by Geneva Lee
“I was certain you would be. No doubt owing in no small part to the man who gave it to you.” He studied me for a moment, and I squirmed under his gaze, my discomfort growing with each passing second. “Tell me, how is Alexander? I’ve expected him to pay me a visit since I heard of your engagement.”
“I plan to wear his mother’s ring as my wedding band,” I explained to him.
Jack released my hand and smiled wanly. “Still, a man should keep his jeweler close if he wants a happy marriage.”
I laughed politely. Jack Hammond bent to reach into the case and I shot daggers at Edward, who merely returned my glare with a puzzled shrug.
“This would suit your fiancé,” he said as he handed me the ring. It was a simple platinum band but the inside was coated in rose gold. It reminded me of the night he’d proposed to me with dozens of red roses.
“Could you engrave it?” I asked, handing it back to him.
“Certainly.” He placed it on a small, velvet square. “And I’d be happy to deliver it to your house.”
I had the oddest instinct to say no. “Can you send it with Edward’s order? I don’t want him to see it before the wedding.”
Jack inclined his head in agreement, and relief washed over me. I immediately felt silly. There was no reason to be so paranoid. The store’s doorbell—another measure of its exclusivity—chimed, distracting him and saving me from any further consideration on the matter. It had been months since Daniel’s assault, and I was still seeing wolves behind every friendly face.
We arranged for payment and delivery, and I tried not to think about the extravagant price tag. If Alexander was going to wear this ring for the rest of his life—and he was if I had anything to say about it—it was worth the cost.
As Edward finished signing his check, I glanced up, noticing the shop’s newest customer for the first time. And the fact that she was studying me. Her gaze didn’t waver even when I caught her staring. I flushed, turning away, but not before I’d gotten a good look at her. She was about my age, but that was where our similarities ended. Dressed in tight jeans and leather boots, she didn’t look like the type of client I expected to find here. Except that she was gorgeous. Thick, black hair hung loose past her shoulders. Full lips that pouted without trying. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a woman as stunning as this bold stranger.
“Miss Bishop,” Jack called. “Allow me to introduce one of my partners. This is Ms. Kincaid.”
Ms. She looked like the type that would insist on Ms. Maybe it was her boots or the fuck-off look plastered on her face.
She sashayed a few steps closer and stuck out her hand. “Georgia.”
“Clara.” I stumbled over my own name, feeling slightly confused.
“Ms. Kincaid is a…matchmaker,” Jack explained, tacking on, “of sorts.”
“Unfortunately, we’ve met too late then,” I joked.
Georgia laughed, but her amusement didn’t reach her eyes. I couldn’t help but get the sense that she was taking my measure.
“Are you ready?” Edward asked, completely oblivious to the introduction occurring behind him. When he turned, he froze, just as quickly composing himself. “Thank you again, Jack.”
Edward hooked an arm through mine and led me quickly from the shop.
“That was a little rude,” I told him. “But thank you. They just kept staring at me.”
“Well, you are going to be the next Queen of England.” There was an edge to his words.
“Who was she?” I demanded. “You knew her, and she was sizing me up the whole time.”
“No one,” Edward said too quickly.
“I don’t buy that,” I said as we reached the Rolls.
Edward slid into the back without answering, and I followed him in, more determined than ever to uncover Georgia Kincaid’s mystery.
I crossed my arms and stared him down.
“You aren’t going to let this slide, are you?”
I shook my head.
“Someone from the past.”
“Alexander’s past?” I guessed. My stomach plummeted, but I shook off my unease. “No wonder she was staring at me.”
“You can’t blame her for being curious.” He lounged against the leather seat.
Curiosity, but not exactly jealousy, got the better of me. “Was it serious?”
“I don’t think so. Honestly, I was young. I never really met any of Alexander’s girls.”
“Until me?” I teased.
“Exactly,” he said. “So who cares about that girl? Not Alexander.”
I hoped he was right.
