by Emma Chase
“Do you want more?” Edward asks against my lips.
“Yes,” I breathe out. “Teach me.”
He looks down at me, his green eyes dark, almost black with hunger.
“Open your mouth for me. Give me your tongue, Lenora.”
I’m nodding mindlessly, and his mouth swoops down and the press of his kiss comes back again. This time I open for him and his firm, hot tongue plunges between my lips, slowly stroking my own. And I feel brave and beautiful . . . and wanted. I stroke back, rubbing my tongue against his, mirroring his movements.
He groans deep and hard from his chest. And even with a crown on my head, I’ve never felt so powerful. That sound. I want to make him make that sound again. Longer and lower.
The flesh between my legs is throbbing now and my hips swivel against him, all on their own. The strong bands of Edward’s arms wrap around my back, lifting me off my feet so my face is above his. And still our lips move on each other’s and our mouths press and our tongues swirl and I never want it to end.
My hands wrap around his shoulders, his neck, his corded muscles contracting under my palms. I sink them into the golden silk of his hair and he groans again—making me feel more like a queen than I ever have before.
His chest expands against mine hard—both of us breathing heavily. Edward tears his lips from mine, and they rake across my chin, my jaw, to my neck. I feel the decadent wet lick of his tongue and the bite of his teeth on my skin.
Yes . . .
And I gasp senseless words, but Edward understands.
Please . . .
Then I’m falling as he sits back on the sofa, taking me with him. His lips return to my mouth and his hand slides into my hair, cradling my skull, turning me how he wants me. I feel the touch of his palm on my face and I cover his with mine, wanting to touch him in every way I can. Wanting to burrow closer, feeling a pull in my chest from my heart to his.
My Edward . . .
A voice whispers in my head—it’s the first time I’ve thought of this man I’m going to marry as mine.
Mine.
What a lucky girl I am.
Edward’s lips slow, and then with one final kiss, they still. And our foreheads press against each other’s and we look into each other’s eyes, panting, breathing the same air.
“Did you like it?” he asks.
I smile and laugh giddily.
“I liked it so much.”
I move forward and Edward pulls back, teasing me—making me chase his lips.
“How much?”
“So much . . . I want another lesson.”
He chuckles, then pulls me close across his lap and we begin all over again.
And it’s as if something inside me—some joyous part of me that I didn’t even know was sleeping—has finally been awakened, with his kiss.
FOR THE LAST TWO WEEKS, Edward and I have been practicing our kissing. In my office, the gardens, the library . . . one time in the chapel, God save our souls. And judging by his reaction—the manly groans that my stroking tongue pulls from his throat, the way his fingers grasp at me desperately, the way he grows thick and hard and thrusts his arousal against me—I think I’m getting the hang of it. Sometimes, we combine the touching and the kissing, over our clothing, and it is . . . incredible. A whole new world of sensations and feeling.
Everything with Edward is incredible.
Tonight, there’s a dinner party at the palace, a pre-wedding celebration. It’s a small affair, only about three hundred guests. Alfie is there with his children, and Michael as well—he’ll be serving as Edward’s best man. But dinner parties are my least favorite sort of event—because of the rules, the protocol. No one is allowed to start their meal before the Queen takes her first bite, and when I place my fork down across my plate, no one is allowed to take a bite afterward. So basically, the entire evening is spent with every eye on me, and it’s all traditions and rituals.
And during after-dinner cocktails—politics, of course. Even on a night meant to celebrate the upcoming royal nuptials, politics reigns supreme.
“I respectfully ask you to reconsider, Your Majesty. All of our neighboring nations have contributed troops.”
Lord Strathmoore, a slick, greasy-looking marquis who never met a war he didn’t like—or profit from—disagrees with my recent decision to reject joining an international military intervention in Malaya. Many of the lords disagreed with me, but none as vocally as Strathmoore.
