Royally Wed

by Teri Wilson

  Just this morning, James, Amelia’s royal page, had mentioned something about a leopard that had arrived, courtesy of the king of Cambodia.

  What was she supposed to do with a leopard?

  Amelia wondered if the wild animal had been labeled and stored in the ballroom with all the other gifts of china, place settings, and crystal goblets.

  Curiosity almost got the best of her, but the thought of facing all those ostentatious presents made Amelia sick to her stomach, so she kept her gaze glued to the plush crimson carpet as she passed the entrance to the ballroom.

  If she and Holden had been a normal couple—a real couple—people wouldn’t be sending them leopards. If Amelia had her way, kings, queens, and heads of state wouldn’t be sending them gifts at all. She’d much rather see them donate money to a worthy charity. But this wedding wasn’t about her. She wasn’t even sure it was about Holden, even though he was supposedly in love with her now. The wedding was about the crown. And her mother. And apparently, her mother was pro-leopard when it came to wedding presents.

  “Hello, darling.” Her Majesty looked up from her writing desk when Amelia entered the sitting room. A glorious display of lilac roses—fresh from Kensington Gardens—sat perched just to her right.

  Amelia’s mother loved roses. The staff made sure every room in the palace had a fresh arrangement at all times. On Sundays, when the royal florist visited Buckingham, the air in the palace was velvety sweet.

  “Good morning, Mum.” Amelia dropped into a quick curtsy. Royal tradition dictated that the first time she saw her mother on any given day, a curtsy was required. “You wanted to see me?”

  The half dozen corgis sleeping at the queen’s feet lifted their heads and swiveled their gazes in Amelia’s direction. All but one of them trotted over to greet her in a frenzy of excited barks and wiggling behinds. Willow was the only hold-out, as per usual. The youngest of the pack, Willow was notorious for her general disdain toward everyone. Other than Her Majesty, of course.

  “Good morning to you, too, you little monsters.” Amelia plopped cross-legged onto the floor and let the dogs jockey for position in her lap while she ran her hands over their soft coats. She was pretty sure her mother’s dogs got blowouts more frequently than anyone else in the building.

  “Amelia, you’re a twenty-six-year-old woman. Must you sit on the floor?” At the sound of the queen’s voice, the corgis immediately stopped barking, proving yet again that Amelia was the most disobedient member of the royal fold.

  Amelia sighed inwardly, and repositioned herself on the sofa to the right of her mother’s desk. She tucked one foot behind the other and placed her hands in her lap. “Better?”

  “Yes, quite.” The queen waved toward the corridor. “There are people milling about everywhere preparing for your wedding. The least you can do is refrain from flinging yourself onto the floor.”

  Act like a princess bride at all times. Note taken.

  Amelia took a deep breath, pasted a royal smile on her face, and tried not to think about her very unbridal moment the night before at Westminster Abbey.

  She hadn’t meant to cry.

  She’d gone to the church for a walk-through of the ceremony with Holden and stuck around for a while after it had ended. The private rehearsal had been their third such appointment. By the time the actual ceremony rolled around, she’d probably be able to go through the motions in her sleep.

  Which might be convenient, now that she thought about it. Did she really want to be fully conscious when she promised to love, honor, and obey Holden?

  “Are you going to tell me why I’ve been summoned?” Amelia patted the empty cushion beside her, and one of the dogs leapt onto the sofa. Bee. Or was this one Whisky? They looked so much alike it was difficult to tell them apart.

  “How’d things go at the Abbey last night?” Her mother narrowed her gaze.

  I broke down in front of a total stranger—an American. Which meant he was a tourist. He’s probably talking about it to TMZ at this very moment.

  She was an idiot. Speaking to him hadn’t been wise. Letting him see her face had been monumentally stupid. But she’d been so moved by his music, she hadn’t been thinking clearly. She hadn’t been thinking at all, obviously.

