped he hadn’t.

  “Get ready,” she said, plopping down next to the bed. “I’m going to sneak up on her from behind and try to drive her out so you can grab her.”

  Asher would’ve preferred not to do the grabbing since he wasn’t altogether sure Willow wouldn’t bite him, but at this point, what did he have to lose? Maybe she’d bite him hard enough so that he’d have an excuse not to play and he could go back home and pretend none of this mess ever happened. He’d probably never get hired for another high-profile gig as long as he lived, but so be it.

  “Ready . . . set . . .”

  Asher peered under the bed again. He could see the princess grinning at him from the other side, and despite his desperate circumstances, he smiled back at her. He was almost having fun, which was ridiculous.

  It had been a while since he’d had fun. A long while. Maybe he’d forgotten what it felt like, because this sure didn’t seem like the time or place for it.

  “One . . .” The princess drew out the word for at least three syllables. “Two . . .”

  “For God’s sake, just do it.” For all practical purposes, he was begging. He didn’t care. He just needed his bow back.

  She yelled “Three!” as she dove under bed, catching Willow off guard. The corgi came charging out from beneath the bed and plowed straight into Asher’s face.

  It hurt like hell. Once again, Asher wondered how much Willow could possibly weigh. She looked about as big as his gym bag, but he felt like he’d just been hit by a truck.

  He had a mouth full of fur and a raging headache all of a sudden, but he shook it off and checked beneath the bed for the bow.

  Nothing.

  “Damn it.” He scrambled to his feet, prepared to chase Willow right into the throne room if necessary.

  The princess’s cool voice, dripping with self-satisfaction, stopped him. “Tada.”

  Asher looked up and found her holding the bow up in the air with a triumphant grin on her face.

  “You got it.” And it still somehow resembled a bow. Asher’s entire body exhaled in relief.

  The princess’s gaze flitted briefly to his abdominal muscles again, but he chose to ignore it this time. She’d rescued the bow. She could ogle all she wanted now.

  “I did indeed.” She examined the bow, turning it over in her hands.

  Asher couldn’t help but think she looked like she was holding a sword, ready to touch it to his shoulders and knight him. Clearly getting hit in the face by a corgi had knocked a screw loose in his head somewhere.

  She shrugged one elegant shoulder. “It’s got a few bite marks, but the damage doesn’t look too bad.”

  They stood on opposite sides of the unmade bed, eyeing one anoth
er. A thousand inappropriate thoughts that had nothing to do with the bow he’d been so worried about whirled through Asher’s mind. He crossed his arms to stop himself from reaching out to grab her and toss her onto the crisp white sheets.

  Don’t do it. Do. Not.

  He waited a beat. Then he inexplicably found himself charging across the mattress like it was part of a very plush obstacle course. He hopped off on the other side, cupped the princess’s face in his hands, and kissed her within an inch of her royal life.

  She let out a tiny gasp of surprise, but it was almost instantly replaced with a hungry sigh that was sweeter than any song Asher had ever heard. Then her palms were on his chest, and the thought of tossing her onto the bed suddenly didn’t seem like the most outlandish idea he’d ever had.

  Until her fingertips crept lower and he realized that if she was exploring his abdominal muscles it meant she was no longer holding the bow.

  Simultaneously, they broke apart.

  “The bow!” they both said at once, crouching down to grab it and nearly knocking their heads together.

  Asher managed to reach it just before Willow snatched it again.

  “Ha!” He waved it in triumph at the corgi.

  God, what had happened to him since arriving in London? He was losing his mind.

  “That was a close one.” Amelia cleared her throat. Her gaze darted to the suite’s open door.

  He’d just kissed her in plain view of anyone walking down the palace hallway.

  Yes, but she kissed you right back.

  “Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” he said, feeling conspicuously exposed all of a sudden. If mornings in the palace were going to be this chaotic, he should probably start sleeping with a shirt on.

  “You can call me Amelia.” She smiled, but the glimmer in her blue-green eyes left him feeling bittersweet. “When no one else is around, I mean.”

  “Understood.” He smiled back and pretended he wasn’t disappointed with the qualifier. Because what was he thinking, anyway?

  She’s engaged.

  She’s royal.

  She was a breath away from the British throne.

  This is crazy. The past couple months had made Asher into something of an expert on the art of self-sabotage, but being attracted to Princess Amelia Grace Amcott was taking things to a whole new level. Kissing her was another matter entirely.

  He took a sizeable backward step.

  “Thanks again, Amelia,” he said, placing special emphasis on her first name. “I should let you get back to whatever you have going on today. I’m sure you’re busy with wedding plans.”

  “Yes, I am. Quite.” Her beautiful face closed like a book. “Give a shout if you need rescuing again, Mr. Reed.”

  “Call me Asher.”

  There wasn’t any harm in calling each other by their first names, after all. It didn’t mean anything.

  But it seemed to put some of the spark back in Amelia’s eyes as she glided out of the room, all the same.

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  SEVEN

  As a member of the British monarchy, Amelia was required to make appearances at various charity events. This tradition had been going on ever since the British public got smart and figured out that the royals needed to earn their keep. As Edward had so recently reminded Amelia, the monarchy itself was supported by public funds. Someone had to pay for all the palaces, castles, and crown jewels, and Amelia was all too aware that burden had never fallen upon her own family members. Supporting charities was a way to set things right.