I sip my liqueur and shake my head. “And if all the nations jumped off a bridge, would you ask Wessco’s boys to hold their noses and jump as well? No. I don’t believe it’s our battle to fight.”
Edward stands beside me, his arm almost brushing the sleeve of my burgundy satin dress. From the corner of my eye, I see his chin dip slightly and though we haven’t discussed international issues in depth, I believe he agrees with me. And I value his opinion—not because we’re going to be married, but because he’s an intelligent, experienced and worldly man.
“We will be a laughingstock.”
I shrug. “Man’s greatest fear is being laughed at. Women don’t share that worry—we’re laughed at practically every day of our lives.”
Edward lifts his glass to me. “Well said, Your Majesty.”
Strathmoore shifts his gaze. “You fought in the war, Anthorp. What is your opinion on military intervention?
Edward’s voice is firm and confident, but low with an almost reverent tone. “War is . . . surprising.”
“Surprising?” Strathmoore repeats.
“A man goes into it thinking he knows what to expect. Guns and bombs, cannons and killing. But the actual brutality of it—watching the life fade from a young lad’s eyes, seeing men lose their limbs and others lose their souls to barbarity—it’s surprising. Something that has to be experienced to be truly understood.”
“Have you become a pacifist, then?”
“Not at all. I have no objection to going to war for a just cause, a noble cause. But as the Queen said, risking the lives of boys you send to a fight that is not ours, just to show that you can, displays more fear and cowardice than strength.”
Later, when Strathmoore has moved on to another conversation and Edward and I stand alone, I look at him. Letting my eyes stroke over the way his black tuxedo molds to his muscular form, and his thick, blond hair—now shorter than when we first met—still has a few strands falling forward over his forehead, hinting at his wild, roguish side.
“You’re very dashing tonight, Edward.”
Yesterday, Miriam told me all about flirting, and shared some pointers—so I’m giving it a go.
“And so well behaved. Following all the ‘shoulds’ and ‘shouldn’ts.’”
His eyes alight on me.
“And does that turn you on, love?”
My heart does a little flip, but I give him a daring smile.
“It does.”
He brings his glass to his lips, smirking.
“Noted.”
Edward has been staying in Guthrie House—the previously empty residence of the Crown Prince or Princess—since he arrived at the palace. But after dinner, after I dismiss my maid for the evening and walk into my bedroom, Edward is there. Reclined on my paisley chaise longue, his arms folded behind his head, his long, powerful legs stretched out.
I really ought to be appalled that he’s here without permission . . . but I’m really not at’all.
“That dinner was fucking painful.” He pulls his tie loose and opens the top buttons of his shirt. “So many sticks up so many arses . . . the awkwardness and boredom is going to haunt me for days.”
I cross my arms.
“Is that why you’ve snuck into my room? To complain about the bane of dinner etiquette?”
Smoothly, he rises from the longue and stalks over to me. “Actually, I’ve snuck into your room for another reason.”
“Love lessons?” I suggest with a raised brow.
His eyes go to my lips. And
I run my tongue along the bottom, because I’ve learned that it drives Edward mad. His throat ripples as he swallows hard.
“I have a very particular lesson in mind for tonight—but that’s for later. For now, I was wondering if you wanted to see what a real good time is all about? I could show you. I want to show you.”
Something about the way he says it makes me think I’m not going to like this one bit . . . and I’m going to love it all at the same time.
“What do you say, Lenny?”
I say his favorite word. “Yes.”
“Why do I have to take my hair down, again?” I ask Edward from my vanity table.
“You’ll see,” he calls back from my dressing room.
I pull out the pins from my hair and shake out the bun. Dark waves cascade down my back. I leave my bangs swept to the right and tie back just the sides of my hair, leaving the rest long and full almost to my waist. It’s styled neatly, but still down as Edward requested.
When he catches sight of me in the dressing room door, he freezes. And then he whistles. “Outstanding.”
