The Controversial Princess (The Smoke & Mirrors Duology #1)

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  “Haydon, I—”

  “It’s not what you think it is.” He cuts me off quickly but shyly. “Though . . . one day . . .”

  I smile and graciously accept the box, despite my instincts telling me not to build up his hopes. I am aware that our fathers are watching. I don’t want to cause a scene, or embarrass him. Opening it up, I am confronted with an antique ring. I look at him, confused.

  “It’s a friendship ring. One I hope will eventually be replaced with a ring that represents my love.”

  I shrink, feeling the walls of suppression closing me in from all directions. Forcing myself not to scowl at Matilda when she sighs dreamily drains what remaining energy I have left, leaving me with no fight to stop Haydon from removing the ring from the box and sliding it onto the middle finger of my left hand. I can barely look at the ring without showing my displeasure, and Haydon does not deserve that kind of disrespect. Oh, Haydon. He hears me, but he doesn’t listen to me. Other voices are louder than mine. I take a moment to find the poise expected of me and raise my eyes toward the many people watching. And, of course, my father’s face is awash with satisfaction. I could happily slap it off. “It really is beautiful,” I murmur, searching out a footman for more champagne. “Thank you, Haydon.”

  “Always welcome.” He snaps the box shut and slips it into his jacket pocket as I reach for another flute of my savior. It has never escaped my notice that my father’s footmen are always lingering close by with the goods to save them the constant back and forth delivery of my medicine of choice.

  “And now time for His Majesty to make a fuss of you,” Haydon says, making my glass pause midway to my red lips. Make a fuss of me? Or berate me? I look across to the King, seeing Major Davenport talking closely in my father’s ear. The King nods sharply, and then focuses his full attention on me, motioning for me to go to him, which, of course, I do. Because he is the King.

  “Happy birthday, Adeline,” my father says sincerely, swooping his arm out toward the path that leads to the front courtyard.

  I gasp, my palm meeting the black satin that’s half concealing my chest. “Father?” I question, watching as Sabina, the royal stable manager, walks a black stallion through the crowds of people.

  “He’s a champion,” Father declares proudly, guiding me to the beautiful beast. “He comes from one of the most dominant sire lines in thoroughbred history.”

  “He’s beautiful.” I run my palm down the glossy coat of his neck as he stands, still and obedient. “And he’s mine?”

  “All yours, my darling girl.”

  To say I am overwhelmed would be the biggest understatement in royal history. I’ve always kept horses; they’re my only true passion, but the King has always deemed it inappropriate for me to dabble in the world of racing. And this is a racehorse. What on earth has changed? “And I can race him?” I ask tentatively.

  “When he’s ready, you can race him. He will need vigorous training to get him to champion level.” The King gives my birthday present a solid smack on his neck. “We’ll have your racing colors officiated as soon as you decide what they should be.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” This is a monumental gesture by my father. “What is he called?”

  “Spearmint, after his great, great, great, great grandfather.”

  I scan the stallion, estimating him to stand maybe sixteen hands high, and he has a white sock on his right foreleg. “Hello, Spearmint.” I stroke his nose, and he snorts and shakes his head. The crowd bursts into rapturous laughter, applauding Spearmint’s hello to me. I smile, overcome with happiness.

  “Let us get him back to the stables,” my father says, as Sabina, who also happens to be Haydon’s grandmother, smiles at me. She’s a wonderful woman, her passion for horses equal to mine. She has taken care of the royal horses for years. “Look after him,” I tell her pointlessly. Of course she will. “I’ll come by soon to see him.”

  “Enjoy the rest of your birthday, Your Highness,” Sabina orders softly, taking Spearmint’s reins. She kisses my cheek sweetly and leads my new horse away, his hooves clicking the granite pathway as he goes. I watch until I can no longer see his well-groomed tail swishing as he rounds the corner, back to the front courtyard.

  “You lucky thing,” Uncle Stephan says as he joins me. “A thoroughbred gifted by the King is not to be sniffed at.”

  “I know.” I turn into my uncle, who prefers to devote most of his time to painting rather than the equestrian side of royal life.