  “Everything went just as planned.” Amelia’s hand balled into a fist in the thick, furry scruff around Bee’s stout neck. “Why do you ask?”

  Was it her imagination, or was her mother looking at her as though she could see straight inside her head?

  That was simply her mother’s default expression, though—all knowing. Kings and queens of England were thought to be ordained by God, after all. Perhaps the Great Almighty had passed along a dash of omniscience to go with the crown and scepter.

  “I’m the mother of the bride. Shouldn’t I be interested in such things?”

  “Yes, I suppose you should.” It was just so strange being the center of Her Majesty’s attention on an occasion that didn’t involve some of kind of wrongdoing on Amelia’s part.

  But you did make a spectacle of yourself in front of a total stranger last night.

  Every time she thought about it she wanted to die.

  “Well?” The queen peered over the top of her glasses. “Do fill me in.”

  The back of Amelia’s neck grew unbearably hot all of a sudden. This was the moment to confess. Now, while the palace would have the upper hand. The queen’s private secretary could probably plant a story in the papers—a preemptive strike before the entire world got wind of the fact that she’d been crying her eyes out in the church where she was getting married in ten days.

  She took a deep breath.

  Just say it . . . I made a mistake.

  No one would be surprised, least of all her mother. In truth, the queen had probably been waiting for Amelia to ruin everything all along.

  “It was lovely,” she heard herself say. “Archbishop Clarke was kind and accommodating. Holden was charming, as usual. And Eleanor was there, too, which was nice.”

  Good job. Way to confess.

  She couldn’t do it. After finally managing to get her act together, Amelia couldn’t admit to embarrassing the family again. She’d just have to roll the dice and hope the handsome cello-playing stranger would keep his mouth shut.

  Amelia swallowed. She hadn’t allowed herself to remember how very good-looking he’d been. Dark and mysterious. So gracefully melancholic. But that kind of thing was awfully difficult to forget, no matter how much she tried.

  “Eleanor was present?” Amelia’s mother shook her head. “Why?”

  Amelia blinked. “She’s my friend. She’s also Holden’s daughter, remember?”

  Beneath the desk, Willow let out a snort of derision, as if the dog knew what was coming.

  “Of course I do, I simply want to make sure you remember that fact as well.”

  “Mum, what are you trying to say?”

  “I’m simply saying it’s probably time to reevaluate your relationship with Eleanor. In just a short while, you’ll be her stepmother.” Her mother lifted a brow.

  She didn’t need to say any more. Amelia had been on the receiving end of that gesture more times than she could count. The queen of England could say more with a single eyebrow than the prime minister could convey in an entire speech to Parliament.

  Amelia blinked again and swallowed around the lump in her throat that stubbornly refused to go away. “I understand.”

  She understood perfectly. Her days of partying with Eleanor were over. From now on, they would do mother-daughter things, like go to tea.

  God, it sounded awful. Amelia didn’t even like tea.

  On some level, she’d known this was part of the arrangement. She just hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on giving up her closest girlfriend once she got married. She’d thought she’d have sufficient time to get used to the idea of being Eleanor’s stepmother. But less than a month just wasn’t enough.

  And now time was running out.

&
nbsp; “How far have you and your team gotten with the thank-you notes?”

  And so it went.

  Amelia spoke without really knowing what she was saying. She nodded, smiled, and did her best to forget about Eleanor and Holden and the awful thing she’d done the night before in the Abbey.

  She wasn’t sure how much time passed as she sat there in her mother’s sitting room, trying her level best to become numb. She needed to turn off her feelings until after the wedding, and everything would be fine.

  No more crying jags.

  “Don’t forget about your appointment with the crown jeweler tomorrow morning. He’ll be here at ten sharp, and you know how important . . .”

  Before the queen could finish her sentence, she was cut off by another furious round of barking. The corgis charged the door, and Amelia’s mother glanced at the antique clock above the fireplace.