And pleasing electric tingles dance over every inch of my skin.
Edward goes back to strolling around the dressing room, sliding the hangers aside, looking for an appropriate outfit for whatever this “good time” entails. He pauses at a peach silk nightgown and fingers the lace trim.
“This is a surprise. I had you figured for a flannel pajamas type of girl. Or . . . burlap, to match your personality.” He winks.
And I give Edward “the finger”—just like his brother taught me.
It amuses him immensely.
“Ah—that’s the one.” He holds up a pleated skirt and a royal blue short-sleeved blouse with buttons up the front and a draped-bow neckline. It’s a casual ensemble, something I would wear around the palace if the day ever came that I had nothing to do. “Put these on.”
“This is a terrible idea,” I remind Edward.
“So you’ve said.”
I grasp the tight web of ivy that covers the shadowed south corner of the wall that surrounds the palace property and climb.
“Ridiculous. And stupid.”
“You’ve mentioned that as well,” he says from below me, where he’s positioned to catch me if I slip. “Almost there.”
“I don’t understand why we have to sneak out.”
“Have you ever done it before?” Edward asks.
“No.”
“That’s why. Everyone should do everything once. Even you—especially you.”
When we reach the top of the wall, I sit, waiting, while Edward lifts himself over, landing easily on the pavement on the other side.
He lifts his arms up toward me. “Jump.”
I cross my arms instead. “Why can’t security come with us?”
“Because then everyone will know who you are—I want you to blend.”
“I’ve never blended a day in my life.”
“You will tonight. Jump, Lenora.”
With a huff, I push off the wall . . . right into Edward’s arms. He sets me down and scoops my pumps up from where he tossed them over earlier, slipping one on each foot.
“Although,” he grins, “you look bloody fantastic in that skirt. Did I mention that? Almost changed all my plans when I saw you in it.”
I look up and down the dim, deserted street. Not even the moon is out tonight and the air is cool on my bare arms.
“How do you feel?”
I’ve never been outside the palace walls without security. Not once.
“Naked.”
Edward’s mouth quirks. “That would be a whole different kind of good time.” His hands slide up and down my arms, warming me. “You’re not naked—I’ll be your armor tonight.”
He guides me to the open-topped teal Cadillac convertible waiting at the curb, but I stop short before I slide in.
Because suddenly the full ramifications of what we’re doing settle in. Panic’s icy fingers grip my lungs and it’s like I can’t breathe and I’m breathing too much at the same time.
“Edward . . . I can’t . . .”
“Lenny, look at me.”
“So much could go wrong. No one will know where I am. What if there’s an emergency? An international incident? What if—”
Warm, worshiping lips swallow my words. They move against mine with steady, sultry strokes, stoking a calm pleasure in the very center of me. Safe arms engulf me—capture me—holding me dear and close, and I’m surrounded by the scent of summer, the scent of Edward.
He looks into my eyes, brushing my cheek. “I’ve thought of all that. I’ve taken care of it. Trust me, Lenora.”
It’s difficult. More difficult than I imagined. Letting go, putting my faith in another person. It goes against all my instincts, everything I’ve been taught.
But for Edward, I’ll try. For him, I will.
“All right.”
He closes the car door, trots around the other side and slides in behind the wheel.
And we’re off.
LENORA STANDS ON THE PAVEMENT, tilts her head and reads the sign above the door.
“The Horny Goat.”
I stand beside her. “It was a whorehouse back in the day.”
“You’ve brought me to a whorehouse?”
“‘Back in the day’ being the key words.”
She frowns. “It’s a terrible name for a whorehouse. Did they specialize in bestiality?”
I peer down at her. “I’m surprised you know that term.”
She shrugs a pretty shoulder. “I read things.”
And I laugh. “It may have been a terrible name for a whorehouse, but it’s a fantastic name for a pub.”
