King Size

by Lexi Whitlow

  “Of course,” Owen says. “Expensive red, white, or whiskey?”

  “You choose,” I tell him. “That’s the only thing you know more about than I do.”

  The call with my parents goes surprisingly well. My mother is shocked, and she keeps asking me if I’m happy and if I love him, which I assure her I do because I don’t want to break her heart. I am happy, so there’s no fudging there. I’m having a good time being Owen’s fake everything.

  And I’ll be able to save the two people who saved me time and time again. All of this is the only thing I can do.

  My father is just as shocked, but his reaction stems from a different root. “He’s paying you?” he asks with disbelief. “Like a dowry? He’s paying us?”

  “Yes, Dad,” I say. “In fact, just this afternoon Owen is meeting with the comptroller to get the money transferred to you. Try to hang onto it this time. Maybe manage your own investments?”

  “You’re marrying a prince?” my mom says. “A real prince.”

  “I’m marrying a real prince who is about to become a real king,” I remind them. “We haven’t set a date yet. But we will soon. I’ll let you know and book your travel.”

  “I like that one,” Owen says, peering at me from his seat halfway across the room. He’s got a glass of fancy scotch in his hand and a scandalously lurid smirk on his face.

  “Stop ogling me and zip me up,” I instruct. “Make yourself useful.”

  He sets his glass down and rises, coming behind me to help with the zipper. When he’s done, he pauses, looking me over in the mirror, hands lingering at my hips. “That’s the one,” he says. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful in it.”

  I wonder what he’d do if I turned around and faced him right now? I wonder if he’d kiss me the way he kissed me in Paris?

  I need to stop thinking these thoughts. I need to focus on the task at hand.

  The dress is a fifty-thousand-dollar gown designed by someone whose name I can’t pronounce. The fabric is so fine and soft to the touch, it’s like stroking a newborn lamb’s ear. The cut is perfectly tailored to my figure. It fits like a glove, made just for me. The color is so close to the color of my eyes it’s almost haunting to see myself wearing it. It makes my eyes shine bright, as if they’re illuminated from within.

  “I should have hired a less attractive woman for this gig,” Owen says, still taking me in. “Every man in Anglesey is going to fall in love with you. I think I might just get a little bit jealous.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “There’s not a man in this entire country who would look at me twice,” I say coldly. “I’m stamped with the royal seal. I couldn’t get laid if I walked through Cymrea Central Prison stark naked. Every man in Anglesey knows you’d hang, draw, and quarter anyone who even gives me a sideways glance. Duncan won’t even make eye contact since you got made acting king.”

  “Duncan’s a smart man,” Owen observes, reaching to lower my zipper. “That’s the dress you’re wearing tomorrow. Send the rest back.”

  With that royal proclamation, he turns and walks away without another word.

  I find myself wishing that, for once, he would stay.

  The Mid-Summer Gala is, I’m told, second only to the Christmas Gala in the long list of holiday parties hosted by the monarchy. The palace is decorated with flowers at every table and hung from every stone archway. The ballroom is festooned with bouquets and vases spilling with blooms. The sun still shines brightly, hanging high overhead at eight in the evening when the first parade of guests arrive in a train of limousines stretching from the front steps, around the main drive, out toward the palace gates, pouring onto the city streets.

  From my balcony, I watch people step out of their cars: nobles dressed to the nines in tuxedos and gowns, wrapped with furs, crowned with jeweled tiaras, diamonds glittering on their fingers, throats, and wrists.

  “It’s almost time.”

  I turn, surprised. Owen stands in the open doorway behind me. He’s dressed to the nines as well, wearing a royal blue tux coat with sharkskin lapels over a stiffly starched, tab-collar shirt. With his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped build, he could almost be a male runway model for clothes like those. He was born to wear them.

  “I’m ready,” I say. I’ve been dressed for an hour; I’m anxious to get through this evening and get past it. It’s a big “coming out,” and once it’s done I hope everything will get a little bit easier.

  “Not quite,” Owen says, half-smiling. “You’re not finished dressing.”

