by Teri Wilson
“You’re working on thank-you notes?” Her mother lifted a dubious brow. “At this hour?”
“I couldn’t sleep, and you know what they say. There’s no time like the present.” Amelia sank into the closest chair. By some miracle, a pristine box of bespoke Smythson of Bond Street stationery sat directly in front of her.
Amelia stared at the intertwined letters embossed on the smooth cream-colored paper. H and A. Holden and Amelia.
“I see,” the queen said in a voice that indicated she most definitely did not see. “How kind of Mr. Reed to assist you with your bridal duties.”
Amelia cleared her throat. “Actually . . .”
Actually what? She couldn’t think of a single logical reason why he should be there.
She could have found the leopard on her own. Why was he there, anyway?
She wasn’t sure, exactly. All she knew was that being assigned to “mummy duty” had been a reality check. The wedding was happening. There wasn’t going to be some kind of agreement between the families. No last minute reprieve. If she didn’t marry Holden, her family name would be dragged through the mud. They might even lose the crown. Giving up her freedom was the only way.
She could save the Amcotts. She would. But being at that school had made the future seem so real. So imminent. She wasn’t ready.
Would she ever be ready?
“Excuse me, ma’am. I can explain.” Asher stepped forward.
Oh God. What was he doing? Anything he could possibly say would only make the situation worse.
Amelia stared at him, imploring him with her gaze to shut his mouth.
It didn’t work.
He aimed a polite smile at the queen and kept on talking. “It’s silly really.”
Then he shrugged. He actually shrugged.
Amelia wanted to die. There was a 0 percent chance her mother would find any of this silly, and the monarch despised shrugging. Her right eye had already begun to twitch, a telltale sign she was about to lose it.
Willow’s ears swiveled like they always did when the dog detected an impending royal meltdown and she slinked out of the room.
“I was looking for the kitchen,” Asher said, patting his stomach for added emphasis.
It was a complete crock of nonsense, obviously. And Amelia doubted her mother would buy it for an instant. Still, a little flutter passed through her when she heard the lie come out of his mouth.
He was covering for her. Granted, he was doing a terrible job. But somehow his subpar acting made the gesture seem even sweeter.
“You were looking for the kitchen? On the main palace floor, tucked between state drawing rooms?” The queen’s gaze flitted toward the massive chandeliers hanging over their heads and back at Asher. Only an idiot would think to look for a working kitchen in this wing.
Asher shrugged again. “I noticed the lights on, and I thought this might be it. Looks like I was wrong.”
The queen sniffed. “Very.”
“My apologies.” He fixed his gaze with Amelia’s. “I’m so sorry to have disturbed you, Your Royal Highness.”
“No need to apologize,” she said, injecting her tone with as much formality as she could manage.
She’d needed a momentary distraction, a little bit of fun. It hadn’t meant anything, obviously. She didn’t even know this man.
“Mr. Reed, the kitchen is off limits to both residents and guests,” the queen said. To Amelia’s knowledge, her mother had never passed through the green baize door that separated the domestic quarters from the rest of the palace. Not once. “We’re more than happy to provide whatever you need. There’s a button in your suite for this purpose. I suggest you use it.”
“Of course.” Asher nodded. “Again, so sorry to intrude.”
He turned to go.
“Mr. Reed?” The queen sighed mightily.
“Yes?” Asher turned around.
“Your room is that way.” She pointed toward the other end of the corridor from where he’d been headed.
He feigned surprise, and Amelia suppressed a snicker. He had to be the worst liar she’d ever met. “Ah, so it is. My sense of direction is terrible.”
He gave a wave and disappeared.
Once he’d gone, the queen turned her sharp gaze on Amelia. Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t say a word. She had a way of simply staring at people until they confessed to something. It worked on Amelia’s brothers with annoying predictability. It also worked on royal footmen, ladies in waiting, and various heads of state. Her mother had once reduced the prime minister to tears without uttering a syllable.
But Asher Reed just looked her straight in the eye and lied. For me.
He was beginning to feel less like a stranger, and more like something else. A friend.
“Honestly, Mum. You should be more careful who you allow to sleep here. He seems mad as a box of frogs.”
Mad. Charming. Disarmingly attractive.
And much to her astonishment, trustworthy.
* * *
THE PRESS CALLED HER Princess Naughty.
The nickname was part of nearly every article Asher had found online since he’d woken up and begun scrolling through blogs and websites. The coverage was plentiful. The queen’s corgis even had their own Instagram page.
But the biggest surprise had been the Princess Naughty label.
How had Asher not known?
Probably because he’d been too busy in recent years playing his cello to keep up with the latest royal gossip. The same went for celebrity gossip. And gossip in general.
He didn’t own a television, preferring to fill his apartment on Greenwich Street with his extensive vinyl collection and various musical instruments. He had a piano in his dining room, which Serena had always despised. Its presence meant he couldn’t host dinner parties, which had irritated her nearly as much as Asher’s inability to name a single Kardashian or properly match any of the Real Housewives with their city of residence.
He probably should have seen the handwriting on the wall when it came to their relationship. Whenever Asher imagined Serena and Jeremy alone together, they weren’t in bed. They were parked in front of bad reality television.
