Royally Matched

by Emma Chase

  "He is, Lady Sarah."

  I try to sound nonchalant, but don't think I pull it off.

  "Is he alone?"

  James's blue eyes are soft with sympathy; I just can't tell if it's for Henry or for me.

  "Aye. Filming wrapped hours ago but he hasn't left. Hasn't eaten, either."

  I nod. And against my better judgment, allow my feet to pull me inside.

  He's in the deep end, his upper body floating on an inner tube, a half-full glass of whiskey in his hand. And he's singing. "Rubber ducky, you're the one. You make bath time lots of fun."

  "You do realize it's a swimming pool and not a bathtub, don't you?"

  His eyes are cloudy. Drunk.

  "There she is. Where did you float off to, little duck? You missed the party. It was a good time."

  "I was in my room."

  He holds up his glass, sloshing the contents into the pool. "Don't tell me--you were reading. What was on the menu this evening?"

  "Jane Eyre."

  A disgusted sound comes from his throat. "That's depressing. Not even a good mummy porn or a nice, old-fashioned bodice ripper?"

  I snort, because Prince Henry knowing those terms is funny.

  "Not tonight."

  "Well, let me know when you've got one of those--I want you to read it to me. Out loud."

  As expected, I blush, and Henry chuckles.

  Then he lowers his face to the water, sucks up a mouthful, and spits it out in a high, arched stream. "Look, I'm a fountain."

  I shake my head. "You're an arse."

  He pouts. "Is that any way to speak to the heir to the throne?"

  "Right now? Yes." I cross my arms. "You should get out--you're all pruned."

  "Or you could join me? Come on, jump in--show me your best cannonball."

  "I'm not wearing a suit."

  "So swim naked. I'll keep my eyes closed, I swear."

  He holds up his hand, fingers crossed, to show me he's lying.

  And I laugh. "I don't think so."

  "What are you frightened of?"

  "Dying. I don't know how to swim."

  If he's surprised by the admission he doesn't show it.

  "You shouldn't be afraid of dying, Sarah--everyone does it. The only thing to be scared of is not living before you do."

  I move closer, my shoes stopping at the edge. "That's very poetic, Henry. Now come out--it's dangerous to drink and swim alone."

  "Then don't let me swim alone! The water's lovely. Come in, let me carry you to the other end of the pool--face your fear--and then I'll get out like a good lad, I promise."

  This time his fingers are spread wide, uncrossed. He slips out of the inner tube, holding his drink above the water, and kicks over to me. Waiting.

  He's going to be stubborn about this, I can tell. And there's a foreign, blooming bud inside me that wants to try. It's a quiet but insistent voice, a gentle nudge. I'm starting to think of it as the Henry Effect, because he makes me feel so many . . . things. Safe and wild and maybe just a little bit mad all at once.

  Henry makes me want to take a chance. On new experiences.

  And on him.

  So, I take a deep breath and slide out of my shoes. Trying to control my shaking limbs, I turn around and lower myself over the edge, into the water. My cotton sleeping pants and shirt mold to my body, but they're light, so they don't drag me down. Still, I hold onto the edge with white-knuckled hands.

  And Henry is right there, his skin slick and warm, his arm like an iron band around my waist--strong and solid.

  "That's a brave girl," he whispers against my ear.

  I turn in his arms, squeezing mine around his neck. My legs kick, and the sensation of nothing beneath them sends me veering toward panic.

  "Easy, I've got you."

  Henry shifts to his back, arranging me on his torso, like he's my own personal royal floaty. Then he reaches for his drink on the pool's edge. "Hold onto this for me?"

  Smoothly, he pushes us off from the wall, and the water makes little currents against his shoulders and arms as we glide toward the middle. My trembling eases a bit.

  "See?" Henry teases. "Water is your friend. Do you want to learn to swim? I could teach you."

  "I don't know." I eye the water suspiciously.

  "Why are you afraid all the time?" he asks, not in a nasty way but with simple curiosity.

  "I'm not. I just like . . . consistency."

  "Consistency is boring."

  "It's safe. If you know what's coming, you're never caught off guard."

  Henry rolls his eyes.

  "Why are you sad all the time?" I ask.