  “What?” I ask him, not understanding.

  He reaches into his jacket pocket, producing an oblong box. The box is hand-sized, wrapped in royal blue velvet. “You’re going to be the most beautiful woman in the palace tonight, so you should have the most beautiful gems to adorn you.”

  He opens the box, revealing a necklace composed of the most stunning array of sparkling blue sapphires and diamonds I’ve never seen before, not even in the movies. “Let me put this on you,” Owen says. “Turn around.”

  The necklace is heavy. It’s perfect, and gorgeous, and absurdly opulent. I’m astonished by how lovely it is and how well it complements the dress.

  Owen smiles at me in the mirror. “It belonged to my grandmother, and before her, her grandmother. Now it’s yours.”

  For tonight, at least.

  “You’re still not completely dressed yet,” he says, giving me a boyish grin. From another pocket he produces a smaller square box, also wrapped in blue velvet. “This one,” he says, opening the lid on a matching sapphire and diamond bracelet, “didn’t belong to anyone else, as I had it made just for you.”

  He releases the clasp, slipping the bracelet onto my gloved wrist, then secures it. “Now you’re dressed.”

  I think I ought to change my panties.

  “It’s time to go,” Owen says, threading his fingers into mine. “Showtime.”

  Because the place is overrun with guests, crowded with people in every room and corridor, security takes us, along with other members of the royal family, into the tunnels to make our way to the ballroom. It’s quite the silly adventure: a dozen over-dressed blue bloods in tuxes and ball gowns walking on delicate high heels over uneven, raw stone floors and through dank, seeping passageways toward our destination.

  There’s one member of the royal family missing: Owen’s cousin, David. As we’re hustled up a narrow, spiraling stone stairway, I ask Owen where he is.

  “He’s in Paraguay,” he says with a smirk. “Running a logging camp.”

  “That sounds horrible,” I exclaim, trying to navigate on my heels, holding tight to Owen’s strong hand, which is the only thing keeping me upright.

  “Better that than the castle tower,” he quips, referring to the jail used in an earlier era to confine traitors prior to their executions. “Or the gallows.”

  “Remind me to never really piss you off,” I reply in a low voice.

  Owen smiles, squeezing my hand. “I don’t think there’s anything you could do to get you banished to Paraguay,” he says. “The Shetland Islands, however, are looking for a new duchess—just in case you get out of line.”

  The first hour of the gala is the most awful, tedious affair I’ve ever endured. It consists of a reception line with Owen at the head, his mother to his right, and a string of royals in order of precedence shaking hands with and greeting every single guest invited to this shindig, from the highest to the lowest.

  I’m banished to a position all by myself behind the family, my hands clasped in front of me, eyes straight ahead, just waiting for the monotony to end. I see a thousand eyes fall on me, all of them curious, inquiring, examining. I feel like a speck of mold on a beautifully decorated cake. I’m the taint of sour in the otherwise pristine cream.

  “You’re doing just fine,” Duncan whispers in my ear when I begin to fidget. “Hang tough. This part is almost over. After tonight, you’ll never have to do this again. You’ll be where Her Royal Highness Princess D
alia is now—second only to the king.”

  I look up at Duncan, who’s staring straight ahead into the crowd. “Thank you,” I say. “Thanks for boosting me.”

  Duncan lets a hint of a smile. “Ma’am, it’s my pleasure. You’re the best thing to come into this creaky old house in years. You’re the best thing that’s happened to Owen since I’ve known him. Keep it up. Whatever you’re doing, it’s good for him.”

  What in the world can he possibly be talking about? I haven’t done a thing for Owen except agree to be his fake fiancée, his fake wife, and the fake mother of his royal heir.

  Once the reception line is done, Owen returns to my side. He lifts my hand in his, asking me to remove my gloves. “When I take the stage to make the announcement, everyone needs to be able to see the ring,” he says. “We can’t hide it behind formal wear.”