But he hadn’t pictured them alone together in quite some time. Lately, he’d stopped thinking about them altogether. Seeing Serena again after so many days had been easier than he’d expected. Even seeing Jeremy again hadn’t been as difficult as he’d imagined it would be.
Asher’s playing hadn’t been stellar though, and he was certain Jeremy had noticed. Everyone had noticed. But now that the initial awkwardness was over, he could get on with things. This was England, after all. Land of the stiff upper lip. Keep calm and carry on and all that.
He felt strangely hopeful today. And he was dreading rehearsal a little less now that he had something else occupying his thoughts. Someone else.
Princess Naughty.
“Your breakfast, sir.”
Asher jumped at the sound of James’s voice and clicked the X in the corner of the browser window on his laptop. He didn’t particularly want to get caught Googling Amelia, although judging from the page’s narrowed gaze, that ship had already sailed.
Asher sighed. He really wished people would stop sneaking up on him in this place. “Good morning, James.”
“Good day, sir.” A sea of corgis swarmed around James’s feet. James navigated deftly through them and positioned the silver tray on the elegant dining table adjacent to Asher’s bed.
The table was large enough to seat twelve. Asher couldn’t fathom why a guest suite in Buckingham Palace would need such a large table. But frankly, that was the least of the palace’s nonsensical attributes. “You really don’t need to keep addressing me as sir. Call me Asher, please. I’m not accustomed to being waited on.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t. It’s protocol. I could be sacked for breaking the rules.” James uprighted a teacup and began to pour steaming liquid into it, while the dogs followed his e
very move.
They were no doubt hoping James would slip up and drop something. Good luck with that, Asher thought.
James shot a nervous glance at Asher and cleared his throat. Now that Asher looked more closely at him, he noticed that the page seemed rather pale. “You’re not accustomed to being waited on. May I ask if that’s why you went in search of dinner on your own last night rather than ringing for help?”
“You heard about that?” For some reason, this seemed like a very bad sign.
“Yes sir, I did.” He unfolded the napkin beside Asher’s plate and placed it on Asher’s lap. This seemed like overkill. Asher could unfold his own napkin.
He was beginning to feel underdressed in his pajama bottoms and old Juilliard sweatshirt, even though for all practical purposes, this meal was room service. But he figured the napkin thing and the overall formality of this in-room dining experience went along with being called sir, so he didn’t protest. Besides, James hadn’t quite met Asher’s gaze when he’d asked about last night’s shenanigans, and that didn’t bode well.
Asher frowned. “What happened last night hasn’t gotten you into trouble, has it?”
James shook his head and said, “No,” in a quiet tone that indicated the exact opposite.
“I’m sorry. I . . .” Asher sighed and stared at his eggs, as if they could somehow help him explain. But there was no explanation. He’d seen the panic in Amelia’s luminous eyes and said the first thing that sprang to mind. “. . . I won’t let it happen again.”
“I appreciate that, sir. I’m available anytime you require assistance.” James’s gaze flitted toward the wall that divided the Blue Room from the princess’s bedroom. “With anything.”
What was that supposed to mean?
Asher frowned. Just how much did the page know?
He knows Amelia was in your room two mornings ago, and now he knows the queen found you alone with her last night, someplace you shouldn’t have been.
Asher could see how that might look bad. But whatever he had going on with the princess wasn’t like that.
Was it?
Of course not. Even if it were, Asher didn’t quite understand the meaning behind the page’s cryptic glance. Was he offering to help Asher sneak around with Amelia?
“I’m at your service, sir.” James nodded.
“I see.” Asher didn’t see. He didn’t know what the hell was going on with any of the people under this gilded roof.
He almost wished he could check into a hotel. Or a bed and breakfast. Someplace where he didn’t feel like he was being watched like a hawk. Someplace where his room wasn’t a revolving door for entitled dogs and wayward princesses.
His gaze dropped to his eggs again. Leaving the palace wasn’t actually what he wanted. The truth of the matter was that Asher was beginning to want things he knew he couldn’t have. He might have even wanted them all along, since the moment he’d played Adagio for Strings in the Abbey.
His hands tightened into fists in his lap. What you want isn’t part of the equation. She’s getting married, and she’s a princess, for crying out loud.
“Anything you need. Anything at all,” James said. “I just ask that you use the call button. I need this job, sir.”
Perfect. He’d apparently nearly gotten the page fired. Yet another reason why he needed to steer clear of Amelia from now on.
If only he could.
Asher held up his hand like he was swearing an oath. “I won’t venture off on my own again. If I leave the room, you’ll be the first to know. You have my word.”
Asher could do one thing right while he was in England. He’d probably botch his solo on the wedding day, thereby ruining his career, and he was definitely having inappropriate thoughts about the bride. But he could at least manage to not get James fired.
“Thank you.” James exhaled, and the color returned to his pale face. “That’s a great relief.”
James smiled, and the absence of a “sir” at the end of his sentence came as a relief to Asher. He could use a friend in this country. Hell, he could use a friend, period. Preferably, one who didn’t call him “sir.”