  Apparently, Amelia’s appointment had ended. For a moment, she’d begun to believe that she and her mum were having a casual conversation. How stupid of her. Of course they weren’t.

  “Come in.” The queen nodded at her new visitor and waved whoever it was inside.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” someone behind Amelia replied.

  A male someone.

  An American-sounding male someone.

  A very familiar American-sounding male someone.

  Panic blossomed in Amelia’s chest. Her pulse pounded in her hears.

  No.

  No!

  It couldn’t be the cello player from the Abbey, could it? Obviously not. She was freaking out about nothing. Since when did the palace let random musicians saunter into the queen’s sitting room?

  * * *

  “MR. REED, WHAT A pleasure to see you again,” Her Majesty said. What was going on? Her mother knew this man? “Thank you for coming by. I wanted you to meet my daughter, Princess Amelia.”

  He turned to face her, and if Amelia hadn’t already been sitting down, she might’ve fainted.

  It had been dark in the church. She’d only gotten a quick glimpse of the man whose music had touched her so deeply. But she would’ve recognized him anywhere. She just never thought she’d see him wading toward her through a sea of corgis in her mother’s office. She never thought she’d see him again anywhere.

  But she was . . .

  Now.

  Because it was him.

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  THREE

  Asher had no idea whether or not he should bow. He remembered reading something about proper royal protocol in the informational packet the palace had emailed to him before his flight, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall what it said.

  The packet had been seven pages long, single-spaced, and covered everything, from when to speak to a royal—only after being spoken to first—to the queen’s preference for self-tying bow ties. Supposedly, the monarch could spot a pretied one at twenty paces. Asher was wearing a traditional necktie, no bow in sight. But he’d knotted his silk Hermès himself, and he figured that had to count for something.

  Still, he was drawing a complete blank when it came to whether or not he should bow to the princess. He went ahead and did it. If anything, it’d buy him some time to try to figure out what to say.

  Bowing was the wrong move, though, and the princess didn’t hesitate to let him know. “You don’t need to do that, Mr. Reed. I’m a princess, not a queen. And you’re American.”

  Asher straightened. “Right.”

  He stopped short of apologizing. That seemed like overkill. He’d been hoping for the opportunity to see her again before the wedding. He’d thought about it quite a lot, actually. More than he wanted to admit.

  She’d intrigued him.

  But as many times as he’d contemplated a situation exactly like this one, it never crossed his mind that the first words out of her mouth would be a criticism of his etiquette.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Reed.” She gazed at him impassively and extended her hand.

  He took it, convinced she must not remember him. The Abbey had been dark. Even if she’d gotten a good view of him, why would she recognize him now? From the little he knew of her, he didn’t think the princess was a classical-music fan. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Royal Highness.”

  Upon closer inspection, Asher realized she wasn’t meeting his gaze. She wasn’t focusing on his face at all. Rather, her attention seemed to be fixed squarely on the knot in his tie.

  He cleared his throat, and her cheeks grew pink, but her gaze didn’t stray from his half Windsor knot.

  Interesting.

  Either she was purposely avoiding his gaze, or her mother wasn’t the only member of the family who had some serious feelings when it came to neckties.

  “Amelia, Mr. Reed has just arrived from the States,” the queen said. At the sound of the monarch’s voice, the dogs at his feet swiveled their heads in her direction in unison. “Mr. Reed is a soloist with the New York Philharmonic and will be performing at the wedding ceremony.”

  Formerly with the New York Philharmonic. But Asher wasn’t about to correct her. Instead, he glanced at the princess and at last, she met his gaze.

  He smiled.

  Her flush promptly deepened at least three shades. So she remembered him, after all. “Of course I’ve heard of you, Mr. Reed. You’re a virtuoso. But I don’t understand. The orchestra has been rehearsing for weeks, and I was under the impression Yo-Yo Ma was performing the cello solo.”

  Again Asher got the impression she was waiting for him to apologize, this time for his failure to be Yo-Yo Ma.

