by Emma Chase
And my heart starts to gallop, my head goes fuzzy, and it feels like my throat is closing in on itself. Because--sweet baby Jesus in a manger--he's coming this way! His long, purposeful strides are aimed right at me. Which means when he gets here, I'll actually have to speak to him. Although we met that one brief time--last year in a pub when he was with his brother and Olivia Hammond, who is now Princess Olivia, the Duchess of Fairstone--and while I'm acquainted with the details of Prince Henry John Edgar Thomas's life, he's still just a handsome stranger. And I don't do well with strangers.
My eyes dart around for an escape. Curling up behind the tree like a snail in its shell is out--he's obviously already spotted me. Damn. I glance up at the branches--I'm an excellent climber--but even the lowest one is out of jumping reach. Double damn.
He's almost here. Shit, shit, shit.
I think I'm hyperventilating. I may pass out. Which would solve the problem of having to talk with him, but it'd be even more embarrassing--I'm speaking from experience.
Mentally, I shake myself. I just need to think of something to say.
And now the only thing filling my mind is thinkofsomethingtosay, thinkofsomethingtosay, thinkofseomthingtosay.
My hands turn sweaty and numb.
I could ask about his mother--always a safe bet. Except . . . his mother is dead.
Damn it all to hell.
And . . . he's here.
My eyes drop down and I freeze, like a deer caught in the biggest, brightest headlights. I stare at his boots, dark and shiny like black mirrors. I force my gaze upward, over his long legs clad in black . . . polyester pants? His hips and waist are covered by a white jacket with garishly shiny buttons, purple accents, and gold-roped tassels on each of his broad shoulders.
It's a ridiculous outfit--like a cheap Prince Charming costume--and yet he still manages to look fantastic.
The top button is clasped at his neck, accentuating a sexy, masculine Adam's apple. He has a chiseled chin; a strong, slightly stubbled jawline; criminally full lips; a straight, regal nose; thick, wild dark-blond hair, and eyes so beautiful they'll steal your breath, words, and thoughts. They're a stormy shade of green, but warm like raw emeralds heated by the sun. I remember, the first time we met, thinking how none of the pictures I'd ever seen of him did his eyes justice. And, at this moment, I second that opinion.
If I weren't naturally speechless, I would be now.
Prince Henry's brow furrows, looking down at me in an almost disgruntled way.
"Did someone die?"
And it's such a ludicrous question, I forget to be panicked.
"What?"
"Or are you a witch?" He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "Sorry--Wiccan? Pagan? Worshipper of the dark arts? What is the PC term these days?"
Is this really happening?
"Uh . . . Wiccan, I believe, is acceptable."
He nods. "Right. Are you a Wiccan, then?"
"No. Catholic. Not especially devout, but . . ."
"Hmm." He wiggles his finger at my hands. "What are you reading?"
"Oh . . . Wuthering Heights?"
He nods again. "Heathcliff, right?"
"Yes."
"So it's about a fat orange cat?"
My mind trips as I try to figure out what he's talking about. The comic! He thinks it's about Heathcliff the comic strip.
"Actually, no, it's about a young man and woman who--"
His eyes crinkle and his lips smirk, making my cheeks go warm and pink.
"Are you teasing me, Your Highness?"
"Yes." He chuckles. "Badly, apparently. And please, call me Henry."
My voice is airy, hesitant, as I try it out.
"Henry."
His smile remains, but softens--like he enjoys hearing the word. And then I remember myself, curtsying as I should have from the start.
"Oh! And I am--"
"You're Lady Sarah Von Titebottum."
Warmth unfurls in my stomach.
"You remembered?"
"I never forget a pretty face."
My cheeks go from pink to bright red. I change colors more often than a chameleon. It's a curse.
"I'm not usually good with names." His eyes drift down to my hips, trying to look behind me. "But Titebottum does stand out."
When nervous, I typically go mute. This moment is the exception to that rule.
Just my luck.
"You would think so, although several of my uni professors had trouble with the pronunciation. Let's see, there was Teet-bottom, Tight-butt-um, and one who insisted it should be Titty-bottom. It's not everyday you hear a distinguished professor say the word tit. That one kept the class entertained for weeks."