  The ring he gave me is stunning. It’s a gigantic sapphire wrapped in an oval of diamonds, set in platinum. This, like the necklace, belonged to his grandmother. The press is going to want pictures.

  “I’ll call you onto the stage,” Owen says. “All you have to do is come up, stand beside me and be lovely, which you already do without thinking about it. Okay?”

  I nod, my heart pounding in my chest.

  A half hour later I find myself on the elevated stage, unsure exactly how I got there, feeling Owen’s strong hands circling my waist, hearing his voice tell the huge crowd of people and flashing cameras in front of us that he feels like the luckiest man in the world.

  Ahead of us I see Her Royal Highness Princess Dalia beaming, applauding, curtsying to me. A dozen other members of the royal household follow, dipping low on bent knees. The whole room, a sea of people, go quiet, stooping to kneel. It’s the strangest, most stupefying spectacle I’ve ever witnessed.

  Owen pulls me close, leaning into my ear. “Welcome to the family business,” he nearly growls. “You’re one of us now, Duchess.”

  Later, after the handshakes and congratulations, after toasts and a thousand strangers bowing to me, saluting my health and happiness, I find myself outside the palace in the shadows with Owen, walking along a torchlit path, hand in hand.

  “You did well tonight,” he says, drawing me close, under his arm. “You won them all over and looked stunning for the cameras. You’re going to be the cover story on every tabloid paper from Madagascar to Tokyo tomorrow.”

  It’s late, and my feet hurt. What I want more than anything is to go to bed.

  “You look beautiful,” Owen says, slowing on the path. “Even more beautiful that I imagined you would, and I have a vivid imagination.”

  As exhausted as I am, I’m keenly aware that Owen is turning on the charm, and that we’re hardly alone. A half-dozen security men from the royal guard surround us. Plus, the grounds are littered with guests who, like us, are eager to escape the confines of the stifling crowds in the ballroom.

  “At some point,” Owen continues, turning to face me, “you’re going to have to admit we’re not a bad match. We may just be a good match.”

  “If irritating me is good,” I quip, “then you’re the best.”

  Duncan and another of the royal guard stand within easy earshot. Owen glares at me, then he addresses them authoritatively. “Guards, walk away.”

  They both hop-to as ordered. When they’re gone, Owen sizes me up like he’s considering a lamb chop. “I told you to keep your opinions of me between us,” he reminds me. “Not that I mind irritating you, but letting the help know it does neither of us any favors.”

  I roll my eyes at him, then conjure a cutting glare.

  “Oh, this is going to be so much fun,” he nearly growls, smirking at me.

  What’s he up to?

  Owen reaches forward, taking my hands in his, and pulls me with him onto a turn-out in the path leading into a dark tunnel of hedges that close above our heads, blocking out even a glimmer of light.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, holding on tight to Owen. “I can’t see where we’re going!”

  “Shush!”

  He pulls me around another corner and the hedges draw back, revealing a cloudless, starlit sky. There’s a beautiful little stone building in the center of an odd courtyard hidden in the hedges. Owen leads me toward it at a pace that’s difficult to keep up with in my delicate heels.

  “Slow down!” I beg. “I’ll break a heel. These shoes cost a thousand euros!”

  “Is that all?” he asks, laughing, and then he sweeps me up in his arms as if I’m a pet. When he puts me down, it’s on top of what can best be described as a stone altar in the center of the building.

  “What is this place?” I ask him, peering around, taking it in through shadows and reflected starlight.

  “This is some old king’s architectural folly,” he informs me. “Made for moments just like this.”

  He steps close, placing a hand on my knee over my dress, then pushes it aside, spreading my legs so he can get closer still. A second later, his other hand slips up my leg, coming under my skirts. He reaches my thigh, then turns inward, his hand lost to view but very much present in my awareness. It’s so dark I can barely see him, but I feel his heat, I smell him, and I hear his breathing.

  His fingers graze the inside of my thigh, high up, very near my most private places—so close that his touch makes me ache. This is what I’ve dreamed of: Owen touching me, exploring, taking his sweet time, teasing my skin.