I waved goodbye to Edward from the front stoop. Shooting an awkward smile at the guard stationed near the gate, I stepped inside and closed the door softly. I waited for a moment, listening for Alexander, before I ducked into the study off the front hall.
My fingers shook as I found the missed call and hit return.
“Oxfordshire Clinic,” a perky voice chirped.
“I, uh, missed a call earlier.” I stumbled over the simple statement. My heart began to pound so hard that I could feel my chest moving.
“Name?”
“Clara Bishop,” I whispered, questioning if this was a good idea. Hospitals had privacy policies, but I was no longer just some university girl. Privacy without anonymity didn’t feel all that private anymore.
“Bishop,” she repeated, pausing for a moment. “Oh yes! We received your request for your medical records.”
I wet my lips, nodding. “Yes.”
“My apologies for the delay in responding. Unfortunately, we were unable to locate any record of treatment for you.”
“What?” I pressed a sweaty hand to the back of my neck, rubbing out the knot of tension that had suddenly formed. “I was hospitalized a little over a year ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We’ve been updating our computer system, it’s possible it just got lost.”
“Is there anyone I can speak to?” I fumbled for a solution, but I knew it wasn’t there. It was no coincidence that they had no record of my hospitalization.
“I can put in a request for you to speak with a patient liaison, but I assure you that I’ve done a thorough search.”
I didn’t miss the annoyance in her voice.
“Thanks anyway.” I ended the call and stared at the phone.
I’d expected answers. I’d dreaded them as soon as I’d seen the caller ID. Instead I’d only been left with more questions. Daniel had claimed I was responsible for the death of our unborn child. Was he right? Had I actually been pregnant? Now I would never know. Alexander claimed he didn’t care. I believed him. So why had I requested those records? I hadn’t been sure then.
But now I knew it was because I did care.
I also knew those records hadn’t just disappeared.
Taking a deep breath, I redialed the number and clutched the phone to my ear.
“Oxfordshire Clinic.”
“Hello. I just called. I thought of one quick question. Do you have a Clara Bishop listed in your system at all?”
She paused. “No. I am sorry. Are you certain you have the right hospital?”
“Quite.” I hung up the phone, stunned. Part of me wished that I had the wrong hospital because the alternative was worse. Much worse.
I’d been scared for the last few weeks that I’d lose myself in all the changes. I had never considered that I might be being changed.
“Poppet?”
I jumped, startled as Alexander leaned against the doorframe.
His blue eyes swept over me. “Is everything all right?”
I didn’t answer. I just walked into his arms. He folded them around me without any more questions. I told myself it wasn’t a lie. I told myself I had nothing to lie to him about. I told myself he wasn’t lying to me.
I suspected I was actually lying to myself.
Clarence House was stuffed full of diplomats and distant relatives. The few friendly faces in the crowd were
courtesy of Clara’s guest list and Edward’s good sense. Still, I had to hand it to my younger brother, he’d managed to make the whole event somehow feel festive—a rare feat for any Royal gathering. The crowd had been trickling in for the past hour, swelling until the party spilled throughout most of the main floor. Despite the party’s liveliness, the fact that I’d been separated from Clara for the third time in the space of that hour was unacceptable.
Spotting her, I sidestepped a Russian diplomat with a terse nod and headed in her direction. She was huddled with Belle, no doubt avoiding her parents, whispering. My breath rasped at the sight of her. I wondered if she’d been advised to play up the blushing bride bit for today. If she had been, I wished I could thank whoever had suggested it. Her dark hair was gathered loosely, cascading in waves over her shoulder and providing contrast to her porcelain skin. But it was her dress that made my cock twitch. The ivory lace skimmed over her curves in a tempting mix of innocence and sensuality. Drawing up behind her, I pressed my palm to the small of her back. Under my hand, her skin heated through the thin fabric.
It took considerable effort to remind myself that now was neither the time nor place. It took even more effort to convince my dick.
“I thought we were celebrating our engagement,” I said in a low voice, “but I can’t seem to keep track of my fiancée.”