He tilts his head back, chuckling again. "That's great."
My face is now approaching purple. I take a deep, slow breath. "Um . . . why did you ask if someone had died?"
He gestures to my clothes. "Both times I've seen you, you've worn black. What's that about?"
"Oh." I glance down at my long-sleeved, knee-length black dress with a crisp white collar and black ankle boots. "Well, black is easy; it goes with everything. And I'm not one for loud colors; I don't like to stand out. You could say I'm a bit . . . shy."
And the award for understatement of the year goes to . . .
"That's a shame. You'd look gorgeous in jeweled tones. Emerald, deep plum." His eyes wander, pausing at my legs, then my breasts. "In a clingy ruby number, you'd bring men to their knees."
I look at the ground. "You're teasing me again."
"No." His voice is rough, almost harsh. "No, I'm not."
My eyes snap up to his, and hold.
There are meetings in books that stand out, that alter the course of the story. Profound encounters between characters when one soul seems to say to the other, "There you are--I've been looking for you."
Of course, life isn't a novel, so I'm probably just imagining the slipping, sliding feeling inside me, like things are shifting around before finally snapping into their rightful place. And I think my mind is playing tricks on me--fancying that it's interest alighting in Prince Henry's eyes.
Heated interest.
My breath catches and I cough, breaking the moment.
Then I gesture to his jacket. "Do you really think you're qualified to give fashion advice?"
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "I thought I looked like an absolute tool--now I'm sure of it."
"Did the producers pick that out for you?"
"Yes. I'm supposed to ride down to the castle on horseback. Make my grand entrance." Briskly, his long fingers unbutton the jacket. He shrugs it off, dropping it on the ground, revealing a snug white T-shirt and gloriously sculpted arms.
"Better?"
"Yes," I squeak.
The teasing smirk comes back, then he grips the back of his T-shirt, pulling it off. And my mouth falls open at the sight of warm skin, perfect brown nipples, and the ridges and swells of muscles up and down his torso.
"What do you think of this?" he asks.
I think this is worse than I thought.
Henry Pembrook isn't a Fiyero--he's a Willoughby. A John Willoughby from Sense and Sensibility--thrilling, charming, unpredictable, and seductive. Marianne Dashwood learned the hard way that if you play with a heartbreaker, you can't be surprised when your heart gets shattered into a thousand pieces.
I shrug, trying to seem cool and unaffected. "Might look a bit too 'Putin' on the horse."
He nods, then puts his shirt back on, and my stomach swirls with a strange mix of relief and disappointment.
"Why aren't you down with the other girls?"
"Me? Oh, I'm not part of the show. I couldn't imagine . . ."
"Then why are you here?"
"Penelope. Mother wouldn't let her participate unless I tagged along to keep an eye on her."
"Every family has a wild child. Penny's yours?"
Takes one to know one.
"Yes, definitely."
He tilts his head, the sunligh
t making his eyes a deeper green, almost simmering. "And what about you? Is there any wild in you, Teet-bottom?"
My cheeks go up in flames. "Not even a little. I'm the boring one. The good one."
His teeth scrape his lower lip and it looks . . . naughty.
"Corrupting the good ones is my favorite pastime."
Oh yes, definitely a Willoughby.
I hug my book to my chest. "I'm not corruptible."
His smile broadens. "Good. I like a challenge."
A crew member suddenly appears, trailing a large white horse behind him. "They're ready for you, Prince Henry."
Keeping his eyes on me, he places one foot in the stirrup and smoothly swings up onto the saddle. With his hands on the leather reins, he winks.
"See you around, Titty-bottom."
I cover my face and groan.
"I never should have told you that."
"Can't blame me. It makes you turn so many lovely shades. Is it just your cheeks that blush?" His gaze drags down my body, as if he can see beneath my clothes. "Or does it happen everywhere?"
I fold my arms, ignoring the question.
"I think you might be a bully, Prince Henry."
