Perry and Her Princes

by Serena Akeroyd

  Was it selfish? Perhaps. But he’d waited all these years and couldn’t bear the idea of maintaining his need for her a moment longer.

  “I have to tell you something that you’re not going to like.”

  He heard her suck in a sharp breath.

  “W-What?” Before he could speak, she bit off, “He doesn’t have a disease or something, does he?”

  His eyes widened at that, and he turned to gawk at her. “No! Jesus, Perry, your imagination is nuts sometimes.”

  She scowled at him, folded her arms across her chest with a huff. “Well, what’s the bad news if it isn’t to do with his health?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I-I know it’s totally inappropriate, but I’ve been waiting for the right time.”

  “The right time for what?” she prompted, her beautiful green eyes squinting at him.

  He sighed. “You didn’t take out your contacts last night.”

  Her scowl deepened. “Don’t change the subject.”

  He clenched his jaw. “That’s part of the subject. How do you think I know that? Because I know you. I know everything about you. How you chew on dry spaghetti before you dump some in the pan. How you resole the same damn black flats time and time again because they don’t pinch your toes. How you smile at Tom and Jerry like they’re the most hilarious characters ever.”

  “Well, they kind of are,” she mumbled.

  “I know all that,” he said, ignoring her and sucking in a sharp breath. “Because I love you.”

  Edward tapped Flair with his heels, urging the stallion from a gallop to a canter. He clicked his tongue, patted the beast’s heaving neck, and let his favorite horse calm down.

  He had access to the entire household’s stable, but he favored three.

  Flair was his favorite as he’d seen him being born. It was a moment he’d never forget.

  It hadn’t been the first birth he’d witnessed, but something about watching Flair come into the world and almost leave it within the space of a few hours had wrought a connection between them.

  Edward, much to the surprise of the stable hands on staff if not the husbandry director, had helped care for the colt as a fever had claimed the tiny creature. Had helped feed him. Had tended to him.

  For that care, Flair was devoted to him.

  Would follow him around like a pup if the stallion had a say in the matter.

  Edward’s lips twitched at the notion of being stalked by the Palomino. It would certainly have tongues wagging in court.

  Not that he wasn’t used to that, he thought wryly.

  In his early twenties, he’d raised hell. A lot of which had been kept buried thanks to the country’s media laws, but gossip still spread. One couldn’t stop word of mouth even if one could stop a photo being created and being spread around.

  When he’d married, he’d determined to stop the wildness in its tracks. Arabella had been a safe choice for a wife. She’d have made a fine queen. She had all the titles, the appropriate education. She’d been reared, gently, toward being a rich and powerful man’s partner.

  Well, partner was too generous a word, but at the same time, it was far too frugal.

  She’d been raised to be a queen. Yet that gave her very little abilities in the real world.

  Still, he’d grown fond of her. Had hurt when she’d passed.

  She hadn’t been right for him, just as he hadn’t been right for her, but her death saddened him. Had made him recalibrate his life, wonder if he was heading on the right path.

  Two years after Arabella’s death, he had to wonder if he’d come to any decisions about that.

  He’d epitomized the gracious Crown Prince of this glorious nation. Had focused all his efforts on being what his country needed with his own needs being shoved aside, as any man in his position was accustomed to sacrificing his own wants for the greater good.

  Yet here George was. Back again. Mischief at hand. A promise in his presence.

  Edward clenched his jaw as he peered around the fields surrounding the palace that had been his home since birth.

  He’d been born here, held aloft on the palace balcony at the christening. He’d played with toy trains here, dealt with teenage acne, learned how to protect himself in case of a kidnapping attempt, suffered at the hands of Veronia’s enemies, and had married and become a widower all while living within the walls of the castle.

  It was a grand old dame, he’d give it that.

  Tall and proud. Ancient and glorious with it. Huge walls were covered in swathes of ivy, and the windows glinted in the warm morning sunlight.

