by Teri Wilson
God, she despised him. He was all but threatening her while she was on a date with his brother.
“Nice old chap. We went to Eton together,” he said.
Amelia took a gulp of champagne. Not a dainty, princess-like sip. A gulp. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to find Holden. It’s been lovely chatting with you.”
She turned her back before he could respond, stood, and made a beeline for Holden.
Technically, this was the first actual date of their courtship. They’d made a few public appearances, of course. But those occasions had all involved events that were part of the court calendar. Madame Butterfly was not. This was their first night on the town as a couple. The fact that it came less than a week before their wedding might have been odd, if not for the fact that they’d been engaged for a whopping twenty-five days or so.
Holden had a very devoted circle of friends. Thanks to her friendship with Eleanor, Amelia knew all of them. Some better than others.
With the notable exception of Gregory, the entourage was a comforting presence. She wasn’t ready for a romantic evening with Holden, and his friends provided a convenient buffer.
“Amelia, that’s a stunning dress you’re wearing. You look beautiful, dear.” Lady Wilhelmina Wentworth leaned over and brushed her fingertips on the satin skirt of Amelia’s crimson ball gown.
It was a motherly gesture, and it made Amelia smile. Lady and Lord Wentworth had been close friends of Eleanor’s family for as long as she could remember, especially in the years following her mother’s death. Lady Wentworth was practically Eleanor’s surrogate mother.
“Thank you.” Amelia stood a little straighter and returned the compliment. “You look lovely as well. Is that a locket you’re wearing?”
Lady Wentworth’s hand went to the gold pendant hanging from a long, dainty chain around her neck. “Yes, it is. I’ve had it for years.”
“It’s very pretty. Are those your initials I see engraved on it?” Amelia squinted. “Oh! It’s yours and Lord Wentworth’s. How sweet.”
The older woman nodded. “Yes, W and H, for Wilhelmina and Henry.”
The lump in Amelia’s throat showed no signs of dissipating as she tried—and failed—to imagine herself thirty years into the future, proudly wearing a locket with hers and Holden’s intertwined initials etched onto its surface. She couldn’t even bring herself to look at their initials on the wedding stationery. “I love it.”
Holden slipped his arm around Amelia’s waist. “Shall we sit down? We’re having pudding before the curtain goes up.”
Pudding. While poor Madame Butterfly sat sobbing her heart out.
Amelia reminded herself that the tragedy playing out onstage wasn’t real. It was make-believe, just like her pending marriage. “Yes, let’s.”
A waiter entered the red-velvet room, carrying slices of Battenberg cake on cut crystal plates. Lord Wentworth commented on the perfectly symmetrical pink-and-yellow squares of the cake’s sponge filling, and Amelia took another sizeable swallow of champagne. She’d never much cared for Battenberg cake. Too much marzipan for her taste. She was almost certain Holden knew this, as they’d discussed it when choosing cake for the wedding reception.
He’d obviously forgotten. He glanced at her untouched plate. “Are you not hungry, darling?”
Darling. So they were using endearments now? Gregory was grinning from ear to ear.
Amelia reached for her glass and realized it was empty. “Not really, no. But the champagne is rather nice.”
Holden motioned for a waiter to come refill her champagne flute. She sipped away and did her best to ignore Gregory while Holden and his friends discussed the upcoming opera season. They had some strong opinions about the inclusion of Les Pigeons D’Argile on the repertoire, which Amelia could understand. Who wanted to see an opera about pigeons?
All in all, it hadn’t been the worst date of Amelia’s life, probably because it didn’t actually feel like a date. She felt more like a child who’d somehow been placed at the grown-ups’ table by mistake.
She wished Eleanor had come along. Maybe next time she could. It wouldn’t be strange to bring her stepdaughter along on every date, would it?
A bell chimed, signaling the end of intermission. Thank God. She was suddenly very ready for the night to be over.