  These duties, known as “engagements,” were a way of giving back to the British people and therefore extremely important. It was part of the royal job description, although Amelia wouldn’t go so far as to call being a princess work. Cutting a few ribbons and making hospital visits while wearing a tiara wasn’t the worst gig in the world. She was keenly aware of how good she had it—the whole arranged marriage thing notwithstanding.

  Amelia’s first official engagement had been when she was just four years old. She’d attended an Easter-egg hunt in Hyde Park for children of armed-forces personnel. The scene was idyllic, like something out of a storybook. There were toddlers wearing frilly Easter clothes and carrying woven baskets filled with brightly colored eggs. The park’s rose garden was in full bloom. Amelia had a vague recollection of a pony ride along Rotten Row.

  And then everything had come to a screeching halt when she’d pulled the hem of her dress up over her head to show off her new eyelet-trimmed bloomers—the ones with the big letter A decorating her bottom in pink monogrammed script. She’d been so enchanted with those bloomers. It had seemed like such a shame to keep them hidden under her petticoat all day long.

  The photographers went wild, of course. On Easter Monday, Amelia’s photograph was on the front page of the Daily Mail, the Sun, and the Daily Mirror—the Unholy Trinity, as Edward called them—as well as a fair number of tabloids across the pond. People magazine had dubbed her Princess Naughty.

  Much to her mother’s mortification, the nickname stuck.

  Now, twenty-two years after that fateful Easter-egg hunt, Princess Naughty had racked up thousands upon thousands of engagements. There had been a few missteps along the way, but she’d managed not to repeat the panty-flashing incident.

  Today was a light day, with only one official appearance on her calendar. She’d originally been booked for three, but Amelia had gotten a text from her private secretary the night before notifying her that her schedule was being rearranged. All the chaos surrounding the wedding meant the number of reporters following her every move had multiplied tenfold. Simply getting from one place to another was a major ordeal when a fleet of paparazzi was trailing behind your Range Rover as it crisscrossed London.

  Amelia smoothed down the front of her prim A-line dress as the vehicle slowed to a stop in front of its destination. One of her security officers opened the door of the car and Amelia was greeted with the frenzied sound of dozens, if not thousands, of camera shutters clicking away at hyperspeed. She kept her knees pressed as tightly together as possible as she disembarked, ever-vigilant not to repeat the bloomer-flashing misstep.

  “Ready, Your Royal Highness?” her security guard asked. Ben, this time. Her team had grown so large, she never knew who to expect.

  “Absolutely.” Amelia flashed a smile at the cameras.

  She’d been looking forward to today. Spending a few hours visiting homeless teens would definitely get her mind off the drama of her impending nuptials and the fact that Eleanor hadn’t answered a single text message she’d sent in the past twelve hours.

  Amelia was sick of checking her phone for a response. She’d gone so far as to bury it in her handbag to stop herself from scrolling through her texts in case she’d missed a notification. But she couldn’t forget the look of disappointment on Eleanor’s face when they’d parted ways at the Ritz.

  Her run-in this morning with the cello-playing hottie next door had been a welcome respite, although she never would have admitted as much to him. Nor would anyone ever know she thought of him as the hottie next door. Particularly since she shouldn’t be thinking about him at all. Or kissing him!

  What was his problem with dogs, anyway? More the point, why was Willow so fascinated with the man?

  An image of a shirtless Asher flitted through Amelia’s consciousness, and her mouth grew dry. Maybe she understood the fascination more than she wanted to admit.

  You’re engaged, remember?

  But goodness, that had been some kiss.

  Amelia took a deep breath and concentrated on making her way down the path her security team had formed through the throng gathered outside the building. She glanced up, expecting to see the entrance to the drug rehabilitation center she visited once a month or the homeless shelter where she was a patron. Both had been on her schedule for today, but thanks to her diversion with the canine-wary Mr. Reed—correction: Asher—she hadn’t had time to study her revised a
genda. So it came as a total surprise when she realized she was at a preschool.

  She slowed to a stop and glanced up at Ben. “Battersea Nursery School? Is this is a mistake?”

  “No, Your Royal Highness. This is where we were directed to bring you. There was a change in your schedule. Didn’t anyone notify you?”

  “Yes.” She nodded, thinking of the printed itinerary on her desk that she hadn’t even given a cursory glance. Damn you, Asher Reed. “I thought my engagements had been reduced, not changed entirely.”

  Ben shot a nervous glance at the school’s front door and no doubt wondered if Princess Naughty was going to bolt. “I’m simply following orders, Your Royal Highness.”

  Amelia forced her lips into a reassuring smile. “Of course. I’ll check with my secretary later today on the change. Lead on.”

  Amelia had never been sent to visit small children before. Ever. Her engagements typically involved at-risk youth or mental-health awareness campaigns. She was also a patron of the English National Ballet, which she adored.

  But schoolchildren? No.

  She’d never even set foot inside a preschool. Not even when she’d been a toddler herself. Like generations of royal princesses before her, she’d been tutored privately at the palace until she’d been old enough to attend secondary school. She wasn’t even sure what to say to a four-year-old.

  This was much more her sister-in-law Jane’s territory. Jane actually had children. Two boys and a girl, all born within five years of her marriage to Edward. Such an aggressive birthing schedule would probably be considered madness for anyone but the future queen of England. Or possibly the star of one of those reality television shows that chronicled the lives of mothers with a dozen offspring.

  Jane was firmly in the prior category. She was the perfect match for Edward. Proper in every way. Amelia wholeheartedly doubted anyone but her brother had ever caught a glimpse of Jane’s bloomers.