  He smiled. The palace had been more than a home, and was, in many ways, a gilded cage. A thought that had his smile dying.

  Acres of green fields surrounded the palace. The luscious grasses shone like shamrocks against the bright cerulean sky. It was like a blanket, so heavy and warm. That alone told him it was going to be another beautiful day in his kingdom.

  Behind, he could hear the galloping of his guards’ horses. They tried to give him space, and when they forgot, he often raced ahead to attain some for himself.

  It was unfair of him and stupid too, but sometimes, a man could only fear his passing so much without it overtaking everything.

  He spent half his time worrying about state affairs as he did his death. At forty-one, he was too young to fear that, but he did. He had no heir save for George.

  Arabella, for all her perfection, hadn’t done her duty in that regard. Her broodmare of a womb had never born fruit, and the kingdom was still disenfranchised as a result.

  Edward wouldn’t even contemplate getting remarried were it not for the fact he needed an heir, as George reigning as King was too ludicrous an idea—a notion his brother would wholeheartedly concur with.

  His lips twitched at the very idea as Jameson muttered at his side, “You promised to stop doing that, sir.”

  He shot the angry Scot a look. “You promised to give me some space.”

  “And we give as much as we can.” Jameson cast his partner, Vazquez, a look. “But there’s been some threats of late—”

  Before he could carry on, Edward rolled his eyes. “When aren’t there threats?”

  It was a rhetorical question. Mostly.

  Threats to their safety was as part and parcel of life as it was living in a palace and wearing a crown at state events.

  After a while, the vague air of danger merged into the rest of the slush pile that was life.

  Jameson heaved out a breath. “This one is more serious than most, sir.”

  Edward pursed his lips. “Do you remember how long it took me to get you to call me sir?” In his world, sir was considered the height of informality—a notion that had him hiding an eye roll.

  Jameson grimaced at the question, well aware of where Edward was heading with this line of questioning. “Five years, sir.”

  Edward nodded. “And you’ve been working for me how long?”

  “Eighteen years, sir.”

  “Exactly.” Time was a relative concept for them.

  Jameson huffed. “You can’t…. we can’t afford to get soft in regard to your security, Edward. Dammit, you know how the nuts can be.”

  His lips twitched. “Dear me. An ‘Edward.’ My father didn’t mention a kidnapping attempt.” For Jameson to drop all formality, that was the only thing it could be.

  “No. He decided against it,” was all the Scot said.

  Edward pursed his lips. “I’m about to gallop back to the castle. If you can’t keep up, it’s your own fault.” He tapped Flair into a gallop and took off over the rolling hills of the royal estate without a backward glance.

  He heard Jameson curse, then the thundering hooves of the guards’ beasts as they followed him.

  Clods of soil shot up around Flair’s legs as they raced toward the stables. To his left, he saw a deer in the royal forest that surrounded one half of the castle. The natural shield had been a defense in the days of Napoleon and the scene of
grand wars. Not only did his ancestors take shelter behind the thick trees, they also hunted amongst them. But now, hunting was banned. Stags and does, the natural flora and fauna Veronia were famed for, had claimed the forests back.

  When they were about to verge onto cobbles instead of grass, he slowed Flair down and let him catch his breath gradually before they walked into the courtyard.

  The stables were bustling, and a hand appeared to grab Flair for a brush down. Gone were the days when he could care for Flair himself. Now, riding his favorite pet was a fiercely guarded moment in a day.

  His secretary, Marcel, tried to insist he didn’t have enough time, but Edward put his foot down. Often, he wondered who the prince in their relationship was. Marcel certainly seemed to forget his place from time to time.

  To the timid girl holding Flair’s reins, he murmured, “Thank you. I rode him hard. Give him a treat from me.”