"Well, in grade school I did enjoy pulling on the girls' braids. But these days I only tug on a woman's hair in a very specific situation." His voice drops lower. "Let me know if you'd like a demonstration."
His words cause images of slick, entwined limbs and gasping moans to flare in my mind. And as if on cue, the blush blooms hot under my skin.
Henry laughs, the sound deep and manly. Then he spurs his horse and rides away, leaving me glowing like a damn Christmas tree. I open Wuthering Heights and press the pages against my face, cringing.
It's going to be a long month.
HERE'S SOMETHING I DIDN'T KNOW before: reality television isn't actually real. I mean, it is in the sense that there are actual people speaking and moving, as opposed to artificially intelligent human-like robots that will eventually become self-aware and kill us all.
Instead of castle-walking in the middle of the night, I've been watching the Terminator series. The first one is still the best.
But my point is, Matched and its ilk aren't genuine. The scenes are staged, the shots planned, and "takes" are done multiple times. A few minutes on film could take a few hours of real-life time to shoot.
This is the fourth time we've gone through my "riding up to the castle on horseback" scene, and we haven't even gotten to the front of the castle yet. Something to do with lighting and shadows or whatever the hell. The horse is now cranky and I'm bored.
While the director and Vanessa and the cameraman go over the next shot, I glance toward the hill, thinking about the funny little blusher at the top of it. The way she peeked out from behind the tree, then tried to hide as if I'd caught her doing something dirty.
I could show her what dirty really looks like.
The thought makes me chuckle, imagining the pretty pink her cheeks would turn if she heard what was running through my head. I wonder if her arse would turn the same sweet shade after a good, warm spanking?
I bet it would.
I shift in the saddle, getting hard at the prospect.
Lady Sarah Von Titebottum. A cute, odd bird with--from what I could tell in her well-fitted but drab black dress--a very fitting name. Pretty face, too: big, dark, long-lashed eyes that sparkled behind those prim glasses and a lush mouth made for moaning.
I've known girls like her before. The aristocracy is actually a very small group, and some of the families are all about keeping their offspring--particularly their female offspring--sheltered from the rest of the world. Hidden away in private, all-girl academies where they interact with only their own. It makes for reserved, intelligent, but generally plain and tediously proper young ladies.
Although she's obviously the quiet type, Sarah held her own with me. She was clever, charming in a bashful way--different. People are so disappointingly predictable that being surprised by that shy slip of a girl feels almost . . . tantalizing.
"Just like that, Prince Henry," the director calls. "That smile right there--that's what we've been looking for. Whatever put that look on your face, keep thinking about it."
Well, that's not going to be difficult.
Unlike the show itself, the host of Matched is the genuine article. She's authentically crackers. As mad as a box of frogs.
She's Emily Rasputin, an American stage actress who was known as the Queen of Broadway in her prime. A notorious cocaine addiction, a hit-and-run scandal, and a contemptuous divorce in the nineties knocked her off her throne. But she reappeared a few years back as the host of television's newest, hottest reality show. Her suspenseful hosting skills and the bold, prying questions she poses to the contestants have become as big of a draw as the show itself.
And everyone loves a comeback story. I should know.
But she's a full-on nutter--a method hostess. She insists on doing only one take per scene and refuses to interact with anyone, unless it's on film. Real emotion and reaction, according to Vanessa, is the hardest to capture, and Miss Rasputin thrives on it.
When I, fucking finally, make it up to the courtyard of the castle, where twenty ladies are waiting, the cameras don't stop rolling. There are four . . . no, five cameramen so they can capture every angle and every interaction. They move between us like ghosts through walls, pausing and zooming in to catch something interesting when they find it.
But I ignore the cameras and instead focus on the expression of the lovely ladies all around me, smiling and adoring. Confidence that was once so familiar and has been sorely missing these last months surges back in my chest. This is the life I'm used to. And I think doing this show may turn out to be the best decision I've ever made.
"Here ye, here ye," Emily calls into her microphone, wearing a shiny long gold coat, almost matching blond hair, and big hoop earrings that could fit around a wrist. "I present to you, ladies of Wessco, His Royal Highness, Prince Henry! He comes in search of true love and to make that true love queen of his heart and queen of his country."