  “I see something else that is not to be sniffed at.” Stephan flicks his head past me, and I look over my shoulder to find Josh Jameson studying me so very closely. He taps the face of his watch again, reminding me that I have an unofficial engagement I am now late for.

  I blink and sink my teeth into my bottom lip as I return my attention to Uncle Stephan. “Do you know who he is?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can.

  “Who doesn’t?” He brings his face close to mine, a wicked twinkle in his eyes behind his spectacles. “If you can’t behave, be disgraceful,” he whispers.

  My small gasp is fake, and Uncle Stephan knows it. “I really don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Dear niece, remember who you are trying to fool.” He kisses my cheek. “If you will not be disgraceful with him, then I most certainly will.”

  “You are terrible.”

  “Don’t tell anyone.” He meanders off to join his wife, and I stand alone, thinking for a few moments. My brashness toward Josh Jameson is forgotten as I ponder my intentions. Why I am now questioning them is beyond me, yet I am. He is not like any other man I have known, and not only because he’s more famous than God. I watch him casually break away from the group of people he’s talking to, take a bottle of champagne from the table nearby, as well as two glasses, and head for the arch that will take him to the path toward the far side of Claringdon Palace. Just before he disappears from view, he looks over his shoulder and flicks his head in gesture for me to get a move on. It’s a demand. I don’t bow to demands. But, and I’m confused as to why, my feet come to life of their own volition, adrenalin starting to course through my veins. I walk, feeling unstable and shaky, something that is alien to me, too. How does he elicit such reactions from me and so very easily? It’s so very intriguing. He’s confident, cocky, and unfazed by my royal status. It is rather refreshing.

  I scan the scatterings of people as I fall away from the activity, seeing my father taking charge of a game of croquet and my mother entertaining a group of ladies by the string quartet. Everyone seems distracted from my silent escape. Then I spot Eddie, who is talking to Haydon. I come to a stop beside the statue of a plump angel that’s peeing water through his rather unimpressive penis. Haydon’s back is to me, though my brother is facing my direction, and his eyes are dividing their attention between Haydon and me. Did Eddie see Josh Jameson wander this way a moment ago? I press my lips together and hold my breath as Haydon makes to turn toward me, maybe wondering what has Eddie’s split attention. But my brother takes his arm and laughs, pointing toward the King who has just declared croquet war on Haydon’s father. They start walking to the grass playing court, volunteering their skills, and Eddie looks back at me, shaking his head so very mildly. He knows how I feel about Haydon Sampson, and though he doesn’t entirely condone many of my activities, he understands why I don’t want to be married to a man who I have no feelings for beyond friendship. I mouth my thank you and back up, passing through the arch that will take me to something both scandalous and illicit.

  And hopefully something wonderful.

  THE WHOLE WALK TO THE far end of the grounds is spent jumping between sureness and reluctance, my steps faltering one too many times for my liking. My self-assuredness has never been dented by a man, and I’m uncertain as to whether I love or loathe the notion.

  When I reach the maze of conifers, I stop and have a stern word with myself, telling my nerves to pull themselves together and welcome this unexpected birthda
y gift. Weaving the maze, I momentarily wonder if Josh found his way to the center, or if he is lost somewhere amid the trees, finding dead ends or taking wrong turns that will disorientate him. The thought makes me smile. When I was a child, this maze felt colossal, and I spent hours running the labyrinth of paths trying to navigate my way to the middle. Now, I know exactly what route I need to take in order to get me there the quickest.

  I breach the final opening and see the statue of my grandfather, my father’s father, King Harold of England. He’s tall, imposing, made of solid marble, and his face is stern. He was stern, high-handed and strict with his children, as well as his grandchildren. A summons to his office meant trouble and was cause to tremble. Which I often did as a child. His robe, the Pallium Regale, is long and lavish, the scepter held lightly in his hand, Saint Edward’s Crown perched on his large head. The entire statue is intimidating.

  But there is Josh Jameson standing before it, leaning casually back against my late grandfather’s shins with a bottle of champagne in his hands, his legs crossed at the ankles, a smile on his face.