  “Mr. Ma has fallen ill. I’m his replacement,” Asher said.

  Why did he get the feeling she wouldn’t consider this good news?

  “I see.” She swallowed, drawing Asher’s attention to the slender elegance of her throat.

  He fought the urge to stare. In the bright light of day, she was even more beautiful than he’d remembered. Dazzling. Regal. Yet, there was a wildness about her that he’d never expect of a princess. It was most alluring.

  Last night had been strange and surprising in all the best ways. As much as he’d hated hearing her cry, Princess Amelia had worn her sadness like a crown. Once she’d revealed herself, he realized why. Then she’d glided past him, leaving him with the eerie sensation that their meeting had been meaningful in some way.

  Special.

  In the past twelve hours, he’d managed to convince himself it hadn’t been anything of the sort. He’d just fallen under the spell of the Abbey’s ghosts. Surely the moment hadn’t been as profound as he remembered.

  He was wrong about that. Their brief encounter had meant something. If it hadn’t, the princess wouldn’t have so much trouble looking him in the eye.

  He also wouldn’t feel as awkward as he did right then.

  “It was lovely meeting you. I have wardrobe fittings this afternoon and papers to sign, so I should get back to my room.” He accidentally bowed again.

  Damn it.

  He turned to say good-bye to the queen, but Princess Amelia tugged on the sleeve of his suit jacket. “Excuse me. Your room?”

  Asher’s gaze flitted to her fingertips, still resting on his forearm. The queen cleared her throat, and Princess Amelia snatched her hand back.

  “Yes, darling,” Her Majesty said. “There’s not an available hotel anywhere in London. Everything is booked solid. Your wedding is bringing more tourists to England than the Olympics did five years ago. So out of necessity, Mr. Reed will be our guest for the duration.”

  “Our guest?” The color drained from the princess’s face.

  “Yes, I’m staying in the Blue Room.” Asher assumed there was only one room by that name in the palace since James, the royal page who’d gotten him settled in the wee hours of the morning, had called it that. And the room was definitely blue. Very, very blue, from the robin’s-egg walls to the plush powder-blue carpet.

  Princess Amelia gaped at her mother. “The Blue
Room? As in, the bedroom right next door to my mine?”

  Until that moment, Asher had been blissfully unaware of his room’s proximity to hers. It wasn’t as if he’d been given a map of the palace or anything. Although a map would have been nice. Buckingham Palace was enormous.

  Instead, he’d been assigned a liveried page to escort him wherever he needed to go. This morning, his escort knocked on his door and informed him that he’d been granted another private meeting with the queen.

  The monarch had been waiting for him when he’d arrived the night before, but their meeting had been brief. Asher had been so exhausted he barely remembered it.

  Now here he was, shin-deep in corgis and face-to-face with the bride-to-be, who clearly didn’t want him anywhere near her suite, much less sleeping in one of its bedrooms.

  “Mr. Reed, please excuse my daughter’s rudeness.” The queen smiled politely at him, then turned sharp eyes on the princess. “Darling, must I remind you yet again that we’re preparing for a royal wedding? Your wedding. The Blue Room is the only vacant room in the building. I’m aware that Eleanor had planned on using that room, but in light of the conversation we just had, I’m sure you’d agree she’d be better off staying in her father’s block of rooms at the Goring Hotel.”

  Asher didn’t know who Eleanor was, but at the mention of her name, the princess grew very still.

  “Right,” she said woodenly. She gave him a sideways glance. “Please accept my apology, Mr. Reed. I hope you’ll find the Blue Room comfortable. We’re pleased to accommodate you.”

  Clearly. She was oozing pleasure.

  Asher would’ve rolled his eyes but he thought it might get him thrown out of the country. “I appreciate it, and I apologize for the intrusion during such a stressful time.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “A happy time, not a stressful one.”

  “Of course.” Asher nodded. Even if he hadn’t recently found her weeping in the Abbey, he wasn’t sure he’d believe her.