Emily lifts up her hand, clutching a group of necklaces with charms dangling from each one. "At the end of this night, Prince Henry will place a glass slipper charm on the pillow of each lady he chooses to remain here at Anthorp Castle. Only ten of you will be chosen. Then, each night after, one lady will leave until His Royal Highness bestows the diamond tiara on the one who will be his royal bride." She looks straight into the camera. "Welcome, ladies and our audience at home, to Matched--Royal Edition!"
Ding!
The first event of the show is speed dating. Before the cameras started rolling again, Vanessa told us to "be ourselves," whatever that may be. To not hold back--that any conversation that doesn't work for the show or isn't fit for television can be fixed in the editing room later. I'm sitting at a table with a black-curtained partition across the middle. The curtain lifts and I get two minutes with each lady to see if, as Emily put it, we have an "instant connection." Some of the girls I already know--one or two I've already screwed, not that I wouldn't mind a repeat. But for the moment, I sip my scotch and enjoy the electricity that sparks in my veins from the excitement and the fun that practically lights up the whole damn castle.
Ding!
And the first lady up is . . . the Duchess of Perth, Laura Benningson. I've known Laura for years; she's beautiful, with thick light-brown hair and sparkly light-blue eyes.
She was engaged to Mario Vitrolli, a professional race car driver and a good man, up until last year when he was tragically killed in an accident on the track. Laura was pregnant at the time and lost the baby a few weeks after Mario's death, though thankfully, that part was kept out of the papers.
I lean over the table and kiss her cheek. "How are you, dove?"
She gives me a smile still tinged with sadness. "I'm all right. This is a bit crazy, though, isn't it? I don't know how they plan to address my obvious non-virginity. Everyone we kn
ow knows about the miscarriage."
"According to the producer, that's the magic of reality television. A bit of creative editing and they can make any reality they want. If it makes you feel any better, I'm not a virgin either. They were shocked when I told them. Just shocked."
Laura laughs, and it feels good to make someone really laugh for a change.
"Anyway, you can relax, Henry, I'm not vying for the throne--I think I'd make a terrible queen. I'm too lazy and self-absorbed."
"And too honest."
"Exactly." She sighs. "But, when they approached me, I just felt like it was time, you know. To try to move forward. Maybe have some fun. It's a strange thing to do, but I decided to give it a try."
I put my hand over hers. "I'm glad you did."
She squeezes back. "So am I, now."
Laura's a yes.
Ding!
Lady Cordelia Ominsmitch. She's the daughter of an earl, and while she's known in my circles as a serious partier, she maintains a stellar reputation to the outside world. And she's drop-dead gorgeous. Big blue eyes, bouncy hair, and even bouncier tits. My type of girl.
As soon as the curtain lifts, she gets right to it.
"We've never met, Your Highness, but we could be good together. Hot together. I'm everything you need in a wife and a queen. I have the looks, the education, the pedigree, and the temperament. I'm also a virgin." She winks. "Tight as a drum. Until I marry, I've promised myself and the Lord to only do anal."
I choke on my drink.
Definitely a yes.
Ding!
Jane Plutorch. Cousin to a duke and heiress to a fortune built on wart cream--Wart Away is the official name, I think. She's also seriously Goth. Black lipstick, black hair, ivory skin, piercings, and ink up and down her arms.
"I hate my family," she says without any inflection at all. "And they hate me. They made me come here, mostly because they didn't want to look at me. I only agreed because I thought it'd be fab to live in a castle. Like a vampire."
"I can respect that," I say. "And you have great taste in tattoos."
She glances at her arms, and it's as if it takes all her energy just to keep breathing.
"Thanks."
She's a yes.
Ding!
Lady Elizabeth Figgles. Her father's a viscount and a member of Parliament, and she's also Sam Berkinshire's--an old schoolmate and one of my dearest friends--girlfriend.
"Elizabeth? What the hell are you doing here? Where's Sam?"