The final act of the show was devastating. Amelia could barely watch. When Butterfly blindfolded her son so he wouldn’t see her take her own life, Amelia reached for Holden’s hand and squeezed hard. He squeezed back, and the tiniest bud of hope blossomed deep in her soul. Maybe their marriage could work. Maybe she was worried about nothing. Holden was a good man. A good father. Things could be so much worse. She was acting like a spoiled child.
When she returned to the palace, she stopped by the banquet room on the way to her suite. She didn’t bother turning on the lights. She simply stood staring for a moment at all the extravagant gifts, things that would soon decorate the home she and Holden would live in as husband and wife.
Tomorrow she would start writing the thank-you cards. It was a small victory that she could bring herself to walk into the room now. She told herself it was because the night at the opera had helped her accept her fate, conveniently forgetting that Asher had been the one to help her first cross the threshold.
But as she walked the length of the Queen’s Hall with Willow chasing the beaded train of her ball gown, Amelia began to hear the wafting tone of Asher’s cello. It filled the darkened hallway, washing the palace in lyrical beauty that sounded almost heroic. The ache she’d heard in his music when he’d played for her at Westminster Abbey was still there, but this time it was buried beneath a frenzy of rapid notes and bright spots of unrestrained passion.
Amelia raised her hand, poised to knock on the door. Willow pranced expectantly at her feet.
She paused.
I can’t keep doing this.
She was attracted to Asher. More attracted than she’d been to anyone in a long, long time. If she’d been free to explore her feelings, she wouldn’t bother knocking. She’d walk right in and surprise him. He’d pretend to be frustrated by the interruption, but she knew better. A blind man would have been able to see the appreciation in his dark gaze when he looked at her. Amelia’s heart beat hard at the thought of it.
She drew her hand back.
Her wedding was in less than a week. Asher wasn’t her friend. If he were, she wouldn’t spend quite so much time imagining how it would feel to have his musical hands on her body. Or what it would be like to kiss him again. As much as she wanted to invite herself inside to sit at the foot of his bed and watch him play, she couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
Instead, she pressed her palm to the door, closed her eyes, and let the deep, sultry tones of his music vibrate through straight down to her toes.
How long she stood there, she couldn’t really say.
CHAPTER
* * *
NINE
By the third day of rehearsal, Asher began to get his bearings. At last.
Since the bow-chomping incident, he’d managed to avoid any more corgi-related crises. Willow still frequented his room, but much to her disappointment, Asher had gotten into the habit of securing his belongings. The only downside was that now that the Blue Room was dog-proofed, he hadn’t needed rescuing lately.
He hadn’t set eyes on Amelia in two days.
It was for the best, of course. He might not like it, but his feelings about the situation didn’t matter. He had his head in the game now. His playing was improving. It still wasn’t his best—far from it. He was getting there, though. At least he was no longer so preoccupied with the princess next door that he couldn’t concentrate on the reason he’d come to England to begin with.
But then, midway through the afternoon run-through of Jeremy’s special composition of This is the Day the Lord Hath Made, the wedding anthem, disaster struck.
In the split second before the cello entrance, Asher’s gaze flitted from Jeremy’s white baton
to a shaft of dazzling light coming from the auditorium’s doorway. He looked up just in time to see Amelia walk into the theater, framed by the soft emerald hues of the Cadogan Hall lobby.
She was there. At rehearsal.
He lost himself for a second, transfixed by the sight of her. She wore an elegant red dress, nipped in at the waist above a full, swinging skirt. Her lips were painted crimson, and she carried a small clutch bag, covered with satin roses. It was quite the switch from the kimono and ripped jeans she wore around the palace. Asher had never seen her in full-princess mode before, and the effect was rather hypnotic. He felt like he was watching an Audrey Hepburn film shot in Kodachrome tints too bright, too pretty to be real.