  "I'm not sad--I'm pitiful. There's a difference."

  He's quiet for a moment, and the only sound between us is the gentle swish of water.

  "Do you think Charlie Campbell lived?" Henry wonders. "Before he died?"

  Droplets glitter on his lashes like diamonds. I try to focus on that and not the heartache wrapped in the question.

  "I hope so. Sometimes, that's all there is. Hope."

  Henry nods. "I suppose you're right."

  I hold up his drink and toast, "To Charlie."

  Henry smiles softly as I take a sip, before holding the glass to his lips.

  "To Charlie," he says, then drinks.

  He takes the empty glass from my hand and sends it floating away. Then he strokes his arms through the water, pushing us gently forward.

  And then, he just . . . looks at me. With warmth and enjoyment. My glasses fog and I slip them off.

  "Fuck, but you're pretty," Henry murmurs.

  Instinctually, my chin dips and I glance down at his chest.

  "Hasn't anyone ever told you that?"

  I shrug. "Not really."

  "They should have," he insists softly. "You should've been told every day how pretty you are--inside and out."

  And there's a great swelling of tenderness in my chest, around my heart, that almost feels too large to contain. Not because of the compliment, but because of him. This beautiful, broken, pitiful prince. Was Henry ever told how brilliant he is? Kind and strong, generous, and good? I don't think he was and they should've told him. Every single day.

  Before I know it, we're across the pool at the shallow end. Henry's shoulder brushes the slick, tiled edge.

  "There." He stands upright and my feet touch the pool's bottom. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

  We're close enough that I can taste his breath--smoky wood, whiskey, and man.

  "No. Not so bad."

  And I feel like I'm in a daze, like I'm in a dream. Our gazes lock and Henry's finger runs from my forehead, down my cheek to my chin, stroking back a damp lock of hair.

  "Sarah . . ." he says, almost groaning.

  He leans in closer, slowly . . .

  And I blink and turn away.

  Because maybe he's right after all. Maybe I am afraid all the time.

  I move to the edge of the pool, out of his embrace. A waterfall pours from my sopping clothes as I lift myself out, my voice quickly chirping with cheeriness.

  "Come on now, out we go."

  I wrap one towel from the lounge chair around my chest and unfold the other, holding it open for him. Henry hesitates, looking ready to argue.

  "You promised," I remind him.

  He sighs dramatically and lowers his lips into the water, blowing out a wet raspberry. But then he climbs up the steps, holding the railing, and takes the towel from me, rubbing it over his shoulders and down his arms.

  I try not to look, but when he dries his stomach my eyes drop--and the clear, hard outline of his thick erection against his swim trunks is unmistakable. And magnificent.

  I know he's caught me looking when he teases, "Will you tuck me into bed, Titebottum? Give me a good-night kiss . . . somewhere?"

  I tighten the towel at my chest, hating how prim the action must look, but still replying, "No. That honor goes to James."

  He scoffs. "Spoilsport."

  AFTER OU
R NIGHT AT THE pool, things are different between Sarah and me. More. Closer. I still make her blush prettily--but it's a soft pink that blooms on her cheeks now, not the intense deep scarlet that resulted from my first teasings. She still keeps to herself mostly, reading in a corner or under a tree, but she comes out to watch as we film, and more than once I've spotted her chatting and laughing with Laura Benningson and Princess Alpacca, with Guermo's broody translating assistance.

  I haven't slept in my own room--or attempted to--since that first night. I thought the producers would give me shit for that, but Vanessa explained they're not counting on the cameras catching anything interesting there--they're there in case something good just happens to occur.

  And while my days are spent ziplining and bungee jumping, shearing wool on a sheep farm and swimming in hot springs with a different lady every time, before bestowing a dwindling number of glass-slipper charms--like a randy male tooth fairy--my nights are spent in a blissful hell of unrequited lust.

  Because I can't forget the feel of Sarah pressed against me in the water, slick and soft and wet. She's almost constantly in my thoughts.

  She haunts my dreams.

  And she's caused me, more than once, to wake up painfully hard and snuggled up against the sweetest, tightest of Titebottums--using every ounce of self-restraint I have to keep from humping her in her sleep.