  She smiled at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a way that spoke of a heavily outdoor life. “I’ll do that, your highness,” she told him cheerfully, squinting up at the sun as she monitored the blue sky. “Nice day for it, Flair,” she mumbled to the horse, forgetting about Edward’s presence once he’d jumped down and the horse’s reins were in her hand.

  He hid a laugh at her lack of regard—horse people were the same the world over. It was why he loved being around the stables. Only new staff were surprised to see him. The regulars knew the stables were more of a home to him than Masonbrook Castle itself.

  Edward tapped Flair’s behind, gently stroking the beast’s heaving flanks just as his guards made an appearance in the courtyard. Striding away from them once they had him in their sights, he headed for the family’s private entrance to the castle on the east side of the estate.

  As he walked, he reached for his cellphone and called his father. “Where are you?” he asked.

  Edward, George, and Marianne were probably the only ones who didn’t revere Philippe. Their mother had taught them well—respect him, love him, treat him with all the rights a good father deserved, but never forget Philippe was father first. King second.

  At least, in their private lives.

  “In my study. Why?”

  Philippe’s voice was wary, and Edward narrowed his eyes at it. Behind him, he heard the thundering feet as Vasquez and Jameson caught up. Though they were fit, their breaths were as thunderous as their pace. There’d been a large gap between them and him.

  “Because I need to talk to you about a security issue.”

  Philippe sighed. “You know?”

  “I know something,” he amended. “I want to know more.”

  “I’ll be in my study until twelve.”

  Edward’s brows rose. “So long?”

  “A cancellation in my morning.”

  That was unheard of.

  Edward frowned. “On whose part? Yours or theirs?”

  “Mine. I had business I needed to tend to.”

  His frown deepened but all he said was, “I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Fine, son.”

  The King cut the call first, leaving Edward to ponder what the hell had happened.

  He’d known of only a handful of occasions when his father had a whole morning free. Usually, when he was ill. That was it. And never did he cancel events unless the doctors insisted he remain in bed.

  Even then his father only complied if he was contagious.

  Rolling his eyes at his father’s obstinacy, he pressed his personal code into the private entrance at the east wall.

  It was innocuous. A wooden door that looked as though it had been there since the days of the castle’s construction. A little battered and with bolts the size of his fist on it, it was a ruse.

  The door was made to appear ancient. Instead, it contained some alloy that made it bullet and battering ram-proof. The code automated the door’s opening sequence and he strode into the dim hallway.

  The corridor was long and relatively bleak. There was no need for decoration here as this had once been a servants’ walkway before the days of high security.

  Now, the family used it for expediency. Nothing more, nothing less.

  The white walls were unadorned, the floor a rough tile as he strode toward their private quarters which were right at the end of the corridor at the west side of the castle.

  He pressed his code into the next door, a further two were required before he reached their personal living space.

  The opulence made a swift reappearance, but he’d long since ceased noticing it. A grievous shame perhaps, but this was his home. Not a museum or a place of exhibition.

  As he passed the first few doors on the way toward his father’s study right at the end of the hall, he heard a shriek of sound.

  Realizing it was coming from Perry’s room, his step faltered.

  “You did not just say that!”

  The shriek was Perry… he’d never known anyone to shriek. Not in the castle, anyway. He wasn’t sure if his mother was capable of more than a gentle grimace of annoyance.

  She certainly never argued with his father. At least, not as far as he or George knew.

  Their parents always presented the most united of fronts. But even united fronts had cracks in their shells from time to time, he supposed. He had to imagine they spent their anger in private, but if they did, he’d certainly never overheard it.

  As she yelled something again, something he couldn’t quite make out, his lips twitched.

  So American.

  Her loudness was almost appealing. But then, everything about Perry was appealing. It was why his brother’s words irritated him.

  She should not have been their type, and yet, Perry was obviously deeply under George’s skin, and Edward knew his own body too well to fail to realize there was something about her that worked under his defenses too.