  This is an entirely different level of intimidating.

  “Your Highness.” He casually pushes himself off the solid homage to one of the greatest kings to rule England and slowly wanders toward me, each step measured and confident. “How are you enjoying your birthday?”

  “It’s been . . . unexpectedly pleasant.”

  He reaches me and starts circling my static form, heightening my awareness when he comes to a stop behind me. Not wanting to give him the upper hand, I slowly turn to face him, bringing us chest to chest. He obviously finds my move amusing, a tiny, nearly undetectable curve tugging the corner of his lips.

  “About that gift,” I whisper, taking one step back, if only so he doesn’t feel my deep inhales pushing into his chest.

  “Oh, the gift.” He starts to round me again, and I move with him, keeping us facing each other, circling. Stalking each other. Our gazes are glued, chemistry sizzling between us. Good God, I’ve never felt anything like it. It is obvious that he, like me, doesn’t want to be the first to give in to it. “I think you’ll love my gift,” he whispers.

  “You are a very self-assured man.” I come to a stop, leaving Josh to move in behind me. I shut my eyes, feeling his mouth close to the bare nape of my neck.

  “And you are a very self-assured woman,” he says quietly, and then tactically blows a cool stream of air across my flesh. My body locks, my breath held as I try to find my ever-present poise. Where the hell has it gone now, when I’m confident that I need it the most? “I like it,” he claims. “A lot.” I’m forced to open my eyes when I feel the chilly sensation of something smooth resting on my lips. A flute of champagne is held over my shoulder, Josh’s mouth now touching my pulsing neck. I shudder, unable to stop it.

  He nips my throat, and, God help me, I moan, feeling him smile against my skin. “Drink,” he commands, tipping the flute at my lips. My mouth is bone dry, so the cool liquid is welcome. I swallow, sweeping my tongue across my bottom lip to catch a trickle. “Good?” He presses his front into my back.

  “The champagne, or the feel of your arousal against my backside?”

  He answers by dropping the champagne and glasses to the grass and slipping an arm around my waist, splaying his palm across my tummy to hold me still, so when he thrusts his hips forward, I am trapped, at the mercy of his solid manhood pressing into me. “I know that feels good.” Biting my earlobe, he drags it through his teeth until it pops free. My legs give a little, sending my body limp against his. “Just like I know this will feel good.” His hand cups me over my dress.

  “Fucking hell,” I say on a rush of breath.

  Josh chuckles. “Is it wrong that hearing you cuss in your proper English accent turns me on?”

  “It should probably shock you more than turn you on,” I admit, laying my hand over his between my thighs, ignoring my mind’s demand to put pressure there, to make him rub and stimulate me further.

  “It doesn’t shock me.” Kissing my neck, he turns me in his arms and lifts my chin until I’m looking into his eyes. They’re lustrous and lush, almost lazy. “Kneel.” His demand is sharp and serious.

  “Excuse me?” I choke, somewhere between amusement and shock.

  “I said, kneel.” He drops my chin and takes a backward step, leveling me with an expressionless face. No, wait. His face is not expressionless at all. There’s challenge hiding somewhere there.

  “You are aware that you have just demanded the Princess of England to kneel?”

  “I am.” He sighs heavily, raising his eyebrows at me. “And yet she’s still standing.” Pulling that pale pink hanky from his breast pocket, he flaps it out. “I won’t ask again.”

  I drop to my knees at his feet with no further prompt, shocking myself, but clearly not Josh. And though I can see he is satisfied, he doesn’t demonstrate it, but rather circles me, straddling my legs behind me. His palm rests on my throat and tips my head back until I can see him looming above me. “Open your mouth.”