  We shouldn’t do this—not after all the name-calling, the tedious planning.

  What would it hurt?

  His other hand slides up my bare arm, then over my shoulder, fingers eventually circling the back of my neck. He pulls me to him, opening my lips with his searching tongue, sucking me in with hungry, impatient kisses as his thumb slips higher up my thigh, finding my already-stiff clit. He presses gently over silk fabric, making me moan, making me wet.

  His mouth is skilled at drawing me out of myself. I forget I’m supposed to keep a wall up against him in retribution for how he treated me. He melts me under his touches. Every cell in my body fires when I’m skin-to-skin with him. My hand falls to his chest, fingers pressing into stiffly starched fabric stretched tight over firm muscle.

  I pour myself into his kisses. My body responds reflexively to his intrusion. I can’t hate him when it feels so perfect to be this close to him. And yet, there’s so much danger in caring for a man who is such a…

  Owen pulls back, breaking our kiss, breaking the spell. He hauls in a lungful of air then huffs out a quiet laugh. “Duchess, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you like this. I’d think you like me,” he whispers, leaning down, trailing kisses and gentle nibbles around my earlobe, down my neck, then over my shoulder.

  “I’m a very good actress,” I say, hearing the breathiness in my own voice. I’m turned on and tuned up, and there’s no way to hide it.

  He laughs again, and I feel his smile against my skin while his thumb probes deeper under the edge of my panties, finding my slit dripping and my exposed clit begging for his attention. “Hummm,” Owen purrs. “That’s Oscar-worthy acting right there.”

  He circles my clit with his thumb, pulsing me, drawing me closer and closer to the brink. “Don’t come,” he whispers, slowing his work, nicking the tops of my breasts with his teeth and lips. “I’ll make you come, but not here.”

  Can I do this with him? Be his fake and be his lover? What will it mean? I want him, but I don’t want to be just another conquest. Been there, done that, didn’t appreciate it. Maybe if we just got it over with I could get it out of my system. Maybe then I wouldn’t want him anymore.

  He steps back, withdrawing his hand from inside my panties, then casually licks his thumb clean while hanging onto my waist with his other hand.

  I groan in agony, frustrated, wanting him even more.

  “We should go,” he purrs into my neck, pulling my hair back. “Any more and I’m going to haul all those fancy skirts up and fuck you right here.”

  �
��That might be okay,” I breathe, wishing he would do just that, hoping it’ll cure me of him for good.

  He doesn’t fulfill that wish. Instead he circles both hands around my waist and lifts me, settling me on my precariously high heels in front of him. He smooths my hair and my skirts while trying to collect himself. “Let’s go back to the party, say our goodbyes, then go upstairs and have a drink in the library,” Owen says, his tone low, edged with tension. “Then we’ll see about finishing this.”

  8

  Owen

  Norah appears stunned, and it’s a feeling I share. That kiss, staged in the garden for lurking paparazzi, went farther than I planned, and it heated up genuinely.

  I thought she was just playing along. I assumed she knew someone was watching. I figured she’d threaten to cut off my hand if I got any closer. Instead she drew me in, surrendering herself rather than shutting me down.

  The royal guards fall in line behind us as I lead Norah silently toward the palace. We pass guests who bow as we approach. Making our way inside, among the gilt decoration, surrounded by satin, silk, a bounty of flowers, and the sound of so many voices lifting above the strains of orchestral music, all eyes are on us. I wonder if Norah feels as exposed as I feel in this moment. Every nerve in my body is raw, itching, sore. The only thing that’s going to soothe my discomfort is escaping this crowd, getting behind closed doors, and finding out if what happened back there is real and not just wishful thinking.

  “Where have you two been?” my mother asks when we return to the royal table. She’s sitting with the Lord Mayor of Cymrea, who nods at me, offering his congratulations on our pending nuptials.

  “Thank you, Lord Mayor,” I reply politely, then turn to my mother and her question. “We went for a walk,” I say. “And now we’re going to say goodnight. Norah’s exhausted and I’m done in, too.”