“Her Royal Highness has already left for her morning engagement, in case you were wondering,” James said.
Asher bit back a frown. “I wasn’t.” Liar.
“She won’t be here this evening, either. She’s going to the opera tonight with Duke Holden.”
Asher put down his fork. He suddenly didn’t feel hungry. The corgis heaved a collective sigh and wandered away. “Should you be sharing this information with me?”
James lifted his shoulder in a nearly imperceptible shrug. “Official engagements for all members of the royal family are printed daily in the Court Circular. It’s public record. Anyone can access it. The opera appearance isn’t technically an official event, but it should be in all the papers. It’s hardly a state secret.”
Great. More things Asher could Google later in private. He was becoming some sort of cyber stalker.
It had to stop.
“James, do you know anything about a leopard?” What was he doing?
“Any leopard in particular?” James asked.
He was going to make Asher say it.
Fine. “The leopard that belongs to the princess. Is it here in the palace?”
“No, I’m afraid not. The palace isn’t exactly the place for a leopard. I’m quite sure Her Royal Highness is aware that it was never here in the building.”
Was she, now?
So the leopard hunt hadn’t really been about the leopard at all. Was it possible that she’d just wanted to spend time with him?
“I could look into the leopard’s whereabouts if you like,” James suggested.
Asher shook his head. “Never mind.”
The princess wasn’t any of his business. Neither was her leopard.
“I appreciate your help, James. But just so we’re clear, I’m here to play my cello. That’s all.” No more mind games with the queen’s dogs. No more Princess Naughty. He had a performance to worry about. And the way things were going, there was much cause for concern.
“Absolutely. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear,” James said, but there was a hint of mirth in his tone.
He shot a knowing glance toward the desk in the corner of the room.
Asher was almost afraid to follow his gaze. Sure enough, when he did, Princess Amelia’s image smiled at him from the screen of his laptop.
Busted.
* * *
THE LAST TIME AMELIA had been to the Royal Opera House was for a Duran Duran reunion tour. She and Eleanor—accompanied by security officers, of course—had worn neon crop tops, high-waisted jeans, and heaps upon heaps of rubber bracelets. They’d teased their hair until it was so big it nearly reached the rafters. Amelia danced and sang all night. She’d even gotten her bodyguard to bust a move or two. The next day, she’d been so hoarse she’d barely been able to squeak out a sound during her speech at a teen advocacy program in Islington.
It had been fabulous.
Now here she was, alongside Eleanor’s dad, watching Madame Butterfly. Quite the switch.
It wasn’t entirely horrible. Not the opera part, anyway. The performance was quite beautiful, actually. Lush and heartbreaking. Amelia kept catching herself craning her neck in the royal box, searching for a glimpse of the cello players in the orchestra pit. There were so many of them—twelve, in all. She liked watching the sweeping movements of their bows, gliding in unison as the music swelled around her. She wondered if Asher was back at the palace, practicing. Then she wondered why on earth she cared.
“What do you think? Are you enjoying Madame Butterfly?” Holden handed Amelia a champagne flute.
The lights had just gone up in the middle of the second act, during Butterfly’s vigil as she waited for her long-lost husband to return. It seemed like a cruel place for an intermission. Amelia had a lump in her throat, and she couldn’t seem to swallow it down as the royal party made
its way to the private dining room connected to the royal box.
She paused to answer Holden’s question before taking a sip of her Dom Perignon, until she realized the comment hadn’t been aimed at her.
“Lovely! The duet was breathtaking. Absolutely exquisite,” Lady Wentworth, situated directly opposite Amelia, gushed. “The best so far this season, wouldn’t you agree?”
Holden nodded. “Perhaps, although Fidelio was excellent.”
Amelia had never heard of Fidelio before. Maybe she should ask Asher about it the next time she saw him.
Because that makes so much more sense than asking one of the people right here.
She bit the inside of her cheek as a form of self-punishment. She really needed to stop thinking about Asher Reed. Their little leopard hunt was meant to be a distraction from the stress surrounding the wedding. Somehow, Asher himself had become a distraction . . . right around the time he’d kissed her. And again when he’d lied to the queen so she wouldn’t get in trouble.
No one lied to her mother. Asher was either crazy or the most confident man Amelia had ever come across. Either way, she liked it. She liked it a great deal more than she should have.
Focus. You’re here with your future husband. Remember?
Even worse, Gregory was in the royal box right alongside them. Was it Amelia’s imagination, or had he been staring at her all night?
She turned slightly to her left and sure enough, there he was.
“You look lovely, Amelia.” Gregory’s gaze swept her from top to bottom. Amelia somehow managed not to gag. “Almost like a glowing bride-to-be.”
She smiled sweetly at him. “Exactly like a glowing bride-to-be.”
“Apologies. Just a slip of the tongue.” He shrugged one of his hideous shoulders.
In actuality, Gregory wasn’t terrible-looking. Once upon a time, Amelia had actually considered him to be quite handsome. Oh, how times had changed.
He swirled his glass. “Have I mentioned that the editor in chief of the Daily Mail is a good friend of mine?”
He had indeed. Countless times.
“Is he now? How fascinating,” she said flatly.