But he wasn’t watching a movie. Amelia was real. And she was searching the group of musicians with her cool gaze, only half paying attention to whatever the person next to her was saying. It was odd seeing her that way—with her expression so scrupulously neutral. Asher had grown accustomed to the fire in her eyes. He saw those eyes sometimes when he dreamed, which he blamed on the fact that the room where he slept shared a wall with hers. Now he scarcely recognized her . . .
. . . until her gaze landed on him and her cherry lips curved into an impish grin.
That smile hit Asher with the force of a hurricane. Any progress he’d made in his quest to forget her flew right out the window.
“Reed, wake up,” the cellist beside him hissed.
Asher blinked and forced his gaze back to the maestro’s podium, where Jeremy was waving his baton like a madman and staring daggers at him. Asher jumped into the piece a few bars late and proceeded to make up for his inattention by speeding through the melody, ignoring Jeremy’s pacing altogether.
Brilliant. Just brilliant.
Once the song was finished, Jeremy gingerly set down his baton and stepped away from the podium. Asher watched as he approached Amelia with an outstretched hand, and a proprietary surge of anger passed through him. Asher raked his free hand through his hair, dampened by perspiration, and tightened his grip on his bow until he felt the smooth Pernambuco wood start to bend.
What had gotten into him? He was sweating through his suit jacket and on the verge of finishing Willow’s job on the bow.
All because he was jealous of a simple handshake.
The man was sleeping with his ex, and Asher no longer seemed capable of mustering up any emotion at all where that mess was concerned. But he suddenly wanted to throttle the guy for speaking to the princess.
Face it. You want her.
He did, damn it. But he’d never be able to act on his feelings. Ever. There were far bigger obstacles than Jeremy standing in his way. Like Holden Beckett. And the queen. And the damn royal wedding.
Asher wasn’t entirely sure Amelia felt the same about him, anyway. He was fairly certain it was no accident that he hadn’t seen her in two days. She’d been avoiding him, which could mean she’d made a deliberate decision to put some distance between them.
More probably, there was no need for distance. He’d been a convenient distraction for a few days. She’d been bored. He’d been nothing but a toy, and whatever connection he’d felt had simply been a product of wishful thinking on his part. Princess Naughty strikes again.
That didn’t explain the night they’d met at the church, though. Nor her reason for making this surprise visit to rehearsal. She wasn’t supposed to be there. It hadn’t been listed in the Court Circular, which he’d checked online just this morning.
Perhaps he was still more preoccupied than he wanted to admit.
“May I have your attention, everyone?” Jeremy clapped his hands and returned to his podium. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, we have a very special guest this afternoon. Her Royal Highness Princess Amelia Grace Amcott has decided to pay us a visit.”
Asher fixed his gaze with hers, and he saw it again—the familiar spark in her eyes that hadn’t been there moments ago. Like emeralds aflame.
He arched an eyebrow. Amelia’s cheeks flared pink, and she looked away.
“Let’s give Her Royal Highness, the bride, a warm welcome.”
The bride.
A muscle in Asher’s jaw ticked. The room burst into applause as Jeremy escorted Amelia downstage to greet the musicians.
It was customary for the strings section of an orchestra to be situated at the front. The violins came first, followed by the violas. Then the cellos.
As nonchalantly as he could, Asher watched Amelia introduce herself to the first chair violinist. The violist said something, and Amelia smiled politely and nodded. While the people surrounding her laughed, Amelia took the opportunity to sneak a glance at Asher. He winked at her, and when she responded with a subtle quirk of her bow-shaped lips, he went instantly hard.
What the hell was wrong with him?
He was publicly flirting with the princess of England at the rehearsal for her wedding ceremony. If anyone in the room could be privy to the thoughts running through his head, he’d probably be thrown into the Tower.
He needed to get a handle on himself. No . . . what he needed was a damn reality check.
He let out a tense exhale and averted his gaze. In a matter of seconds, she was going to be standing right in front of him. He was going to have to look her in the eye and pretend she wasn’t his first thought when he woke up every morning and that he didn’t lie in the Blue Room at night and dream about her willowy legs wrapped around his hips while he drove himself into her. He was going to have to shake her hand while everyone watched, all the while wishing that he could touch her under vastly different circumstances.