Belle grinned, shaking her head. “Should I leave you two alone? Word to the wise, this place has like fifty rooms, but please find one that locks.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter.” Clara smacked her best friend lightly on the arm.
“Speaking of dirty minds,” Belle said, “I see Philip. Maybe I’ll go find one of those locking rooms.”
Clara sighed, leaning against my shoulder. I wrapped my arm around her, enjoying what was certain to be a brief moment of privacy. “I wish I was half as comfortable at these things as she was.”
I narrowed my eyes thoughtfully, watching Belle navigate the room with a beaming smile. Clara’s best friend was pretty and charming, but nothing compared to the woman I loved. “I rather like when you get flustered at these events.”
“You do, huh?” She folded against me, pressing more of her sinful body against me—and doing nothing to alleviate the ache in my balls. “Why is that, X?”
I leaned in, brushing my lips over her ear. “Because it gives me an excuse to take you away to collect yourself.”
A shudder rolled through her body. My hand dropped, catching hers and heading toward the hall before she could stop me. I needed her alone. Now. A strong hand clapped onto my shoulder, startling me from my mission. I turned to discover a familiar face.
“Brex!” I dragged him into a tight hug. Next to me Clara shifted, nudging me expectantly.
I drew back, my arm thrown over his shoulder. “Clara, allow me to introduce you to Brexton Miles. The man who is largely responsible for keeping my sorry arse alive.”
“Then it is a pleasure,” she said, reaching out her hand. Brexton caught it and brought it to his lips.
“She’s taken,” I reminded him, shoving him away.
Clara’s cheeks flushed, her arm hooking around mine. I glanced to my old friend and saw him through her eyes—hair clipped short in traditional military fashion, broad shoulders, warm smile, and a pressed uniform. I closed my hand over hers, my smile tightening a little.
“Don’t look so offended, poor boy,” he said, tucking his hat under his arm. “I’d never go after another man’s girl. Now if you cock it up—and I know you will—then all’s fair.”
I smiled in spite of myself. He had no idea how likely it was that I would fuck this up. Not that I’d ever let him—or any other man, for that matter—get that close to her. Regardless of me being in the picture or not.
“Poor boy?” Clara repeated with a laugh, looking at me with curiosity.
“Some wanker gave him that call sign,” Brexton explained. He managed to look innocent except for a mischievous twinkle in his green eyes.
“Some wanker, huh?” I said, pointedly. “This guy walks into training, takes one look at me, and then yells ‘who’s getting stuck babysitting poor boy?’”
“The nickname stuck.” Brex shrugged. “And that poor wanker got stuck on babysitting duty.”
Clara bit her lip as if she was trying to hold back more laughter. “So you two served together.”
“I’m not certain you could call it that,” Brex said with mock solemnity.
I rarely discussed my time in Afghanistan with Clara. Unlike many who had returned from the warfront, I hadn’t brought home any ghosts. But only because I’d left them all locked away there in the first place.
“Excuse me,” Brex said, his eyes trained on something over my shoulder. “I think I just found my soul mate.”
“Soul mate?”
“At least for tonight.” He winked at Clara and her blush deepened.
“What poor woman have you got in…” I turned to see who had caught Brex’s eye this time and stopped mid-sentence.
That was the thing about locking your past into closets—ghosts could walk through doors.
“Georgia Kincaid,” Clara said, putting a name to the face I wished I could forget.
I glanced at her, hardly able to suppress my discomfort at hearing her speak that name.
“Then you know her.” Brex stepped to Clara’s side and took her free arm. “Introduce me.”
“I don’t know her as well as Alexander.”
How the fuck did she know that? How the fuck did she even know Georgia’s name?
“You know all those times I saved your life?” Brex said, as he nodded toward Georgia.
But before I could come up with a good excuse to keep him away from her, Clara started toward her.