  He’d barely spoken to her yesterday. Had listened to her converse with his parents, interjecting here and there when polite. She had a brain on her shoulders—no surprise there considering her doctorate. But more than that, she was the kind of woman who…

  Arabella had been cold. In every aspect of their life. Hell, in their bedroom, she’d been positively frigid.

  There was a reason she hadn’t been able to do her duty and provide an heir… touching her had been as unpleasant for him as it had been for her. Sperm didn’t do much fertilizing when they were frozen solid in a man’s ball sack, and Arabella had certainly never made him thaw.

  Perry, on the other hand, made him burn.

  She was vivacious. Her face was animated, her brows mobile, her lips quick to smile. She talked with her hands, unashamed to throw passion into her speech. She was the very opposite of the woman who’d once been his wife.

  When another yell came from the bedroom, and he heard a low murmur that sounded like George, he headed to the door and knocked.

  When Xavier opened it, Edward reared back. “What are you doing here?”

  “Good to see you too, Ed,” Xavier said with a sheepish grin.

  Edward grunted, and then as he took his cousin’s presence in, he felt a spark of…What was that?

  Jealousy?

  No. He couldn’t be jealous. Could he?

  Envious of Xavier’s mussed form, the love bites on his throat. The air of satisfaction he carried like an expansive shield… The man had recently fucked.

  And as he was in Perry’s bedroom at eight in the morning, Edward didn’t have to work hard to figure out who his cousin had slept with. As rage swelled through him, Edward had to accept one single, stunning fact.

  George was right.

  Chapter Six

  “Because I love you.”

  For a second, Perry felt certain she’d lost control of her senses. George couldn’t love her. He didn’t love her. But he was looking at her like he did.

  So, her ears and her eyes were in on the conspiracy, because they were working, but were obviously malfunctioning.

  After a friendship that h
ad endured six years, after a friendship that had endured more than half of that time with one of them secretly loving the other—her, and not him—he was telling her that was a lie?

  That he loved her, too?

  The dressing room was, as with the rest of the palace, over the top. There was a wall of empty hangers, but a chaise longue sat catty corner to one wall, with a dressing table complete with a huge ass mirror diagonal to it.

  She staggered back to sit on it, and sat so hard, she inadvertently pushed it back. The scraping sound jolted her even further as she shook her head and sank into the plush chair.

  “Why?”

  The question surprised even her. Why was she asking that? Why did she need to know why? How come she didn’t need to know how long or when or what had changed?

  Just… why?

  He stared at her blankly. Wrapped up in a bedsheet so he looked like a mummy in a movie from 20s’ Hollywood rather than today’s cinematic wonder, he wasn’t the male model hunk she was used to seeing.

  Not that she hadn’t seen him worse. Hair scruffy from bedhead—although, granted, he’d looked cute as fuck all mussed and tousled. Looking green thanks to the flu—not so cute. Head to toe in mud after a game of rugby.

  She’d seen him at his best, last night in that sexy as hell tux, and at his worst… well, not this morning. Even in a bedsheet, he looked tousled and hot even if he also seemed unsure, frightened, and—though it beggared belief—vulnerable.

  It was the latter that made her believe. The latter that made her think this wasn’t some elaborate prank he was playing because he’d caught her with his cousin.

  Oh God, Xavier.

  She pressed a hand to her mouth.

  What would he think of her just skipping out on him like she had?

  Before she could let the embarrassment swell, he murmured, “Because you’re you.”

  That wasn’t the answer she’d expected. Maybe her confusion showed on her face because he jerked his chin in the air.

  “You eat cereal for dinner not breakfast. You work too hard and get lost in your experiments so we can be talking about the day, and all of a sudden, you’ll do a mental wander. You’re gorgeous even though you think you’re fat. Your hair is like silk. When you smile, you make my heart feel too full. Your tears make that same heart break.” He blew out a shaky breath, then with a rueful smile, said, “I understand Elizabeth Barrett Browning now.”