There was something very wrong with him. He shouldn’t be having those kinds of thoughts about an engaged woman. Amelia wasn’t his. She never would be. Which was probably for the best. She drove him a little crazy.
He couldn’t deny how adorable he found her wacky streak, though.
A headache began to gather at the base of Asher’s skull. He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids, willing it to go away.
He heard the clearing of a throat, then Jeremy’s sharpened tone. “And this is Mr. Asher Reed, our cello soloist.”
Asher opened his eyes and found Amelia gazing up at him with the naughtiest Princess Naughty expression she could possibly have mustered.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Reed,” she purred.
“The pleasure is all mine, Your Royal Highness,” he said, taking her hand as she extended it toward him.
Her skin was every bit as soft as he’d remembered. As exquisitely smooth as rose petals. When their fingertips touched, Asher was struck with a jolt of awareness so strong that he nearly swayed on his feet. Amelia’s eyes widened, and her lips parted, just the slightest bit.
She feels it, too.
How could she not?
She took a deep breath, but left her hand right where it was—nestled inside his. “How are you enjoying your stay in London?”
“It’s had its challenges, but I’m finding my way.” Asher couldn’t help himself. He dragged the pad of his thumb along the inside of her cupped palm. It was just a tiny, secret way to acknowledge the fact that he was no stranger. He knew Amelia, probably better than anyone else in the building did.
She let out a nearly imperceptible gasp. Asher looked down at their intertwined hands and smiled to himself when he saw goose bumps on her graceful arms.
“Good on you, then,” she said.
Yes, good on him.
“Our second-chair cellist is from Liverpool and a member of the London Philharmonic,” Jeremy said, shuffling Amelia further down the line.
She cast a final glance at Asher, and then introduced herself to the other musician.
As they shook hands, Jeremy leveled Asher with a glare. He leaned toward him and lowered his voice to a murmur. “The moment this is finished, you and I need to have a word.”
And just like that, Asher’s frustration returned. Full force.
> * * *
ONCE AMELIA HAD MET each and every musician, Asher applauded alongside the rest of the orchestra and watched her make her way back to Cadogan Hall’s lobby. Even before she was fully out of view, Jeremy met Asher’s gaze and jabbed an angry pointer finger in the direction of the foyer. Within seconds, Asher found himself once again being berated in the storage room.
He couldn’t help but wonder if the location was an intentional choice. Perhaps a power move on Jeremy’s part? There was something undeniably humiliating about being dressed down by your conductor in the presence of a mop and bucket.
“Damn it, Asher. You told me you were prepared for this.” Jeremy jammed his hands on his hips. His elbow banged into an industrial-sized vacuum cleaner, and he let loose a stream of curse words.
Asher would’ve laughed, if he hadn’t seriously suspected he was about to be fired.
“I am,” he said.
Another lie. It seemed as if he’d told more of them than he had the truth since he’d been in London.
Jeremy let out an incredulous laugh. “You’re screwing with me, right? Because that . . .” He shot a pointed glance toward the auditorium. “. . . was garbage.”
Harsh, but true.
Asher’s latest attempt at his solo had sounded like something straight out of a college recital. He couldn’t seem to get his bearings. Not only was his confidence in the toilet, but once Amelia had walked into the theater, he’d been distracted beyond reason.
He was relieved Jeremy only wanted to give him another lecture about his playing, though. For a moment, he’d wondered if his hidden communication with Amelia hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Hidden communication? Who do think you are now? James Bond?
England was doing a number on him. He’d be lucky to survive the trip and get out with his sanity intact.
“This is rehearsal.” Asher shrugged. “Isn’t that what practice is all about? Working out the kinks?”
Jeremy’s brows rose. “Those were some serious kinks. Wouldn’t you agree?”