Georgia had worn a slinky black dress to my engagement party, which pretty fucking well summed up where her and I stood. I had no doubt she was here at the request of her employer. Something I would be certain to speak to Hammond about.
“The happy couple!” She lifted her glass and smiled as though we were all old friends.
“It’s nice to see you again,” Clara said in a clipped but polite tone.
“I had no idea you two had met.” I couldn’t quite keep an edge of accusation from my tone, but I wasn’t certain if my displeasure was directed at Georgia for being here or at Clara for not telling me they’d met.
Because it was pretty goddamn clear that Clara had some idea about my past with her.
“I’m certain Clara didn’t want to ruin the surprise, and now I’ve ruined it.” Georgia looked anything but sorry.
Clara shrugged the thin shoulders that I wanted to shake. “No secret. Alexander knows we’re getting married. My purchasing a wedding band shouldn’t surprise him.”
Despite her nonchalant attitude, her body had gone rigid as soon as she saw Georgia and still hadn’t relaxed. I drew Clara’s hand up to my lips and kissed it softly. How she’d met Georgia didn’t matter, the fact that she was clearly upset at the woman’s presence did matter. She obviously knew that we’d been involved, but I couldn’t imagine that she understood the true nature of our relationship.
I suspected we’d be discussing that very soon.
“I, however, am not getting married.” Brex shifted forward and extended a hand.
The proceeding introduction was made all the more painful by how oblivious Brex seemed to be to the awkward dynamic the rest of us shared.
“Will you excuse us?” I asked. “I believe Edward wanted Clara for…”
I trailed away when I realized Brex and Georgia were far more interested in flirting than hearing my excuse. I whisked Clara through the adjoining morning room to the first private room I could think of. It was an office of some sort, likely unused, since none of the family officially occupied this residence at present. The drapes were pulled, allowing only slivers of daylight to break through.
Shutting the door, and locking it as Belle had suggested, I rounded on her. “Wh
en did you meet Georgia?”
“A few weeks ago.” Clara rubbed her arm, and I noticed her lower lip had begun to quiver. “Who is she?”
“An ex.” It was what she was expecting to hear, and mostly true.
“Does she know that?” Clara asked. A single tear glistened on her cheek.
I instantly softened, folding her into my arms. “Poppet, she’s a part of my past. I’m sorry you met her that way.”
“She’s gorgeous,” Clara said softly.
“Is she?”
“You know she is.” Clara wiped her cheeks and turned her head away from me.
I supposed she was, but Georgia’s looks had never been important to me. “In case you failed to notice, I’m rather obsessed with you. I doubt I’d notice if every woman in that room was naked.”
“I know I’m being silly.” She sniffed. “It’s not just her. We all have pasts. I’m overwhelmed. There’s so much to learn—who to curtsy to, what title belongs to whom. I can’t keep any of it straight, and it makes me think…”
She trailed away.
I drew her closer. “Yes?”
“That I’m going to be a terrible wife. I wasn’t cut out for this, X,” she confessed in a whisper. “What if I curtsy to the wrong person or forget to address someone? Did you know there’s an entire blog devoted to chastising me for breach of protocol?”
“You seem to be under the mistaken impression that I give a damn about any of that.” My hold on her tightened. “You could walk into that room and flip everyone off. Your place isn’t to impress them. They should—and they will—bow to you.”
“Bow, huh?” She laughed a little and tugged at my tie, even though tears continued to well in her beautiful eyes.
“Clara Bishop”— my hands dropped to brace her waist —“you’re going to be the Queen. Everyone’s place is at your feet.”
“Everyone’s?” She raised an eyebrow. “I think their place is at your feet, Your Highness.”
“But my place is at your feet. Or have you forgotten that?”
Her fingers twisted around my tie, her chest heaving slightly as our bodies urged closer. “I thought that was my place, X.”
“Sometimes.” I began to draw her skirt up, savoring the slow reveal of her stockings. “Sometimes I wish you on your knees, poppet. But you are my religion. I worship your body, so yes, my place is at your feet.”