I take her hand and open the door and we walk into the best damn pub in all of Wessco—with sticky floors, crooked walls, a rickety roof and a one-of-a-kind character of an owner named Donald Macalister behind the bar.
“Donald and I served together in the war,” I tell Lenora.
He spots me as we step up to the bar, grinning around the toothpick between his lips.
“There he is! Edward!” He ruffles my hair and engulfs me in a bear hug.
“It’s good to see you, Donald, damn good.” I smack his back.
I didn’t long for many things while I was away, but when I did, it was for moments like this. A laugh, a drink, taking the piss with an old friend who knows me inside and out. It’s always the simplest moments we miss the most.
“How are you, mate?” He straightens up, gripping my shoulders. “As if I have to ask. It wasn’t enough you were born with a silver spoon up your arse, now that pretty face has moved you into the palace? It’s no wonder the Qu—”
And then he sees Lenora. And goes stock-still with shock.
Behind the bar, Donald’s wife notices her too. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”
Donald starts to bow.
“Nooo . . .” I warn, because a bow will draw attention. “Don’t.”
He holds still, the toothpick dropping out of his mouth.
Lenora looks to me, at a bit of a loss.
“Say hello, love. You’re terrifying the man.”
She waves at him with her fingers. “Hello, Donald. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You have a very . . . colorful establishment here.”
And the three-hundred-pound, six-foot-five man . . . just stares. I wave my hand in front of his face. He doesn’t even blink. Lenny’s bewitched him.
“All right then.” I catch Donald’s wife’s eyes. “Two pints, please, Mary. And a lifetime of secrecy.”
That snaps Donald out of the trance. He pours us two Guinnesses and slides them across the bar to me. Then he looks Lenny in the eyes.
“Come by anytime you like, Your . . . uh . . . Ma’am. Enjoy a drink or a dance—what you do and say here will never leave this room.” He taps the bar. “You have the word of Donald Macalister on that.”
With my hand on her lower back, I guide Lenny to a table in the back corner. She takes a
sip from her mug and a line of foam clings to her upper lip. I want to lick it off. But she beats me to it, swiping it with her tongue.
“Still feeling naked?” I ask.
“No.” She smiles, glancing around. “It’s . . . nice. No one’s looking at me. I can’t remember the last time no one looked at me.”
For a bit, we just enjoy our drinks. But the band is good tonight. A foursome playing quick-tempo folk songs, the kind of music that begs to be danced to.
“Fancy a dance, lass?” I ask.
And Christ, she lights up for me—comes alive right before my eyes. So much joy inside her just waiting to let loose.
“I would love to.”
I take her hand and for the next hour, we swirl around the dance floor. Spinning and turning until her hair is damp at the nape of her neck and we work up a thirst for another pint. We share a slice of Mary’s sweet cake, eating with our hands and Lenny sucks at the tip of her fingers, driving me mad.
The band starts a new set with a slower tune and lyrics of love and loss. Amongst several other couples—who don’t pay us any mind—I guide my girl back to the dance floor, take her in the circle of my arms and rock her close. Holding her tight, resting my lips against her hair, our bodies pressed and aligned—a divine torture.
As the last notes of the song echo in the air, I tip Lenny’s head up and slant my mouth over hers in a quick, hot kiss meant to brand—to mark and remember this moment.
Then the sad, slow song is swept away by the sharp quick slide of a fiddle. Murmurs of approval ripple through the dance floor and Lenny throws her head back and laughs—lusty and full and beautiful.
She clasps the hand of my bended arm and my other hand holds her waist . . . and our fast feet are off again, dancing the next hours away.
Happiness makes the Queen silly. Animated. Unreserved. She whistles the entire ride back to the palace and giggles as we scale back over the wall undetected. Back into her world—our world.
As we walk through the quiet palace hand in hand, the occasional servant gives Lenny odd looks. Most likely because of her clothes, the change in hairstyle—or it could be the glow on her cheeks and the breathtaking smile that hasn’t left her lips.