  At night, when Sarah hums while reading her bland, classic novels in bed, I yearn to feel those lovely lips humming around my cock. When she sighs in her sleep, I think of how she would sound moaning for more. When she absentmindedly twirls her hair around her finger, I imagine fisting my hand in those dark, silky tresses and teaching her every filthy delight I know--and I know a lot.

  The other evening when I walked into the room, Sarah was in the bath. I stood outside the locked bathroom door, listening to the drip and swish of the water as she moved, washing herself--touching herself--and I almost came in my pants like a sodding twelve-year-old boy.

  It's becoming a problem.

  But I don't consider, for even a moment, staying in my own room. Because the best part and the hardest part--pun intended--is that after we're in bed, with Sarah in her plain cotton sleeping clothes, both of us bundled under the covers to keep out the drafty frigid air, and the lights are low . . . we chat. About everything and nothing and all the things in-between.

  She talks about her mother with her greenhouses and flowers; Penny with her Hollywood dreams; her grouchy boss, who sounds like he could be a relation of old Fergus; her library and tidy little flat and simple, organized life. I tell her about Nicholas and all the misplaced faith he has in me, though Sarah insists it's not misplaced at all. I talk about spunky, spirited Olive and how I wish they didn't live so far away. And in soft, shamed tones, I tell her about Granny--and how thoroughly I've disappointed her time and again.

  And Sarah Titebottum, as timid and bashful as she appears to be, is an honest-to-God optimist. She has no patience for self-pity or regret, but instead, like the little train that could, she believes in onward and upward, in moving forward one small step at a time.

  Though I'm familiar with the basic history, Sarah tells me excitedly about Lady Jane Grey, the nine-day Queen of England, whom she read a book about once. It was a romanticized account of how she ended up falling in love with Guildford Dudley, the man her family forced her to marry. And when dark-intentioned powers illegitimately propped Lady Jane up as Queen, it was that love that gave her the strength to dream grand dreams about the things she could do for her people and her country. Sarah's smile is so delightful, her face so animated as we talk, I don't have the heart to point out that young Lady Jane never had the chance to implement any of her plans. Because they cut her fucking head off.

  Sarah doesn't ask me about my own future, my thoughts on becoming King, and I'm grateful for that. Because I still don't want to think about it. But there's a light in her eyes and an admiration in her voice that makes me feel, deep inside, that Sarah believes I could be good at it.

  And it's different than with Nicholas. Or Granny.

  For reasons I can't put my finger on, the fact that this pure, unadulterated lass believes it--that she believes in me--makes me think that the day could come when I believe it too.

  Midway through the second week of filming, we wrap an outdoor shoot on the balcony at around eight p.m. As soon as the director calls cut, Elizabeth twines herself around me like a vine of poison ivy, whispering the deviant things she wants to do to me on camera--some of which I'm not sure the laws of physics will allow.

  I disentangle myself and charge toward my room. Well . . . Sarah's and my room. But when I walk in, I find her filling her worn satchel with her books--looking like she's on her way out the door. I saunter over to the nook, bracing my hand on the wall behind her, and lean in.

  "And just where are you sneaking off to so late at night?"

  She looks up at me, her mouth tightening into an amused bow.

  "I'm not sneaking and it's hardly the middle of the night, Henry."

  She smells like sweets and I want to lick her. Up, down, and all around.

  So I pretend she hasn't spoken and continue with my train of thought--it's much more interesting anyway.

  "Are you on your way to a hot date with a secret lover, perhaps? Or maybe you belong to a sex club? A seedy, back-alley place you visit every chance you can, but not nearly as often as you'd like, where every fetish--no matter how depraved--is rapturously indulged."

  My eyes travel down her body, visually caressing the sumptuous curves beneath her tight black turtleneck and leggings. "Maybe a naughty librarian fantasy? Or is it a cat-burglar role play? You're caught sifting through some wealthy, well-hung aristocrat's bedroom and have to beg, 'Oh please don't turn me in, My Lord--however can I persuade you? I'll do anything . . .'"

  Delicate eyebrows rise above the wire frame of her glasses. "That's very . . . specific. Seems like you've given this a lot of thought."