  I swallow and do as I am bid. I’m like a puppet, bowing to his demands, kissing my strong will goodbye. His eyes travel every inch of my face, settling on my lips, and he bends at the waist, closing the distance between our mouths quickly. His lips hit mine with force, and he pushes his tongue inside my mouth and circles firmly, giving me just a teasing taste of him. And then he pulls away before I can gather myself to respond. I cry out for my loss, panting, seeing my scarlet lipstick smeared all over his mouth. I don’t ask for more. Somehow, I know I won’t get it. Not now, when he’s drawing the material of his silk hanky through his deft fingers before me, smoothing it, pulling it taut. He’s going to gag me. That expensive handkerchief is going in my mouth. I flick my eyes to his, my neck craned back to keep his upside-down face in view. A small smile ghosts his lips as he brings the material down, filling my mouth with it. And I do nothing to stop him. I remain on my knees, a man I’ve known barely an hour doing with me as he pleases.

  What the hell are you doing, Adeline?

  I stare ahead, feeling his fingertips brushing my shoulders, eliciting goosebumps. I’ve never had goosebumps before. I’ve never felt my stomach cartwheel like this, or my heart thrum without the help of exhaustion. Josh Jameson isn’t approaching me like the delicate princess, pampering and fussing over me. It’s a new feeling to me, one of liberation.

  At that very second, my dress is yanked up past my waist and a wicked slice of pain rips through me, his palm connecting brutally with my backside. I can’t scream—my gag won’t allow it—but I do fall forward onto all fours to steady myself. He’s kneeling behind me quickly, his hand tugging my knickers aside and his fingers slipping straight through my wetness and plunging deep. I choke on nothing, my eyes wide and shocked.

  The heat of my burning bottom spreads through my bloodstream and sets me alight, my eyes blinking repeatedly as Josh pummels me with three fingers unforgivingly. I feel my climax building within seconds, defying my need to be disgusted by his treatment of me, my body moving back and forth as his spare hand strokes down my spine.

  And when I reach the summit, the point of release, he pulls out and leaves my building orgasm to flutter away.

  I whimper, the sensation of him smoothing his palm over my burning arse telling me to brace myself. My frantic mind reels, torn between depraved delight and fear. Not because of his brutal kiss, or his brutal palm, or his ability to control my pleasure so easily. But because I want more, and I have never wanted more from a man in my life. Adeline Lockhart does not ever want more from a man. She takes what she wants, knowing he won’t be around for long. She’s the one in control. She is the one calling the shots. She’s the one men bow to. What am I doing?

  I reach for the gag and pull it from my mouth, my breathing out of control. “No,” I pant, struggling to my feet and throwing Josh’s pink hanky to the grass. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, smudging my lipstick even more than Josh has
with his blazing kiss.

  “No?” He slowly gets to his feet. He’s surprised, and he can’t hide it.

  “No.” I pull my dress down as I turn and walk away. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Jameson.” I don’t look back. I do not ever want to lay eyes on him again. I don’t take too kindly to men who try to overpower me, men like my father and eldest brother, no matter in what capacity that is—suppressing me or dominating me. I will not be controlled, and I’m furious with myself for even remotely enjoying it.

  Remotely?

  I enjoyed it too much. My blood heated too much. I wanted to bend to his will, and that is a monumental achievement on Josh Jameson’s part. I should hate him for it. Yet I don’t. Frighteningly, I want more. And I will never be allowed to have more. That is why I always maintain the control with men. That is why I call the shots. Because I know it won’t be long before the King finds out about my flavor of the month and rids them from my life. I never get attached; there’s little point when I know the longevity of my relationships is non-existent. My feigned annoyance swiftly turns into panic.

  “Adeline!”

  I ignore him shouting after me and navigate my way out of the maze with ease, hurrying back to my party, my usually cool persona flustered terribly.

  Matilda is the first to spot me, her face a picture of horror. “Oh my gosh, Adeline.”

  “What?”

  “Your lipstick is everywhere.”

  I wipe my cheek, seeing the evidence of my red lipstick smudged all over my fingertips. “Oh, blast.”

  “Here, you left your bag with Haydon.’ Matilda passes my purse, her lips straight.

  “Have fun?” Eddie asks sarcastically, joining us. “If you insist on misbehaving, Adeline, you could at least hide the bloody evidence.” He focuses on my lipstick-smeared face.