  "You have no idea." I lean in closer. "Where are we going, love?"

  "We?" Her eyes are darker--dilated, and her chest rises and falls in quick, excited pants. I wonder if she even realizes it. "I have a meeting. Mother's sent her car to take me. You can't come, Henry."

  "I can come lots of times. My stamina is legendary. Do you want me to show you?"

  Her voice comes out soft, husky. "You can't come with me."

  "That sounds like a challenge." I smirk slowly. "I bet I could time it just right."

  Her mobile pings, alerting her to the text that her car is out front. She blinks and ducks under my arm, scooting away--and like the dog I am, I want to chase her.

  "What kind of meeting?"

  Sarah slips into her coat. "A club meeting."

  And I'm about to bring up the sex club again and ratchet up the raunchy--but then it all becomes clear.

  "It's a book club, isn't it?"

  Of course it is.

  Sarah nods. "The bi-monthly meeting of The Austenites."

  And here I am, again, trying not to laugh.

  She takes one look at my face and jabs her finger into my chest. And the small, sharp contact makes my cock grow thick and hard.

  Celibacy is making me crazy.

  "Don't you dare laugh."

  I bite my lip and catch her gazing at my mouth.

  "The Austenites," I repeat, clearing my throat. "What do the Austenites do, exactly?"

  "Character discussions, read-alouds, community events . . . sometimes we put on plays."

  "Sounds riveting. I've never been to a book club meeting. Seems like something everyone should try at least once."

  She crosses her arms, making her breasts squeeze and lift.

  "You'll hate it."

  I cross my arms, and her eyes fall to my biceps--she's been doing that a lot lately, the naughty virgin voyeur.

  "I'm getting the feeling you don't want me to go. Are you ashamed of me? That hurts, Titty-bottum--I'm wounded."

  Sh
e laughs disdainfully. "No you're not. And it has nothing to do with me not wanting you to go--you can't go. There are about thirty Austenites. As soon as they spot you, word will get out that you were in Castlebrook."

  "Oh the horror, because Castlebrook is the hub of the social scene and media elites."

  That was sarcasm, in case you weren't sure. Sarah is, which is why her eyes rolls behind her glasses. "It only takes one set of loose lips for the Queen to find out you were there when you're supposed to be here. And the producers don't want you going anywhere, anyway."

  "I could ditch?"

  She blows a puff of breath up at her dark bangs, which have fallen too close to her eyes.

  And now I'm thinking about Sarah blowing things.

  "And then you'll have to wear the monkey."

  "I fear no man or monkey. But it is sort of creepy, isn't it?" I groan. "Fucking James."

  Sarah mocks me. "Right, fucking James is trying to keep you safe and alive and not kidnapped, like it's his job or something. Bastard."

  Huh, look at that. Sarah can do sarcasm too. That's sexy. And she said the word fucking--which makes me think about fucking her--on the bed, the sofa . . . Christ, in the nook. She would be absolutely wild in the nook.

  Talk about a fantasy--that one's going straight to the top of the wank bank.

  "I'll be bored here by myself," I whine, just to see her smile. "I guess I'll rub one out. Or . . . five. Because that's how I roll. And how I rub."

  But the thing is, this time . . . Sarah doesn't blush. She just looks at me, eyes glazing over like she's seeing an alternate version of me. A me that's whacking off. And judging from the way she swallows hard and runs her tongue along her bottom lip, she likes what she sees.

  Fuck, that is so hot.

  She blinks, snapping out of it, adorably flustered. "I . . . ah . . . I have to go."

  I wave.

  Halfway through the door, Sarah stops and turns around. "Henry?"

  "Mmm?"

  She points her finger at me. "Stay."

  I smile and salute her.

  With narrowed eyes, she backs out of the door, closing it behind her.

  And I sit on the uncomfortable sofa for five whole minutes, thinking. And then I get up.

  Because I still don't like doing what I'm told.

  Two hours later, the car pulls up to Concordia Library--I'm assuming this is where the holy book club meeting is held. Sarah had a valid point about it not being good if word got around that I was in town, so I gave her a healthy head start and plan to slip in undetected in the back to see her in action.